Monsters (20 page)

James told his father he struggled with the idea that one day he'd lose him to another monster. Perhaps not an eagle, maybe a bear or a wolf.

Bruce tried to assure James he was fine, but he could see the doubt in his son’s eyes. As he grew older, James would defy Bruce and Simon by going off hunting alone.

Bruce feared for his son. He'd seen this level of exuberance and hubris only once before in his life, while marching upon Bracken Ridge.

W R I T E R S

James was nineteen. He was breathing hard as he moved onto the ridgeline above the snow-clad forest.

In the crisp cool air his breath formed a light fog as he exhaled, confirming the direction of the morning breeze. He was upwind from the stag and moving around behind it. If the animal continued in the same direction he'd first seen it moving, along one of the rocky paths running parallel to the ridge, then it was following an animal trail west, around the peak, toward the plains below.

It was early spring in the valley, but snow still blanketed the mountains. The trees around him looked like dwarf varieties, barely six to eight feet high, all perfectly uniform, in the shape of a cone. They had been buried by the drifts, the snowstorms that ravaged the land during winter. In reality, these trees were fifty to sixty feet high, James knew that from his summer hunts. But for now they lay buried beneath the treacherous snow and ice.

To stray too close to one of these idyllic Christmas trees was to risk injury or death by falling down through the branches under the compacted snow. Even with his snowshoes on, spreading his weight across the soft surface powder, sections of snow would occasionally collapse beneath him, subsiding two to three feet at a time as the snow settled.

Crossing an open snowdrift was often the most dangerous act of all, as the shorter trees hidden beneath the smooth, flat expanse of snow would weaken the surface. It was like stepping on thin ice, although there was no ominous crack to warn you of the danger that lay below. For James, though, this was the only way to cut off the stag. The huge beast couldn't negotiate a drift. It would have to circle the peak, and that gave him time to set an ambush.

James loved his father, even if he was too conservative. His father taught him to follow subtle indentations running through the snow, as these were the signs of worn animal paths dusted with fresh powder. The wolves in particular, could smell the pine trees beneath the snow and had learned to avoid these deadly traps. There were a few small paw prints crisscrossing the open ground before him, probably from foxes, so James followed these, weaving his way across the open space, keeping his head low as he crossed the crest of the ridge.

Although the temperature was below zero, James was sweating in the still air. The bright morning sun reflected off the snow, causing him to squint. He opened his shirt, exposing the skin on his chest to the cool air. Sweat wasn't good. Any stray scent could betray his presence. He'd had a dry-bath before dawn, rubbing pine needles and dried leaves under his arms and around his groin to mask his smell.

The villagers had already seen at least one black bear in the forest below, but James was counting on the snow to keep them at bay.

The bears were the worst of the monsters. Where once they had rivaled the height of a man when rearing up on their hind legs, now they towered above the tallest of men, reaching up to fifteen feet and weighing in at upwards of eight hundred pounds. And they were deceptively quick, capable of outrunning a man over a hundred yards. Beyond a quarter mile, though, they lost interest, not having the stamina to sustain the chase. The accepted wisdom was that within a hundred yards, they'd run even the fastest of men into the ground. Bears were faster uphill than down, something James found curiously counterintuitive given how quickly he tired on an uphill run.

His father said it was because of their metabolism. He told James he'd seen a bear kill five men after being shot through the heart with an arrow. James had exclaimed, how is that possible? His father told him the bear had been fatally wounded, but its strength and prowess were such that it could fight on regardless, running the men down and killing them before succumbing to its own wounds.

Bears were lazy—opportunistic was the term his father had used. After coming out of hibernation they tended to stick to the valleys. Hunting above the snow line, James thought he should be safe, but by cooling his body and dulling his scent he was being particularly cautious. His father hated him hunting alone and would insist on coming along or would plead with him to go with a group, but James was a loner. Even a small group of hunters made a lot of noise and left a lot of signs, scaring the prey and making the hunt longer.

