The slushy snow whips through the pine trees, beats against my skin, and melts into my hunting clothes. As twilight deepens, I grip my spear tighter, and the frost on my gloves crack. I can't go back empty-handed.
Squinting through the storm, I search for the path the Elders restricted our hunting area to. In the gloom, it's almost invisible, but the marks of our tribe stand out to any well-trained eye. Three claw marks, not quite a bear's, scattered across chosen trees. The symbol fills me with both comfort and shame. For how many years has the strength of our bear been reduced to the skulking of rabbits in the brush?
The biting wind freezes some anger, and I forge forward to follow the marks' guidance. My foot dances over each new step, testing, lest the top layer of snow give way beneath my foot. All the animal tracks are buried in the snow, but lost footprints could hardly stop a child of our tribe. My head cocks, listening for the calls of flocking ravens or the scurrying of a hare in the brush. Over the wind, a sharper noise catches my ear, and I stiffen.
It comes again, and a grin breaks across my face. I scurry up a marked tree and circle around its trunk. The cry comes again, and I peer through the branches and snowflakes. My frosted breath plumes in the air. There, about thirty feet off the path struggles a treasure my tribe hasn't seen in many winters.
A young moose.
Its head shakes violently, antlers trapped in one of our old rope snares. It bleats a cry to its mother, and my eyes sweep the surrounding forest. I'm going to have to work quickly.
I scramble down, landing outside the Elders' path. I glance over my shoulder at the claw marks. There might still be small game on that trail—a bird that might feed me and my sister tonight, a mink to give the village girls warmer gloves and empty stomachs after a week.
The moose bleats, and my head snaps toward it. She'll be coming any time now. I pat the tree, making a silent oath to return with something worthwhile, and hurry that way.
Breaking the clearing, I creep as close as I dare, blood pounding. The calf sprays up snow as it twists wildly, and the snare creaks. Every speck of snow, every hair of the moose pelt, every fiber of the rope comes into crisp concentration as I pull my arm back, shoulders tensing.
My arm releases to throw, but as my aim proves strong and true, no success runs through me. The calf cries out, blood pulsing onto the snow as still it struggles, and I stand there frozen, a single realization dominating my mind. Those aren't our ropes. The mother moose bursts into the clearing, and from the trees come whooping war cries. Those aren't our ropes. Three arrows bombard the mother's face, and a second volley sinks into her thick pelt. I know whose ropes those are.
The calf's dead body falls among the snow.
I turn and run, fear bursting bright in my mind. The mother's dying cries ring through the forest, and I push myself harder. The Southern Savages have crept further north. Their trap, their arrows, and I stumbled in like a blind bird—
My foot cracks through the top layer of ice, and my leg plummets into a hole. I go sprawling, breathing hard, blinking snow out of my eyes. In the distance, the savage's whooping drives up in intensity, and I squirm, trying to push up. The fresh snow gives way under my hands, and I curse. Idiot! A half-trained child wouldn't have run toward a snow drift. I struggle to pull my foot back and up out of the hole, but the snow caves in around, trapping me.
As their cries grow closer behind, I struggle harder, and an image of the fighting calf burns in my mind. For years, these people have pushed us out of ancient hunting grounds, have stolen our food, have killed our men in our land.
YOU ARE READING
This Mockery of Light || A Collection of Stories
Short Story| 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐨𝐧 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐩𝐚𝐝𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 | The Dark is dangerous. The Dark is deception. And the Dark is the only thing she wants. What would you do if the only beautiful thing in the world was the one thing you couldn't touch...
