THE HUNTER

Night passes, and the Feeders turn on the lights. It is bright. Blinding.

The Hunter licks the blood off his leg. Oh, if only it was the taste of the Prey. The Hunter hates the taste of his own pain.

The beaded string still holds his ankle around the far side of the rock. The Hunter spent the night thinking about it, and the day brought renewed desperation. He must go back into the waterfall. It will hurt. It will pull. It may break the Hunter’s leg. But the Hunter is strong. The Hunter can do it. He will come out alive. He is not afraid.

From out there, in the waterfall, The Hunter can cut the string with his perfectly sharp claws and free himself. Free himself and continue the hunt.

He sniffs and smells the scent of the water, feels its icy touch on his nose. Lapping up a drink to trick his empty stomach, he prepares to jump. To jump and cut the sting and fall. It is a far fall to the bottom. Very far. All the way into the rocks. And the water. With only one of his legs still working.

Perhaps the Hunter will think of another idea.

He lays, as a corpse lays, in the shadow of the rock. The light shines on him. Shows his blackness to the world. The blackness the world should never see. He curls his lip. The Hunter does not hide in the shadows. He is the shadow. He does not fall into traps. He is the trap.

When the Hunter is free—and he will be soon!—he will find the Prey and make it suffer. He will eat the Prey still alive and feel it squirm under his fangs. The Hunter will show no mercy or forgiveness. The Hunter will feast and feel the thrill and the joy of the Prey’s suffering as it has made him suffer. His belly will be full and the Feeders will praise him. He will go into the box and he will know new Prey and eat new flesh. He will!

Right after a rest. Only one, short rest. For a little while.

From the high rocks by the waterfall, the Hunter can see all. And he sees a box.

It is not his box. It is a big box. A bigger box than he has ever been inside. A giant metal claw sets the new box on the ground and takes his box away.

Takes his box away? Why do the Feeders take his box? He needs his box! Do they not know he will escape? That he will need his box?

Fine!

Let them take it! He will kill the Prey and he will take this new box for his own. A nicer. Bigger box. Yes, it must be meant for him to take. The Feeders favor him. He is the best Hunter. He deserves the best box.

The doors of the new box slide open. A new Hunter pushes through. A new Hunter? More like new Prey! When the Hunter is free he will kill it. He will kill it and eat its flesh, too.

But it is big. Bigger than the new box. Its squeezes out like brown squeezes from prey’s intestines. It is a Yellow Thing. Its skin ripples over its round body. Its high back juts up to the sky. Its little head holds a mouthful of fangs and its monstrous feet carry claws, each one the size of the Hunter’s arm. But it is blubbering and loud. It is not stealthy and keen and perfect in every way. It may be a good Hunter, but not the best.

The Yellow Thing makes its way to the Proud Tree. The Hunter knows the Prey will not be there. If the Prey can escape the Hunter, it can certainly escape the loud Yellow Thing. But how jealous the Hunter is of the chase. How he wants to break free. How he wants to run and find the Prey and defeat the Yellow Thing.

The Hunter pulls his leg and pain rips down his ankle, into his knee, and up his thigh. Stupid trap! Foolish trap! He tries to roll onto his side, but even the slightest adjustment gives way to agony.

He lays still again. No hunt. No chase. Just rest.

His sharp Hunter eyes spot a brown mane and a pair of stubs. A little head sticks up from the blue grass. The Prey stays low and crawls over to the box, examining the Yellow Thing’s clawed footprints. It dives back down into the blades and is all but invisible until it pops up again on top of a rock. Clever Prey.

It tilts its head. Its ears face out, then in. Listening. Listening for the Yellow Thing.

It does not have long to listen. The Yellow Thing explodes from the grass, its mouth a red circle full of white spears for teeth. The Hunter stirs. How? How did the Yellow Thing appear so suddenly? It was in the Proud Tree just moments ago! It is a better Hunter than he thought!

The Prey runs. The Yellow Thing’s claws snag its mane, but it escapes. Fast Prey. Quick Prey. It shoots across the landscape, the Yellow Thing so close the Hunter fears at any moment it will be captured. His heart quickens. No! The Yellow thing cannot get his Prey! The Prey belongs to him! And then it quickens for another reason.

The Prey is leading the Yellow thing to the wet place. The place where the Hunter is caught in a trap.

