Ivory and Bone(22)

It flies true and finds its target, plunging into the cat’s shoulder. But this is one dart, and he is a large cat. I’d hoped the dart would slow him, but instead he lets out a horrifying sound—part growl, part groan—and leaps in my direction.

I know I don’t have time to load a second dart. I spring to my feet, sling my pack onto my back, and crash into the river. The water chills my feet and legs right through the fur and hides of my pants and boots, but I cannot slow my pace. Pressing my weight into each step to hold myself against the fierce force of the current, I stride, stride, stride. Each new step threatens to throw me off balance and pull me under, yet each new step puts more distance between me and the cat. Finally—drenched, coated up to my knees in muck, every bone in my body rattling with cold—I reach the far bank. Exhausted from the effort, I drag myself up, clawing at the sand and gravel bank and crawling on my belly until I reach the tall grass and take cover.

My spear still tight in my fist, I allow myself to lift my head. Just ten paces downstream I spot him, immune to the swift current, moving above the water. He walks on a broken tree limb, wedged between jutting rocks on one side and red clay on the other, forming a crude bridge.

In my panic, I’d failed to notice it. But the cat did not.

Now, just one leap away, the cat is coming for me.





NINE


I am out of options. He will be on me before I can make the shot with my spear. In hopes of reaching thicker cover and disappearing from sight, I turn and race toward a line of scrubby brush and stunted trees that rises from the grass just twenty paces away. My heart pounds in my chest like a drum—like the rapid drumbeat used by Urar to denote the heartbeat of the Divine.

Let this be my prayer. . . . Let my pounding, racing heartbeat be my prayer.

I hear him, his feet trampling the same grass as mine, just a moment behind. I watch my own shadow running at my feet, until it is overcome, swallowed up by a larger shadow. Something heavy falls against my back and knocks me to the ground.

I fall . . . roll . . . land on my back in time to see the eyes of the cat as he prepares to pounce. He coils back, thick bands of muscle in his legs twitching with power.

My spear slides in my sweat-drenched hand.

Just as he springs, I pull my spear in front of my chest. As the cat lunges—mouth open, curved teeth aimed at my throat—the spear plunges into his belly. Before the whole of his weight can pin me down, I roll to the side and he falls, bleeding, beside me.

I scramble to my feet and grab the knife from my belt. Remembering the chilling look in the eye of the mammoth I’d killed last year, I lean over and slit the cat’s throat with the blade to bring him a quick death.

A horrid sound—a gurgle of fear and loss—rises from the cat’s open mouth. The sound echoes in my ears and I wonder if I, too, let out a cry. I can’t be sure. I drop to the ground, the blood-covered blade in my blood-covered hand.

As my own fear drains away, pain takes its place. My back throbs in stinging waves as each beat of my heart echoes in the gashes torn open by the cat’s claws.

Fighting to sit up, I shrug off my parka and see that the back is shredded and bloody. I strip out of my wet pants and boots, and I wade back into the creek, staying close to the bank, and ease my wounds into the water. The chill quickly numbs the pain but also brings a rapid ache to my limbs. I can’t stay in the cold water long, so I climb out again, crawling up over silt and sand.

I want to lie down and rest, let my clothes dry, maybe eat something—but I know I have to keep moving. That cat may not be alone. Scavengers, even other predators, are likely nearby. Too weak to get to my feet, I drag my pack and my clothes to the cover of the tree line. I allow myself the time it takes to change into dry pants and boots and do the best I can to apply salve to my wounds. I reach my hand around to my back and try to rub the grease across my cuts, but blood washes it from my fingers and my hand comes away wet and sticky. Still, I have other cuts and scrapes on my arms and chin from my fall, and as I work the salve in, these calm and cool and some of the pain eases. Finally, I pour a few drops of honey onto my tongue before I force myself onto my feet.

I decide against pulling on a clean parka. The cuts across my back still throb with pain, and the thought of a hide pressing against them sends a wave of nausea through me. Instead I stay stripped to the waist, my tattered parka tied above my pants. I sling my pack and the extra spear over my arm to leave the wounds on my back exposed to the warm, dry air.

Standing in the murky shade, I notice for the first time how long the shadows have grown since I first became aware of the cat on the other side of the water. The sun is already low in the sky, its rays fading to pale light.

No wonder I’m hungry. At home, my clan has finished eating the evening meal by now. Seal, most likely. Seal served with arrow grass and nettle gathered in the meadow. Right about now Roon is collecting empty mats and Kesh is playing his flute.

I let my eyes fall closed for just a moment, searching my memory for the sound of that flute. A songbird in the tree above me sends out a tune, startling me out of my reverie.

I climb up out of the valley using the blood-soaked spear as a walking stick. The terrain on this side of the river has turned rocky. The ground rises to a broad ridge, and at the crest I overlook a long stretch of rolling land, dotted with clumps of tall trees of all colors—varieties of trees I’ve never seen before. Some have branches that hang down like the fronds of ferns, glowing pale green in the sharply angled light of evening. Others have leaves shaped like open hands.