Long hunts were dangerous hunts. There was something about teaming people up that dulled them down, convincing James he was better off alone. If he was going to die in the jaws of a bear, he'd rather it was through his own stupidity than because of someone else's carelessness. Still, his father would insist on hunting with him, and James enjoyed his company, learning from his forest-craft, but the old man wasn't as nimble as he once had been before the eagle took him. He couldn't venture as far or as wide, and so James would hunt on his own.

James would sneak off alone, terrifying his father, but always returning home after a few days. As far as he was concerned, he was invincible.

As he crossed the snow-bound ridge, James picked up the trail of the stag again. The deer was avoiding the heavy snow laid down by the drifts, following the leeward trails where the snow was thin. He'd seen the beast at a range of several hundred yards, too far for a shot, and had to get closer.

His father used a crossbow that was good at that range, but James preferred a long bow, relishing the tension of the string beneath his fingers, and the subtleties that allowed for greater control and accuracy with each shot.

The long bow took more discipline, required more consistency, but gave greater satisfaction. His arrows were good up to a range of a hundred and fifty yards, but lacked accuracy at that distance, and a wounded animal could bolt for miles, going on for days before succumbing to a clumsy wound. No, unlike the other boys in the nearby village, James wouldn't risk a lazy shot.

The thrill of the hunt lay in stalking prey, in outwitting them and positioning for the best shot, in making a clean kill. And, besides, the spill of blood would attract wolves. With a quick kill, he'd have time enough to field-dress the beast, carve off its hind flanks and leg muscles before the wolves began to circle.

The wolves, though, had learned to leave hunters alone. There was plenty of meat for everyone. No one needed it all, and the wolves understood an easy feed was better than a hard kill, one in which they'd lose at least some of their pack. It was a tacit agreement between species. An easy meal provided safe passage. But like an angry landlord, if the wolves arrived early, before the deer had been carved, they'd demand all they found. Time was of the essence, as wolves were intelligent.

Powdered snow kicked up beneath his snowshoes, spraying lightly in the air with each long shuffle as James worked his way around the peak.

He caught a glimpse of the stag below. It had at least twelve points. It was an old male. The meat would be tough but full of flavor. No one would believe him about the size of the horns, and if he hadn't been so stubborn as to hunt alone he could have had someone else carry them back to gain bragging rights, but it was the meat that was important, not his ego.

The stag stopped at the edge of a clearing below. A large tree had fallen and gouged out the snow on the steep slope, clearing away the hillside for several hundred yards and exposing loose shale. The stag could smell something on the breeze. The animal stood proud, its head erect, sniffing at the air, but it wasn't James it was smelling as he was downwind.

James pulled an arrow from his quiver. Its brilliant red flight feathers would provide him with a visual marker, allowing him to track its flight and understand any thermals or wind in the valley below. The stag was roughly a hundred yards down the slope. James would have preferred to get closer, but the stag skittered and danced, kicking up powdered snow as it trotted, looking around, smelling danger on the wind.

James would have to ensure his first arrow was on target. He'd get time for a second, but not a third.

The stag turned away from him, looking down the valley, giving James a clear line of sight at the heart and lungs. From this angle, he could strike in front of the rear leg, up under the stomach so the arrow could penetrate beneath the ribs and pass through into the animal's chest. The shot would be fatal, but the stag could run for the best part of a mile before dropping.

James steadied himself. Kneeling on a rock, he took aim, pulling back on the bowstring with three fingers. He kept his wrist straight, in line with his hand so as to keep the tension in his hand to a minimum and allow him to relax into the shot. His father didn't like the three-fingered hold, preferring a pinch-grab, telling him the three-fingered approach tended to pull to the right on release, but James found it easier to retain pressure while lining up his shot. He breathed deeply, exhaling and relaxing, releasing the bowstring at the bottom of his breath, while his lungs were empty and his body was naturally still.

