Arianna Rose: The Gates of Hell (Part 5) (31 page)

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Authors: Jennifer Martucci,Christopher Martucci

BOOK: Arianna Rose: The Gates of Hell (Part 5)
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I walk for several minutes until I find fresh boart droppings.  My father once told me that long ago, before the war, boarts were called boars.  But like every other animal on the planet, the boars changed.  They mutated into a different species.  I quickly look all around, scanning the low growth for the pot-bellied beast responsible for the droppings.  I do not see one, but know it is near so I decide to seek higher ground.  The massive oak beside me is the perfect lookout point. 

With my knife sheathed at my thigh and my spear and sword in a scabbard at my back, I grab hold of the lowest branch and hoist myself up.  I climb from one to the next, scaling the tree cautiously, gently.  I do not want to disturb anything or make a sound.  I do not want to scare the beast and send it running.  I continue, gingerly navigating the dovetailed branches and only stop when the limbs above me become thin and fragile-looking.  I do not want to risk resting on one that cannot bear my weight and settle into a squatting position where I am.  I crouch low, balancing.  Unsheathing my spear, clutching it securely in sweat-slickened hands, I watch as nearby growth stirs and a boart comes into view. 

Minutes tick by and the boart does not move.  The sun beats down through limbs and leaves.  Sweat stipples my brow and trails between my shoulder blades, but I do not dare brush it away or shift.  I must remain still, poised to strike when the moment presents itself.  The snorts and chuffs of the beast grow closer.  I do not move.  I barely breathe.  My muscles ache and tremble, and my knees protest holding the same position for so long.  My pulse hammers against my temples.  The beast continues to inch forward, creeping at a leisurely pace.  Hunger gnaws ceaselessly.  My belly rumbles, a sound so loud I worry it will frighten the boart and ruin any chance of eating for myself and June.  But it does not.  I have it in my sight, my gaze zeroed in on it.  It disappears for a moment behind a dense thicket, so close to me I can smell its pungent stink. 

It reappears after several painstaking seconds.  Up close, it is enormous.  It must be nearly three hundred pounds.  Not that I would know that for sure.  The last scale I’d seen was when my father was alive and we’d stayed at a camp with other humans.  Then, I’d been weighed and told I was one hundred five pounds and five foot one.  Years have passed and I’ve grown since then.  But the beast easily triples my girth.  Massive shoulders and hindquarters are connected by a generous belly, and small eyes sit atop a generous snout.  Pointed tusks bulge from its lower jaw and saliva drips from its wide mouth as it sniffs a tuft of blossoms near the trunk of the tree I am perched in.  It continues to snuffle and grunt, and I grip the handle of my weapon so tightly my palm aches. 

When it is just below me, I jump.

The ground hurtles toward me.  All breath leaves my body and needle-sharp stabs of pain claw my legs as branches lash my thighs.  Bruises and cuts will result, but I do not care.  All I can think of is feeding my sister, and me. 

My spear drives into the base of the beast’s neck before I land atop it.  I hold the spear steady with one hand while I unsheathe my blade and slice its throat.  It squeals, a tortured, awful sound, and thrashes.  Warmth gushes over my hand, covering my blade, but I do not let go.  And I do not let go of my spear either.  I hold fast and plunge it until the entire middle section of the spear is no longer visible. 

My chest heaves and every part of me quivers.  The world around me has gone quiet.  All I hear are my own ragged breaths and the fading shrieks of the stuck animal. 

Before long, the boart stops flailing.  Blood is everywhere–on my hands, on my arms, my legs, and my face, even feels like it’s coating my tongue, but it’s not.  It is just the heavy, coppery smell, so thick and overpowering, tricking my mind into believing blood has entered my mouth.  The boart’s weight begins to shift as it topples to one side.  I must keep my dagger from becoming trapped beneath its massive body. 
I
must keep from getting trapped beneath its massive body. 

