Chapter 3

Chapter 3

W hen the oversized predators didn’t bother the bounders, the ghost birds returned to their meals. I stayed until they finished, called Persistence to me, and went about my work for the day.

My stomach wouldn’t fill itself.

As I needed more skull bowls to prepare for the coming winter, I claimed two of the larger heads, carrying them by the animal's ears. The one with the rainbow crest followed me around, observing me with open curiosity.

If the others of its kind didn’t mind it wandering, I would leave it to its business. If it wanted to follow me, it would. If it didn’t, it’d go back to wherever it had come from. However, as I didn’t want any of them to become ill or further spread the disease, I pointed in the direction of the ruins. “Avoid the structures and burial mounds that way. They’re infected with disease.”

The rainbow crest flattened, and I wondered what message it sent me with its body language. A lifted crest meant interest or pleasure; I’d found a particularly nice spot it liked having scratched on the back of its neck, and it had melted to the ground in general bliss, its crest snapped up all the while.

Some hoots came across as laughter, and its companions had found my subduing of the littlest of them to be amusing. Deeper versions of their hooting had put Persistence on edge, so I’d interpreted it as a warning or rebuke of some sort. I assumed coos were meant to be reassuring or calming. I’d heard several purrs, but I failed to understand what the sound meant.

The predators conversed among themselves in a series of whistles, and after a few moments, the little one bobbed its head.

I left.

It followed.

The others of its kind held another conversation, and when they finished, two of them removed the caps on their claws, handed them over to their companions, and slide through the trees, issuing short calls similar to the hunting cries of the ghost birds. I marveled at their beauty and grace when they ran, more like water flowing down a gentle slope than living beings.

I returned to my home, taking the most direct path to give myself enough time to fish. I cleaned out the skulls, fed Persistence, and cleaned up after myself, sighing over my stock of soap, which needed to be replenished. Hunting bounders without the ghost birds helping irritated me, but I could do it with patience and effort.

If I wanted to feed my guest, who shuffled after me and checked its claw caps before entering the heart of the felled tree. Its crest snapped up as it beheld my shelter.

Once she finished eating her treat, Persistence went to her nest and settled down, giving her sole leg a break. I took a moment to stroke the bird and praise her for being good. To reinforce her behavior, I retrieved a piece of smoked fish from my storage cabinet and offered it to her.

It had taken me a while to convince her smoked meat was food. She accepted her prize and savored it, tearing it into smaller pieces.

Had it been fresh, the fish would have vanished in one gulp.

My firewood supply also needed to be tended to.

At the start of the expedition, I’d been a fool, believing we’d face only minor hardships and setbacks. Upon landing, the bitter truth had swept in. Every day was a chore with survival as the sole reward. After Emeliara, survival had become a punishment as well, but I had given my word.

She had wanted me to conquer the world that had killed her.

I cleaned my workstation, took the skulls outside so they could dry in the sun, and said, “Come along, then, if you want.”

My tagalong followed, his crest lifted, although not all the way. I grabbed one of my fishing spears, which I’d whittled over the course of many nights while waiting for time to pass. The first pool lacked fish, not uncommon for the time of year, and I grunted my displeasure over having to travel farther afield for a meal. As complaining wouldn’t change anything, I broke into a run, taking one of the tracks I’d made for myself.

I had better luck at the next spot, and the water churned with fish feasting on the late afternoon bugs seeking the cooler shade. After a moment of debate, I determined I could deal with wet leathers and drying everything out. I’d have to beat my clothes to restore their softness, but I’d kept enough leather to make new clothes if the water ruined them. Leaving my spear in easy reach, I splashed in and took advantage of the school. Curious over the predator’s reactions, I flung the first one his way.

The fish slapped him in the muzzle, and his crest flattened and he hissed at me.

I hissed back, snagged another fish, and tossed it his way.

Rather than allow the fish to smack him again, he opened his mouth and chomped down. It took him more than a few bites to dispatch his snack, but he ate everything.

Well, then. Feeding my unexpected guest wouldn’t be hard. All I needed to do was wait for him to finish swallowing and deliver his supper straight to his mouth. As I needed to eat, too, I tossed fish onto the shore, only keeping the big ones without evidence of carrying eggs.

I needed the females to keep my stock strong so I could eat the next year.

It took ten big fish to appease the little predator, a worrisome problem. If I needed to feed all of them, at least twenty, they’d destroy the fish and bounder stock in record time. I counted my catches, pleased with the twenty-five I’d be able to smoke and store for the winter and the biggest one, which I would enjoy feasting on. I stabbed the spear through each fish’s head to put it out of its misery before shouldering the stick with my bounty and heading for home.

