Hunters Unlucky, Book 1 Storm, Page 3

  They stopped often to rest. Storm had never traveled all day, and he grew tired. Pathar grumbled under his breath, “A fine pair we make—too old and too young—but maybe not too stupid.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Storm.

  “Do you smell anything?” asked Pathar in his abrupt way.

  “No—” Storm stopped. “Yes.” He did smell something. Sweet…alluring, yet a deep, instinctive fear stirred in his gut. “What is it?” he whispered.

  “It is Groth,” said Pathar in a low voice.

  The two ferryshaft had drifted into the wood beside the lake as they walked, and they emerged suddenly from the trees, blinking in the brighter light of an unexpected clearing. Storm looked into the strangest forest he’d ever seen. The plants looked like enormous, deep-throated flowers. Some were as tall as trees, hollow and heavy with collected rainwater. Others grew nearer the ground, forming bowls full of clear liquid. Their glossy stalks were dark green at the base, morphing to vivid pink around their speckled, lacy rims. Some looked very old, with thick, woody bases, while others were delicate and young with more vivid colors. Storm could see no other types of plants in the strange woodland. The ground was thick with the decaying remains of their bowls.

  Pathar strolled, unperturbed, along the edge of the forest. “Groth eats things.”

  Storm trotted beside him. “Things?”

  “Mostly birds and small animals. They crawl into the bowls, drown, decay, and are absorbed.”

  Storm shuddered. “Why don’t the birds and animals climb out before they drown?”

  “Because,” said Pathar, “the water in their bowls is sweet with sap. Some say the sap is poison, that it causes insanity or sleep.” Pathar examined one of the bowls critically. “It is also said that those who drink will dream the future.” Pathar bent and drank.

  Chapter 5. Dream the Future

  Storm spent a sleepless night beside Pathar in Chelby Wood. “If I die,” Pathar whispered, “you must follow the edge of the lake back to the herd.”

  “Why did you do it?” whispered Storm. “Why?”

  Pathar didn’t answer. He trembled so violently that his worn teeth knocked together. Sometimes his breathing grew so shallow that Storm feared it would stop. He twitched and whimpered. Once he got up and wandered with sightless, staring eyes through the trees. Storm had to keep him from walking into the lake or back towards Groth.

  “Coden?” whispered Pathar. “Is that you?”

  Storm had never felt so wretched or so frightened. Towards dawn, Pathar lay down and grew still. Storm lay down beside him and slept.

  “Well, get up.”

  Storm opened his eyes. Pathar was looking down at him. It was near noon. “Pathar!” Storm wobbled to his feet. “I thought— Why did you—?”

  “We’ll need to hurry if we want to get back to the herd before dark.” He was already starting away, and Storm had to trot to keep up. He didn’t know what to say.

  “Pathar, why did you do that?”

  “Do what?” Pathar didn’t look at him, but he had an odd little smile on his face.

  “I thought you were going to die,” said Storm.

  “That bad?”

  Storm stopped moving. “I don’t understand why you did that. I don’t understand anything about you. Why do you talk to me? Why do you teach me things? Everyone else thinks I’m bad luck, that I’m going to die this winter, that I’m going to get my mother killed.” He stopped. He hadn’t meant to say those things.

  Pathar turned. “But you don’t believe them.”

  “No,” hissed Storm between clenched teeth. He could feel the unfamiliar sensation of his fur bristling and his ears settling against his head.

  “You’re young to be so angry,” said Pathar.

  “I’m not angry!” shouted Storm. I’m lonely, and you’re not my friend. I don’t know what you are.

  “You’re not going to die this winter.”

  Storm stared at him. “Did you really see the future?”

  “Maybe.”

  Storm brought his ears up and his tail down. He came forward meekly, curious, the tightness gone from his chest and head.

  “I dreamed many things,” said Pathar, “the past, perhaps the future. My own death, I think. I don’t understand most of what I saw, but I understand enough.”

  “Enough for what?”