The arrow shot out in a flash, sailing away, arcing through the air but the deer reacted, jolting with its feet and staggering to one side.

The deer had been spooked by something else, something on the far side of the clearing, further down the hill.

James watched as his arrow sailed to within half a foot of the startled animal as the deer broke to one side, moving for the cover of the trees. Had the deer remained still, James would have struck the massive animal just in front of its hindquarters, right on target. He already had a second arrow up and drawn, ready to fire, but the stag was gone. He could hear the beast bolting through the trees further down the gully.

James released the tension on his bow and looked carefully into the shaded forest beyond the clearing. There, on the far side of the gravel and ice, he could see the slow lumbering outline of a black bear moving through the tree line.

James pulled back on his bowstring and took aim. At this distance, an arrow would barely penetrate a bear's thick hide, if he hit it at all.

Although the bear's coat was thick, it would have lost most of its fat during hibernation and hopefully would be in no mood for a prolonged chase. At best, James would simply annoy it, but he was mad, this bear had spoiled his hunt and caused him to lose at least two months' worth of cured meats.

With the sun moving high in the sky, the day was lost. James aimed for the bear's ass, wanting to give it a good spanking. It was silly, and he knew it. To fire and expose himself was dumb. Although he was safe enough, he figured, as the loose rock would slow the bear's ascent after him, allowing him to flee, but why inflict a punitive wound? Why exact revenge for his anger? What would it accomplish? Nothing. And so he eased his pull, muttering under his breath before laughing quietly to himself at the absurd notion of even thinking about taking on a bear alone.

The bear sniffed at the breeze. It had picked up the scent of some other game further down the valley. The monstrous animal broke into a gallop, which startled James.

The bear bounded off over the hard-packed snow further down the mountain. James picked his way forward beneath the peak. He was foolish to follow a bear, and yet he was curious at what it was chasing. He moved lower down into the valley, away from the snowdrifts on the mountain top, to where the snow lay only ten to fifteen feet deep. In some places, where the trees were thick, sections of ground could be seen, covered in dead branches and pine needles. James avoided those spots, as they'd damage his snowshoes.

Coming down behind the bear was risky, but he was still downwind and the monster was distracted. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as his mind calculated the risk.

James caught sight of the bear making its way slowly down a rough patch of exposed rock, winding around a low cliff face. It had spotted something in the gorge leading into the valley proper. James figured it had to be an easy kill, as the bear wasn't in too much of a rush, and he wondered if the wolves had brought something down and the bear was moving in to scavenge.

It was then he saw her, lying in the sun beneath a standing dead pine, lifeless branches littering the ground around her. The snow covered rocks were stained red with blood. She was clutching at her leg. Even though he couldn't make it out at this distance, James knew what had happened, she had stumbled into a bear trap. But who was she? Why was she out here alone? What was she doing so far from any of the villages of the plain?

He lost sight of the bear as it disappeared behind a rocky outcrop. The monstrous animal would be upon her within minutes. She didn't stand a chance. But what could he do? He had a long bow, not a crossbow, even if he wanted to help, he couldn't. It would take most of the men in the village to bring down a bear this size, and even then, they could lose several men in the process—it just wasn't worth the risk for one life.

“HEY,” he yelled, seeing the bear emerge from behind the rocks, calling out to the animal before his mind had properly processed what he was doing or what he thought he could accomplish. It was stupid, foolhardy. Had his father been there, he would have scolded him.

“Over here,” he yelled, waving his hands as he ran out from the trees to the top of the low cliff.

The woman looked up, seeing both James and the bear. She fought to free herself from the bear trap, but with a bloodied leg she wouldn't get far before the monster caught her.

The bear looked around lazily before turning back to its prey. The lumbering beast padded over the snow down toward a small creek running with melting ice. On the other side of the creek, the woman strained to pry open the jaws of the bear trap. In the still air, James could hear her crying out in pain as she fought to open the teeth of the steel trap.