I flick my knife to the side and hear it land with a soft
thud
in the grass, then yank as hard and fast as I can to pull the spear from the boart’s body.  I dive to the ground, reaching and stretching with every ounce of strength I have to throw myself clear of the beast’s fall.  I land hard just in time to avoid being a squashed blob underneath it then whistle loudly for June. 

The faint swish of wet grass and leaves sounds and before long, my sister appears.  At first she sees the blood covering my hands and splattered across my face.  She gasps and her hands fly to her mouth.  She cries out words that are unintelligible.

“Oh no, no, no,” she sobs.

“June, no, I’m okay,” I assure her and point with a trembling hand to the boart carcass.

Her eyes widen.  “You got one!” she squeals excitedly.  “Oh wow!”  She bounces on the balls of her feet, clapping her hands, and I am reminded of her youth, of her innocence.  I suddenly wish she did not have to see the boart’s carcass.  But one day she will have to gut a boart on her own. 

“Come on, let’s prepare this boart quickly before the scavengers come out to play,” I say, referring to the buzzards and other winged predators that could announce our position. 

June assists while I carve enough meat to stuff ourselves for the day, as well as the next morning.  The boart is robust, its flesh plentiful, but we cannot take all of it.  It would spoil by midday the next day.  Wastefulness of any kind pains me, particularly when it concerns food.  If it were winter, every bit of its meat would be taken and packed in snow, then eaten for weeks.  Today’s kill is just for the day. 

We return to the cave with our haul and cook it immediately.  Cooking after the sun sets is off-limits.  The smell of roasting flesh would frenzy the creatures of the night and all but guarantee our deaths.  The thought makes me shudder. 

As soon as the meat is fully cooked, I offer the first piece to June.  She devours it immediately.  I nibble a chunk and watch as she reaches for a second then third serving.

“Be careful not to stuff yourself,” I warn her.  But it is hard not to.  The salty taste and the tender texture of the meat are irresistible.  Before long, I find myself ignoring my own advice and helping myself to more.  

“I have to stop,” I moan, but a full belly is blissful.  “We have to train still,” I say more for my own benefit than June’s benefit. 

“Aw, do we have to?” she asks and frowns. 

I level my gaze at her and do not say a word.  I do not need to.  She knows better, knows that it is imperative for us to train each and every day, to keep our senses sharp and our reflexes swift.  I never allow a day to pass when we do not train.  That is what our father taught us.  And June needs to become as good with a sword and spear as I am.  Her life depends on it, and so does mine.  Room for improvement always exists. 

“Can’t we just relax for a little while?” June begs.

I look to the sun, my mind warring with my heart, and realize there is plenty of daylight hours left.  June deserves a reprieve.  I owe her that, at least. 

“Okay,” I concede. 

Her head whipsaws from me to her food then back to me.  “Are you kidding?” she asks suspiciously.  “’Cause if you are, it’s not funny.”

“Nope, I’m serious,” I say.  “Let’s go now.”

June does not need to hear me say it twice.  She is on her feet before I am.  We make our way to the meadow quickly.  The clearing is overflowing with wildflowers that perfume the area.  I would love to run through the field and pick as many as my arms could carry but I am not permitted such an indulgence.  Instead, I settle for sitting on the outskirts of the meadow.

June plops down then flops backward.  I sit for a while then lean back on my elbows.  

Warm, buttery sunlight heats us from overhead.  A tangy, earthy scent infuses the air as we lay in the tall grass gazing at the sky, a vast blue canvas scrubbed clean by the early morning storms.  A butterfly flits past June before landing on her nose.  She giggles as the floppy-winged insect stops for a second, then flaps and flies away.  The sound is sweeter than anything I’ve heard in a long time. I turn to face her.  Light washes across the top of her head, highlighting the natural gold of her hair.  It makes her appear almost angelic.  She closes her eyes and dozes while I fight the exhaustion that follows the adrenaline rush I had from killing the boart.  A full belly assists my physical fatigue. 

Before long, my eyes grow heavy and my body feels as if it is being rocked, cradled in warm arms, a sensation I barely remember but yearn for nevertheless.  I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

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