“Grab a weapon!” I shouted.

I scrambled for my bow. Mirra doubled down with a cleaver in one hand and a paring knife in the other. Alicia snatched a pan. Had I known what was hunting us, I might have reached for the cookware too. Turns out there’ a list of improvised weapons that are more practical than a bow and arrow for close quarters fights in the dark, and it is long.

We scanned the darkness in vain, still oblivious as to what danger stalked us. It wasn’t that our attackers were idle or patient. They were on us, alright; we just didn’t know it.

The way they move plays tricks on the eye. They are often mistaken for floaters in the eye, or grit in the lashes. We must have seen them a dozen times apiece, and none of us felt confident enough to trust our vision. So it’s no surprise that the first positive sighting was followed by:

“What in the Glade is that?” — Alicia.

The creature flew through the camp in a strobe-like flutter, that made its direction difficult to judge. It took a tentative swoop at Hinny, but was quick to retreat when Alicia waved her pan in its general direction. I got the impression it was testing our reach.

“Mm,” Mirra said, “Craw fly.”

A craw fly — so called because they aim for the throat.

For those of you who haven’t seen a craw fly, I envy you. They look kind of like a moth, and move in a similar fashion, but these beauties are as long as my forearm and have a wingspan that engulfs my shoulders. If you don’t like moths, craw flies are problematic. If you don’t like the living incarnation of evil? Bigger problem. Their six legs have two-toed feet with tiny hooks, so you can’t budge them when they land on you. This is a useful bit of evolution, because they are blood suckers. They can’t have you bucking them off while they lap up a pint of tasty neck blood through their crab-like mandibles now, can they? If you’re already considering the natural Plan B, let me assure you that you won’t be swatting them either. Craw flies won’t settle down for supper until they’ve hit you with a dose of fast-acting, paralysing poison. This lovely little concoction is administered by a palm-length bee sting that wiggles around on a tail roughly the size and shape of a hamster. They are, in summary, horrible.

I’ve only encountered a craw fly once before, and it was enough to keep me awake for a month. That one had strayed into the village, got stuck in the Rut, and had been unceremoniously pulverised by every able-bodied man in the village. In a settlement, your odds of surviving an encounter are good. A craw fly won’t suck you dry, but it will leave you for dead. Provided someone is around to nurse you back to health and to keep any curious wolves from munching on your paralysed body, you’ll be on your feet in half a day and right as rain in two weeks. Out here, though? The prognosis is less good.

They made a few more low passes, testing the waters. It looked like a breeding pair. They wouldn’t be snacking on all of us then, but they only had to give the three humans a quick dose and we were doomed. Hinny had neither the ability nor the inclination to intervene, and Clive was no doubt rooting for the other team. Even with two of us out of commission, the last biped standing was going to have a colossal struggle trying to fend for the others.

“Don’t let them sting you!” I called, because everyone loves the obvious stated.

They were ducking into our sphere of light more regularly now, either emboldened, or trying to psyche us out. I’m going to assume both. There was still no concerted effort to make an attack, but it’s hard to overstate the effect of knowing it’s coming.

I loosed a few arrows but came nowhere near a hit. Judging that I was more likely to hit friends or family before I hit the vampiric spawn of the Glade, I switched to just waving about my bow whenever they came near. As far as deterrents go, it was a rubbish one, but they left me little time to shop around in the undergrowth for a decent branch to club them with.

Despite being the best equipped — armed with her bug-swatting skillet — the craw flies decided Alicia was the weak link. This wasn’t some close analysis of their attack patterns, by the way; I literally heard them say it. Mirra they decided was too menacing to engage, and me they thought of as a fifty-fifty. I had to agree with their assessment. Alicia was fending them off effectively, but was expending way too much energy in the process. By the time they actually went for the ‘kill’, she would be stroking them with that pan, not whacking them.