  “Enough for hope.” Pathar nipped at him like a foal, surprising him so much that Storm nearly fell over. In the end, they played tag through the woods and raced each other through the grass until dusk, when they rejoined the ferryshaft herd.

  Chapter 6. Snow and Mushrooms

  Two days later, the first frost killed much of the grass, and the herd started south. They were restless and excited. Fights broke out more frequently, occasionally with biting and kicking. Everyone’s fur had grown thicker, so they were well-padded.

  One evening, they arrived on the banks of the largest river Storm had ever seen. “This is the Igby River,” So-fet told him. “The herd will follow it to the winter feeding grounds.” Tall trees grew along the edge. On the far shore, Storm glimpsed the Southern Forests, of which Pathar had spoken. The dense trees looked dark and mysterious. The herd traveled along the bank all day, throwing up dust and trampling the dry, brown grass.

  Storm woke a little before dawn in unfamiliar surroundings. He felt the boulder at his back and remembered. The winter feeding grounds. He’d gone to sleep beside So-fet at the foot of the cliffs—a sheltered area that the ferryshaft called the Boulder Mazes. When they’d arrived last night, Storm had been too exhausted to do more than glance around before lying down to sleep.

  So-fet was not with him this morning. Storm heard the sounds of the herd and started picking his way towards them through the boulders. He found the other ferryshaft on the edge of the plain beside the belt of trees that bordered the river. Their behavior puzzled him. They were not sleeping or eating. None of the youngsters fought or played. A few adults paced. Others talked in low voices.

  “Storm!” He turned to see So-fet coming towards him with a relieved expression.

  “What’s happening, Mother?” he asked when she stood beside him.

  “Oh, Storm.” So-fet glanced toward the river. “Come away from here. I’ll show you some good grass.” Still wondering, Storm followed her away from the herd and back into the boulders. The Red Cliffs rose above them—majestic and intimidating. A strange group of animals fled as the ferryshaft approached—white, fluffy creatures about two-thirds the size of a grown ferryshaft.

  “Those are sheep,” So-fet told him. “Some ferryshaft eat them in winter, but they are hard to catch.”

  The pair sighted a narrow vale in the cliff, and So-fet moved towards it, threading her way among the boulders. They found a grassy space, sheltered from frost and fed by a tiny spring. Storm and So-fet fed for a time without speaking. Finally Storm said, “Mother, what’s happening back there?”

  “A conference. It happens every year.”

  “Who—?”

  “Storm, do you remember when you were little how I used to find mushrooms for you? You wanted to find them yourself, but you were too young. You would have eaten the poisonous ones. Eventually, I taught you which ones were right to eat. Then I wouldn’t find mushrooms for you anymore, and you had to find them yourself. It was nicer when I did all the work for you, but once you knew, you could never go back. This conference and what it represents—it’s like the mushrooms. Do you understand?”

  Storm understood only that his mother would answer no more questions. He meant to ask Pathar about the conference, but did not see him that day. In the meantime, the winter feeding grounds were an interesting place. So-fet forbade Storm to climb the cliffs or to cross the river, but otherwise he had more freedom than ever before. He was particularly fascinated by the caves. Some had large, open mouths, and ferryshaft used them for shelter. Others had small, black openings that connected to winding tunnels. During the
first few days at the cliffs, Storm could not muster enough courage to do more than stare timidly into their depths.

  The first snow delighted Storm, even though So-fet warned him that it meant the beginning of hunger. They slept in the caves and emerged each morning to heavier layers of white. Then one night the river froze, and a nightmare began.

  Chapter 7. Horror

  Storm woke to a world of glistening ice. The snow had transformed boulders into giant mushrooms, trees into knobby skeletons, and the plain into a white desert of silver sand. As he emerged from his cave, he saw a group of foals heading towards the river. They seemed excited, and Storm followed them.

  The river was solid! Ice had choked the banks for days, but now the river was hard enough to walk on. One two-year-old foal gave a whoop of glee and called to his friends. “Look everyone! The river’s frozen! Come out and play!” Storm watched in amazement as the foal floundered for a moment, but finally got his balance. He was soon joined by his companions, who slid and capered on the ice.

