The Wild Lands: Legend of the Wild Man (9 page)

Urea stood from her own leap, and moved to
and fro, testing the connection. Strong as ever. The
panthera
obeyed perfectly. She let it rest and was happy to
see the interference was gone as well. No twitches, no odd looks
that didn't originate from her.

All was well, but she was exhausted and ready
to put the
panthera
to sleep and take a break. The ruins had
revealed nothing of the Ntelo's prophecies of The Wild Man, but
Urea sensed she had learned something much more important, a hidden
truth, but the kernel of it eluded her. She knew better than to
ponder it now though. She headed directly towards the Spire and the
energy field that protected them all.

Worry not children, the Hidden are few and have
slept West of Father Mountain for generations. We tell their
stories around our fires so we will never forget. As long as we
honor the old ways, we will be safe.

The hunter rises with the sun. He slept
through the night and is rested but sore. He removes his skull
helmet, stands slowly and checks his injuries. Most of the wounds
he earned from the crow are scabs. His arm is still swollen around
the three prongs that jut from it like dead branches from an old
tree. He tests one of the prongs, it hurts, but less. He wonders if
they can be removed. Pieces of bone have stuck in other bodies
before, but never any so large and dangerous. He likes the idea of
it. He flexes his left arm, testing if the barbs can be weapons.
Pain sears his flesh and he resolves to consult the tribe's
healers.

The hunter looks out from the top of the
boulder. His home is not far away, he can make it there before the
sun is overhead, especially now that he carries no burden, no
prize. He slowly climbs down the boulders and makes his way into
their inner sanctum.

In a dark corner lays the mess of brains he
discarded. He scoops them up and rubs them on the leather shroud as
he walks. He feels something hard in the mess of brain.
Rock
? he wonders, but then remembers the blinking light and
loud crack he heard when he cut the prongbuck from the tree.

He digs into the brains and grasps the stone.
It glows red and easily fits in the palm of his hand. It has a
large crevice running down it. This made the cracking sound, he is
certain. It goes dark and light more regularly than a firefly. He
pokes it. It does not
feel
strange. It is hard as stone and
cool as the brains around it. He cannot feel the crevice, only a
small prick where the prong must have bored into it. He turns it
over in his hands and finds hairs that sparkle like veins of ore in
the mountains. The hairs repulse him. He thinks they reached inside
of the buck's skill and connected to little fleshy bits all
throughout the brain. Seeing the hairs dug deep into the very mind
of the beasts sends shutters down his spine. He remembers the
hermit's tales.

The hermit knows stories of faraway places
where people do not live in the woods but use magic, odd stories
about kingcrows and prongbucks dueling for sport and of clouds
appearing on windless days and starting forest fires with bolts of
lightning. The hermit always warns of the Hidden, sky people he
called them—as if they were related to the tribe—that controlled
the fiercest and most cunning animals. He would say that the Hidden
could take the animals' minds and sought to control the entire
earth. The hermit swore his stories were true, but most of the
tribe called them children's stories. They must have believed
something of them though, for they sought shelter when
thunderstorms approached, and always hunted by stealth. It was bad
luck for a large animal to see a hunter and live.

The young hunter hated these stories. They
made him feel powerless, like others were in control of the world
around him. A hunter should believe in his own two hands, his
muscles, and killing his own food to give him strength. The Hidden
were something to blame that never argued. Besides, the whole
notion of people who live in the sky and control beasts seemed
foolish.

Now he is not so sure.

He leaves the rock enclave and looks where
the kingcrow began its infinitely pronged attack. Wolves or a lion
must have eaten his prongbuck's organs and pulpy meat in the night.
This gives him grim satisfaction. At least his kill was enjoyed by
something besides the murderous kingcrow.

Freed of the animal's weight, the exhausted
hunter begins the march home and ponders how to tell a story that
gave him such an impressive trophy, fierce wounds, and no meat.