My guest cooed, bobbed its head, and plucked my spear out of my hold, taking care not to damage it or my fish. Then it hooted at me and headed down my trail, pausing long enough to make certain I followed.

I wondered at that, but I hurried to keep up.

Back at my home, the other predators had gathered, and they’d brought one of the large wandering herbivores with great antlers capable of downing a tree if provoked. They tended to live north beyond the river, where the forest made way for meadows thick with grasses and flowers.

In the time I’d fished, they’d removed its skin, spreading it out so it might be saved. One, with a crimson body and pale feet and tail, fed Persistence, who called each time it held a scrap for her.

At a loss for what was going on, I stared at the one with the rainbow crest, who cooed, purred, and whistled at its brethren, gesturing my way with my spear of fish. The other replied, and they bobbed their heads. After a few sweeping motions, a few of the smaller ones vanished into the woods.

It took but a few moments to realize what they did, for they tossed deadfall into the clearing near my hollowed tree, all pieces suitable for a fire.

Fire I could handle. I’d long since mastered the art of coaxing flame to life. I headed to the prized flint and the metal I used to create sparks, pulled out my bag of tinder, which I’d fashioned from the hides I’d cured. I then hurried to my favorite spot in the clearing, kicking away the debris I used to cover and preserve the bed of ash and coal. I selected the best pieces of wood, laid them out to allow for suitable airflow, and went to work breathing sparks to life.

To my relief and pleasure, I ignited my tinder on my first strike. The predators brought the wood over along with the carcass, and they licked their muzzles, bobbing their head with the same enthusiasm as the ghost birds right before a hunt. The little one with the rainbow crest brought the fish over, went into my home, and located my smoking box, bringing it out. He pointed at my fish.

I nodded and gestured to where he should put the box.

It would hold my entire catch, albeit barely, and I went to work gutting and cleaning them so I could store my food for the winter.

Then, curious at how much they could understand, I pointed at their catch. “I can do a quarter at a time, and I’ve a cold storage where the rest of the meat can wait until it’s done.”

One of them, who had its claws uncapped, slashed at their catch, tearing through muscle and bone alike until it removed one of the hind legs. Delighted they could understand me, I went off in search of the wood needed to make a spit. Within ten minutes, I had all the supplies needed, and I lashed the thing together with my prized leather straps, instructed the predator on how to skewer the meat so it could best cook, and prepared the fire for their bounty.

I guided them to my cellar, warned them to let the air flow in first, and showed them where to stick their meat until we were ready to cook the whole thing.

While I couldn’t understand them, the knowledge they could understand me eased some tension within me, one I’d carried around so long I thought about crying from the relief of it. I hadn’t cried since lowering Emeliara into the ground.

I refused to cry for myself.

I worked through my grief by keeping my promise to survive and endure.

While language remained a barrier, I told the predators of how we’d come to the world, how we’d first contracted the disease that had killed everyone else, and how it had taken ten years for the failed colony to fully break apart. I shared my conclusions on where the disease lingered, within the ruins of the city that had once boasted skyscrapers and technology. The how of it remained a mystery.

As the haunch weighed too much for me to handle alone and one piece of wood couldn’t support it, I’d secured it into a triangular brace, which I had my guests rotate every ten minutes, which I timed on the device I’d kept from the colony.

It would take hours for the meat to cook, but the rest of their bounty would remain sound for several days, plenty of time to cook and smoke everything. And if they preferred their meat raw but slightly aged, they would be pleased with my storage.

While their catch cooked, I set up my fish smoker, extending the fire to give myself the needed space. As night fell, the predators drew closer, settled in, and spoke to each other in their odd language of whistles, coos, hoots, and other calls I might mistake for wild animals in the woods.

After a few questions, answered with nods or shakes of their heads, I determined they enjoyed their meat charred on the outside and raw on the inside, which made it easy to prepare the rest of the carcass. I stoked the fire, gave them what they wanted, and set up a new spit for each chunk of meat and fed them.

My fish finished in the time it took them to devour their catch, and I ate one, fed another to Persistence, and put the rest into my cold storage. When the fire died away, the predators vanished back off into the woods, leaving behind only a few feathers in their wake.

***

Morning came, and a storm tore through the forest. Persistence stayed in her nest. As she’d been behaved the day before, I braved the weather to fetch smoked fish for her, which I fed to her by hand rather than make her work for it.

I figured the cold and wet made her hurt, as she always hunkered down to wait. Aware the bird might get sick if she chilled, I made use of my stove, lighting a small fire until the interior of my fallen tree warmed. Content the smoke wouldn’t fill the space, I considered my options. Rainy days, when lightning and thunder lit up the sky, made for an excellent time to hunt bounders alone.