  The sun was well up now, and most of the ferryshaft had gathered along the northern shore. The adults were heavier and less resilient than their offspring, and most preferred to watch from the bank. The bravest foals had found a hill from which they could slide down onto the ice. Storm joined in the fun. In their excitement, several of the other foals even spoke to him or laughed with him when they bumped into each other.

  The oldest foals played games of skating tag farther out from the bank. They flew back and forth as though on wings. Storm watched, enchanted. He tried to imitate their movements, but his legs kept coasting out from under him. He watched the games of ice tag, and laughed and pranced and called encouragement to the fastest foals. He forgot everything else. He even forgot to be angry for all the times they’d made him feel like an outcast. Storm thought this was the most fun he’d ever had, perhaps the best day of his life.

  Then someone screamed—not a laughing scream, but a strangled cry of fear. Storm heard someone whisper, “creasia.” He turned to see a number of large animals emerging from the trees on the opposite side of the river. They were about the height of a ferryshaft, but heavier and longer. They looked like a larger version of the oories he’d seen in Chelby Wood—small, shy cats that hunted rodents and birds. These new animals resembled the oory only in form. They were neither small nor shy.

  For a moment, both creasia and ferryshaft seemed as frozen as the ice on which they stood. Then every ferryshaft on the river made a dash for the northern bank. Storm ran with them, spurred by the smell of their fear.

  The cats soon reached the stragglers and wove a line through the terrified animals, separating a few from the herd. They chased the whole group to the northern bank, where they picked up several adults. The cats then herded their selections back onto the river. By sheer luck, Storm happened to be toward the center of the fleeing ferryshaft, and he was not chosen.

  The cats showed no further interest in the rest of the herd. They paced around their victims for a moment, their movements light and quick. Storm saw eight cats, and at least twenty ferryshaft on the ice. The ferryshaft stood trembling, eyes dark with terror. Finally one foal sprang towards the bank, crying, “Mother!”

  A creasia pursued her. His long legs covered the distance easily, and for a moment he loped alongside her. Just before she reached the bank, he snapped her up in his jaws, and her scream ended abruptly in a flail of legs and bushy tail as the cat shook her and then tossed her into the air.

  They were so close that Storm heard the crunch as her spine snapped, and the leaden thump as her body hit the ice. The ugly sight seared into his brain—the unnatural sprawl of legs, her tiny body—so recently in motion—now so terribly still.

  Storm thought that he should run—fast and far and never stop. Yet he could not tear his eyes from the river. Not until the last ferryshaft on the ice lay dead did Storm remember the rest of the herd. He glanced around in a panic, fearing that they had fled, leaving him alone with these monsters. Storm was relieved to see the herd still scattered throughout the belt of trees.

  Then he blinked. Some of the adults were feeding along the forest’s edge. Their indifference shocked and sickened him. Can no one else hear what I hear and see what I see?

  But, no. Looking more closely, he saw foals like himself, transfixed with horror. He watched an adult male tear a mouthful of frozen grass from the earth, root and all. He did not bother to shake the dirt out before he chewed. Storm could hear the grains of sand grinding between the adult’s teeth. He chewed until blood trickled down his chin, eyes staring straight ahead.

  When the creasia had finished, they ate a little, made noises that meant nothing to Storm, and finally trooped back into the forest. They did not consume more than a tenth of the creatures they had slaughtered, and soon large, black birds began to sail from the sky to pick at the dead.

  As the vultures gathered, the ferryshaft finally drifted away. At the edge of the trees, Storm found his mother. They said nothing, but met each other’s eyes evenly, sharing at last the wretched knowledge of an ugly secret. Then So-fet gently embraced Storm with her neck, and he buried his trembling head in her soft fur.

  That evening, the sun went down in a sea of crimson and gold, and the sight should have been beautiful. But, to Storm, it seemed that all the world melted in shades of red, and that the dusky rocks were bathed in blood.

  Chapter 8. Why?