The young hunter steps silently into the
jungle clearing. Trees tower high above, their branches fastened
together with living vines or braided amongst themselves. For many
seasons his people have maintained the living roof, intertwining
fresh flowering vines or planting young trees when others grew old.
He loves the beauty of this place. It is art, like the pictures and
symbols in the hermit's cave. Smaller fruit trees dot the edge of
the clearing. The hunter inhales deeply and lets the bouquet of
aromas fill his nostrils and his soul. He is home. He has little to
show but scars and stories, but he is home. He hopes the tribe
accepts his empty handed return.

He purses his lips and whistles a high note
that hangs in the humid jungle air. Birds with feathers of every
color scatter from the clearing into the woods in a hundred
different directions.

A long moment later, tribesmen pop into the
clearing, each with one of the sweet song birds chirping excitedly
in their ear. His childhood friends reach him first.

The younger hugs him like a bear and bangs
the prongs in his arm badly. He winces. The elder pulls off the
younger and admires the young hunter. He is impressed. With a grin
that betrays his youth he slaps one of the barbs and the young
hunter roars in protest. Despite the pain, he grins at his two
childhood friends, ready to show them, injured or not, he is the
hunter of the trio, but more tribesmen emerge from the forest, and
he lets the slight go unanswered.

Then come the three girls his mother simply
calls
troubles.
They giggle faster than the birds and the
young hunter feels his face go warm. Two of them laugh excitedly
but the third looks at his wounds, his prongbuck skull and antlers
and makes no sound. Her eyes say much. She sees him as he is, a
man. For the first time he sees her as a woman. How could he have
missed this young beauty so many times? So much more brilliant than
her two friends, her smile shines like the stars and he is hers.
Still a girl, she knows not what to do with this power, but she
likes it.

Before she can act, the crones shoo her away.
One is the young hunter’s grandmother, but he does his best to
forget which. Blood means nothing to the old women, they are all
the grandmothers of the tribe. They dote upon him, poking him here,
testing his wounds. One rubs his leathers between her fingers and
clicks her approval. He cured them well enough. Another gives him a
nibble of honey comb. A third slaps his chest and points to the
prongs, slapping her own head. He remembers which is his mother’s
mother. He smiles but she has none of it. The flock of birds grows
quiet and the crones grab his grandmother and pull her away.

The hunters approach. The young hunter, the
youngest in fact, finally feels his nerves quake. He has returned
from his first moon’s hunt without meat.

The hunters step from the wood silently,
their faces hard as boulders. Their birds are silent save their
wing beats. They form a ring around the young hunter. They size him
up. They look from his wounds, to the antlered skull and leathers,
to his empty hands. One steps forward and yanks one of the prongs.
The young hunter’s arm aches but he does not flinch. The others
grunt their approval and the leader shoves the brash one back in
line. He looks the young hunter in the eye, and sees himself,
younger and braver and stronger. He embraces the boy. The others
come forward and raise him on their shoulders. A tidal wave of
children erupts from the jungle and the silence is no more. They
hoot and howl with excitement. A new hunter means a feast!

The young hunter smiles from atop the
tribesmens' shoulders. He realizes he was foolish to think his
people would not give him a warrior's welcome even if he returned
empty handed. Even the youngest recognize the greatness of his
prize. They take turns grabbing at the massive rack of prongs and
leathers he carries. They touch it then run away with shrieks of
delight, only to return again.

More tribesmen emerge from the jungle, but
not who the hunter looks for...

At last, his mother and sister step into the
clearing. His mother releases his sister and she runs to her older
brother. The hunters recognize bonds stronger than their own and
put the young hunter down. His sister squeals in delight and bounds
towards him. She leaps into his arms, oblivious of his wounds. He
yelps and flinches mightily when the girl yanks one of the prongs
but stifles his pain when he smells the fresh berry juice still on
her fingers. His sister always smells of berries. She picks them by
the muddy bank of the creek, day after day. The young hunter is
almost surprised to see her here instead of hiding in the brambles.
She looks at him with awe. She knows her brother is the mightiest
hunter, save their father, who died long ago, and now he has proof
in his flesh.