The Prey appears in front of him. Its pretty green eyes shine like crystals in the bright daytime light. They are wide. It sings a song to the Hunter, and then vanishes up the rocks.

The Yellow Thing appears next.

The shadow is dark, but not dark enough. The Hunter’s black skin is obvious against the grey stones. He pushes onto his hands, puffs out his chest, shows his fangs. Stay away Yellow Thing! You are no match for this Hunter!

But the Yellow Thing can see his leg is stuck. It can see he is trapped. And the Yellow Thing is big. Up close, much bigger than the Hunter realized. Its breath smells sickly. Its white claws stained brown. It edges its way closer, ready to strike.

The Hunter lowers his chest to the ground. His back slopes down to his head. He does not have his back legs, but he still has the front, and he readies them to pounce. He stretches his fingers to branish his claws. Pulls his lips back. The Hunter is not the Prey. He will never be the Prey!

A thing happens then. A thing the Hunter, as smart, as quick, as flawless as he is, never would have thought would happen.

The string is cut, and his leg is free.

The Yellow Thing’s blood washes across the Hunter’s tongue. His fangs sink deep into the flesh of its throat.

The Yellow Thing roars. Its strength is great, too great for the Hunter, and it throws him to the ground. But the Hunter is powerful. Determined. He will not stay down.

The Hunter rolls onto his shoulders and uses the claws on his good leg to scratch at the belly of the Yellow Thing. Clawed hands fall down on the Hunter and slash across his ribs. The pain is an icy sting and blood rushes down his chest. A deep growl grows in the Hunter’s throat. The Yellow Thing is a fierce opponent.

The Hunter latches onto its forearm and climbs up its towering hunchback. His claws dig and scratch. His teeth tear and bite. Blood flows. He does not know if it is his or the Yellow Thing’s but it does not matter. He must continue to fight until his Prey succumbs. And the Prey always succumbs.

His teeth find the Yellow Thing’s throat again. His fangs pop through skin and slice through tendon, muscle, veins. Red, wet heat explodes into his mouth and covers him from head to toe. The Yellow Thing bucks, and the Hunter stays latched. Holds tight. Eyes close. The Yellow Thing reaches for him on his back. It cannot reach, but its claws slice and prick at the Hunter.

Then, it stops.

The Yellow Thing falls to the ground, breathing slow.

The Hunter stands to tower in victory over the Prey.

Or rather, he tries.

He does not stand but collapses beside the Yellow Thing. He watches life fade away from its brown eyes. Watches its chest cease to rise and fall. Why can he not feel glad? Why can he not celebrate his triumph? He can only lay, as pathetic and helpless as the Yellow Thing as it dies. And he will die, too. Soon life will fade from him. His own chest will cease to rise and fall.

No! He will not give in! He is strong. Too strong. The strongest. He will fight. He will stand. He will win. And he will eat the Prey and grow big and become an even better Hunter. Even though he is weak now.

And very tired.

And the lights stop being so bright

and fade to black nothingness.

His eyes open and he is not dead. See? See? He is the best Hunter! He will survive.

But where is he? Leaves overhead. Branches. And a smell. The smell of the Prey.

Pain again when he tries to get up. He is in the Proud Tree, but how? Have the Feeders brought him there to claim his prize? To pat his head and tell him he is a good Hunter and give him the gift of sweet meat and a clean bowl of water? It is about time! They must hurry so that he might catch the Prey!

The Hunter’s eyes fall shut. Something gentle touches his cheek. A cool wetness pours over his wounds. A soft voice carries in the air, and the sound of a song trickles into his ears. The smell of the Prey is everywhere. Everywhere! It is close! So close! If only he could get up and crunch its bones. Rip off its flesh. Eat. Eat. Eat. He wants to eat!

A tiny, furry finger pulls back his lip and a strip of raw meat collides with his teeth. He licks it into his mouth and gobbles it up.

Yes! Yes! More!

A second strip is stuffed into his mouth. But it does not smell of the Prey. It smells of the Yellow Thing. Yet it tastes delicious and fills his aching gut. He does not care whose flesh it is, only that it is in his mouth. Right now! Faster!

The voice sings. A gentle palm pats his shoulder. Little fingers feed him. For the first time since before the Hunter can remember, his hunger is gone and in its place, something else. Something he thought he would never feel again.

Safe.