  Three days later, Storm found Pathar by a stream among the boulders. He was sure that the old ferryshaft had been avoiding him. “Why?!” Storm demanded without even a greeting. He’d never been so rude to his teacher.

  He half expected Pathar to walk away without speaking, but Pathar answered mildly. “Why is such a big question.”

  “You know what I’m talking about. Why did it happen? Why did no one tell me it would happen? Why will no one talk to me about it?” He’d been trying to talk to So-fet, but she only shushed him, and he’d noticed that his attempts drew uneasy looks from any ferryshaft within earshot. In vain, he hid near gossipy groups, hoping for some insight, but they continued their usual round of speculation about mating, the progress of various foals, and likely locations of the best grass in winter. To his astonishment, no one seemed to be talking about the killings.

  Pathar sighed. “We don’t talk about that. What good would it do?”

  “The cats—”

  “They’re called creasia.”

  “The creasia,” Storm rolled the word around on his tongue. “Do they come every winter?”

  “Every 10 or 20 days, yes.”

  Storm was horrified. “They’ll be back?”

  “Yes. You should try to stay near the center of the herd if you see them coming. They never cut out large groups, just small ones, random ones. They’re not particular. They don’t kill young more than old or females more than males, just whoever happens to be nearest when they’re doing their cull.”

  “Why?” whispered Storm.

  Pathar looked off into the distance. Storm thought that he wouldn’t answer, and then he said, “So that we will not become too many for them to control. So that we will be afraid...and ashamed.”

  “Why don’t we fight?” demanded Storm. “There are more of us than of them.”

  Pathar watched him and said nothing.

  “Even the parents of those foals on the ice…they just...watched!”

  “You think they should have died with their offspring?”

  “No! I think we should have all run out there and...and done something!”

  “We’ve agreed not to.”

  Storm was dumbfounded. “We’ve...agreed?” Storm remembered suddenly the tension in the herd when they’d first arrived at the cliffs.

  “A conference,” his mother had said. “It happens every year.”

  “What— Who—?”

  “If I tell you more and others learn of it, I could be killed.” Pathar spoke with appalling mildness. “Watch and listen, Storm, unti
l you’re older, until you understand better what you’re asking.”

  Before Storm could respond, Pathar continued. “Creasia and ferryshaft are not the only intelligent animals on Lidian.”

  Storm was surprised. “What do you mean by ‘intelligent?’”

  “Animals who can talk to each other,” said Pathar. “Who could...tell you things.”

  Storm was instantly curious. “I didn’t know the creasia could talk. I couldn’t understand any of the sounds they made.”

  Pathar laughed. “They sound a little different. They use a few words that we don’t have, and we use a few words that they don’t have. But it’s the same language. All the intelligent species on Lidian speak the same language, except the ely-ary.”

  “How many intelligent species are there?”

  “Seven. They are the ferryshaft, the creasia, the ely-ary, two species of curbs, and two species of sea snakes.”

  “Why don’t I ever see them? What do they look like?”

  “You don’t see them because, mostly, we don’t share territory. Curbs do cross our paths sometimes, especially the smaller lowland variety. The bigger, highland curbs are rarer. Their home range is far away in the southern mountains, but their queens like to know what goes on all over the island. They send patrols that live out here and report back. Highland and lowland packs fight with each other in the mountains, and they’ll fight out here, too. They look a little like foxes, but are about the size of the cliff sheep. That’s mostly what they eat. Curbs are not dangerous to ferryshaft in groups, but they will attack lone individuals, the injured, or the young. That’s one reason you should not travel far from the herd alone.

  “As for the other intelligent species—the ely-ary are huge eagles that live on the Great Mountain in the north. And, of course, you’ve seen the creasia. They live in the Southern Forests, which they call Leeshwood.”

  “What about sea snakes?”

  Pathar hesitated. “They live in the ocean and on the beach, as well as in some of the caves. The two species are called telshees and lishties.” Pathar stopped suddenly. Storm followed his gaze across the stream to a large, dark red ferryshaft, who sat watching them in the shadow of a boulder. Storm wondered how long he’d been sitting there.