They retreated to their burrows in such high numbers I could reach inside, scruff one, and drag it to its demise, making use of a rock to dispatch it as painlessly as possible. The fur, which had already thickened for the winter, would be particularly good.

The trick would be preserving the meat; no fire would last long outside, and I couldn’t use the storage cellars to smoke — and I could only smoke two bounders at a time in my home. I considered my options, decided I could handle ten without wasting anything, and told Persistence to stay while I ventured out.

The first burrow I checked had already flooded, but two bounders struggled in the water, their thick coats tangled in the gnarled roots. Given time, less than an hour, they would drown. The large one I dispatched.

The small one, a youngling I could barely scruff due to its size, was unfit for anything but likely wouldn’t survive on its own. Despite having been freed, it lay on its side and panted.

Having made the mistake of looking it in the eyes, I picked it up by its scruff and carried it home, shaking my head over my foolishness. It wouldn’t take much to cage the animal; I had a suitable prison for one already.

One of the other women had liked them and had kept a pair of females as pets. Upon her death, we’d let them go in honor of her last request.

I’d kept the cage in my cold storage cellar, and with some creative shuffling in my home, I could move it readily enough — or keep the cage outside during the warmer months as the woman had done.

I couldn’t remember her name, which pained me.

When I returned to my home, the small predator with the rainbow crest waited by my door, dripping water and looking rather sorry for itself. I blinked, checked for others of its kind, and determined it had come alone.

How odd. I opened the door, laughed over the situation, and said, “Come in and warm yourself before you get all moldy. Try to drip off as best you can by the door. It’s sloped there, so the water will run out.”

I’d taken care to make certain water flowed down and away from my home.

Then realizing I carried a live bounder and a dead one, I added, “They were going to drown, and the one is my dinner, and the other I decided to rescue. It is too small to fend for itself, and it would have died anyway. I am kinder than nature. Well, today I am.”

The bounder would be easy to feed for the winter; I would gather grass, roots, and bark, and store them in my cellar. Unlike them, I could reach the upper branches of the trees they liked to eat the foliage and wood from, which would help.

Before entering, the feather predator shook off, although the rain fell hard enough to undo most of its work. It stepped inside and dripped where I’d asked it to, lowering its head and heaving a sigh.

“Got caught out in the storm?”

It bobbed its head.

“Well, make yourself useful, then. Hold the bounder. It’s weak, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Be careful with those claws of yours. It’s just a baby — old enough it’s not drinking its mother’s milk, too young to have learned to be on its own yet. I’ll keep it as a pet. It’s young enough to be domesticated, I think.”

I suspected the other babies had drowned in the burrow.

Nature cared nothing for those who got in its way.

The predator took the bounder, lowered its head, and cooed to it, bumping it with its nose every now and then and stroking it with its free hand. It settled, low on its haunches while it dripped water over the floor and out the door, which I’d left cracked enough to drain.

Satisfied the bounder would be watched while I worked, I did the grizzly work of cleaning my dinner, set up the smoker, and began the process of cooking it. I cleaned out the skull and fed Persistence before taking the waste, excess bones, and pelt outside, taking care when passing the predator and prey in the doorway.

Once the pelt was in the barrel to cure, using the formula that would preserve the plush coat, I set the bones in the storage cellar to keep until I could dry them out in the sun. Once done, I returned to find the predator had stimulated the bounder enough it squeaked and put up a fight. I grabbed it by its scruff, sat on my bed, and waited until the animal tired itself out again before doing my best to calm it.

While it took longer than I liked, the little critter finally accepted the inevitable. With a little help from the predator, I set up a reed basket near the stove lined with pelts so it could dry off and warm up. To keep it from running away, I fashioned a harness of leather straps, securing it around its neck, chest, and stomach behind its forearms, tying it in place.

The predator reached for something on its hip, and after a moment, I realized it wore a belt that its feathers had hidden. It pulled out some string, which it used to reinforce my harness and form a leash to tie to the basket.

I marveled over how agile its fingers were, even with the caps on its claws. “Thank you.”

In an effort to convince the bounder we weren’t going to eat it, I returned to the cellar and gathered several different root vegetables they enjoyed. I placed the bounty into its basket, patted its little head, and went about my work, keeping an eye on the little thing.

While it took a few minutes, the bounder investigated my offering and ate.

I then checked on my guest, who’d stopped dripping and had progressed to shivering. “Well, come on. Get near the stove and warm yourself before you catch your death.”

Without any idea what I’d do with a stray predator and a helpless baby bounder, I did as always: I improvised.