Silently, the hunter notes how firmly
embedded the prongs are and wonders if they can be removed. His
sister can support much of her weight easily. It hurts, but they
don't budge. His mother examines the prongs as well. He can tell
from her expression that she wonders the same as he.

He catches her gaze and tells her with a look
that he is alright, and glad to be home. She returns the affection
then glances up at the hermit's cave, as if to say maybe
he
can remove the spikes. The hunter only shrugs. He feels no pain now
that he is with his family and embraces them. He allows himself a
whoop of exaltation. His family is good. The tribe is good. Life is
good.

The tribe falls silent once more. His mother
takes his sister from his arm and they too leave the hunter. The
chief emerges into the canopied clearing. Besides scant leathers,
the chief wears a formidable bird skull won in combat and a
feathered cape crafted from hundreds of feathers given freely by
the birds that flutter back and forth between the tribesman.

The hermit says the skull is from a kingcrow.
No other skull like it has ever been seen. It is a very powerful
and mysterious thing. After his bout with one of the fearsome birds
the hunter knows it must have been a small kingcrow, for the head
of the bird he battled was as big as his torso, and no man could
wear its skull atop his own.

The chief approaches, removes the skull,
places it on the ground and embraces the boy. He hugs him long, and
when he finally pulls back the young hunter is surprised to see the
chief fight back tears. He bows before him and presents the
prongbuck skull. The antlers are half as tall as the chief, who
does not share the hunter's formidable size. The chief carefully
examines the antlers. He has never seen a set with so many prongs
and marvels at how the hunter bested such a magnificent creature.
After a moment he takes the skull and places it firmly on the
hunter's head.

The tribe gasps as the prongbuck's skin flows
around him. Their hero vanishes and in his place stands the ghost
of a powerful prongbuck. The chief reaches his hand under the
shroud and grabs the hunter's wrist. He pulls the hunter's hand
high above his own head and lets out a mighty cheer. The tribe
echoes and cheers the elk warrior, then goes wild in cacophony.
Even the songbirds fly off screeching of the young hunter’s
exploits.

“Meat!” The chief yells as he dances.

“Celebrate!” the tribe yells back. Children
scream in delight and run and dance around the canopied room.
Adults vanish into the forest to prepare for the festivities.

He holds his hands out for the chief to see
he carries no meat to share, but the chief only laughs and slaps
him hard on the back.

“Dance, boy!” he says, then saunters over to
the fire pit, plops down and begins to carefully stack tinder and
wood.

The hunter looks to his mother who only
smiles. She whispers something in her daughter's ear. She rushes
out of the clearing and into the forest.

She comes back after a moment with a huge
rabbit. Other tribesman return, each with a rabbit or a squirrel,
some with eggs from the fat ground birds the tribe feeds. Others
bring plants, and soon every variety of fruit or vegetable that
grows in the verdant jungle is piled high in the clearing, ready
for the feast to begin. His stomach growls with hunger. He has
eaten nothing but blood from the prongbuck more than a day ago.

The tribe surges into the clearing bearing
drums and flutes. They form a circle around the fire pit and beat
their drums. Some sing loud praises to their prong elk warrior. By
dark, all will know the new songs. Some beckon to the children and
teach them ways to dance and jump. The young hunter gives his
mother and sister another squeeze then approaches the chief.

He removes his elk skull and kneels down next
to the chief. He slowly pulls the glowing orb out of the skull. He
keeps it hidden from the tribe, and especially his family. The
hermit's stories are well known and he wants no one to worry.

He grunts softly. The chief turns, and
stares, instantly transfixed. He cannot look away. The mirth leaves
his eyes and is replaced by dread. Finally, after what seems an
eternity, the chief points to the hermit's cave high up on the
mountain.

“Later” he says, then grabs a few green
branches and throws them on the fire, sending up a plume of white
smoke. He glances once more at the cave, then his smile returns.
The chief slaps his shoulder once more, “Celebrate.”