Alicia’s townie upbringing was shining through, and the craw flies smelt that weakness on her like I did her body odour. For my part, I had a little bit of amateur hunter’s savvy about me, bumping me from entrée to side. The things did terrify me though, so I won’t pretend I was the Anvil’s best representative. Mirra, on the other hand, had them psyched out. She knew they were probing, and hadn’t made a single rash swipe in retaliation. Based off the snippets of conversation I heard between sorties, the craw flies had no idea whether she was primed to bisect them in one fluid motion, or she had nodded off. I was equally clueless.

“Group together!” I called. “They’re targeting Alicia!”

With hindsight, this was probably not the best thing I could have said. They were targeting Alicia because she was panicked. Now that she knew they were targeting her… well, she panicked a good deal more. I really should have seen that coming.

Alicia started whipping her pan around at every beat of a wing, every passing shadow, every falling leaf, every chirp of a newborn chick — tucked in its nest, high up in its tree, cosy in its copse of white-spackled trees, distant from us by a mere three leagues. She was scared, and she was expending energy fast.

Whilst Alicia’s wild flailing didn’t keep the craw flies away, it did keep us at bay. It was impossible to get too close without inviting a bump that would see you studying your eyelids for the next hour. This meant Alicia was all the more isolated. Now I was starting to panic for her as well.

The craw flies, for their part, had decided for certain that I could understand them. This was not to our advantage. Any hope I might have harboured that this would result in them calling it a day, and becoming vegetarians, was quickly quashed. They concluded that this new threat we presented was to be responded to with even greater speed and aggression. They doubled their efforts, whirling an ever-faster tornado around poor Alicia.

When the first attack came, it was almost a relief. One of the flies — the female, if I judged her voice correctly — came at Alicia low and from behind. They had noticed she tended to arc high and wild, and wagered they could duck her. To be honest, I am surprised and impressed that it didn’t work.

Instead of dropping to the ground, paralysed by crippling poison, Alicia intuitively spun. She hopped on the spot, and kicked. Somehow, she got the craw fly in the underbelly, and sent it careening away.

It was a decent kick, but not devastating. The craw fly wasn’t wounded, but it was pleasingly startled. I could tell from their back and forth that she felt mighty silly.

“I got you, you little demon! Ha!” Alicia shouted after the spinning bug. It sounded as intimidating as you are imagining.

“Stay alert!” I called.

The pair of craws pulled back into the dark, making them hard to track. They stopped talking as well, so I was as blind as everyone else.

They surprised us all by both coming for me.

The first one went right for my face, and I can honestly say it was the most horrific thing any human being has ever seen in their entire life. I hate moths, and this one was the body-building, venom-pumped, spider-crossed horror of all moths. It got close enough that I could count the hairs on its stomach, if I had been so inclined. Then it broke away. It was just the distraction.

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The second craw fly landed heavily on my back, with enough force to wind me. I thought its sting had punctured me on impact but, luckily for me and unluckily for it, it had struggled to negotiate my back-slung quiver. Unfortunately, the thing wasn’t stupid. It shunted the quiver aside with its hind legs, opening up a vulnerable spot right over my spine. A few seconds more and I would have taken a possibly lethal dose of venom to my central nervous system. I am going to be thanking Mirra for decades that I didn’t.

Seeing that the bug had taken on the role of my rucksack, Mirra threw her cleaver. I’m going to go ahead and assume that she was adept enough to know the flat edge of the spinning blade would hit the fly, because, if she didn’t, then the degree of luck and brazenness I’d need to wrap my head around is bound to send me into a panic attack. When the cleaver struck, it dazed the fly handsomely. Crucially, however, it did not cut us both in half.

The bug dropped to the ground, a couple of feet from the campfire. I span and, demonstrating sporting proficiency I never knew I had, punted the craw fly into the burning logs.

Being covered in hair, and comprised essentially of kindling and hate, the craw fly went up like a haybale. Within seconds it was burning dramatically and noisily, popping and hissing like a dinner of corn and cats.

I won’t translate terror’s last words — none of us want to relive that — but the point is they were its last. We had survived a craw fly attack, and we were feeling pretty invincible.

Naturally, that’s when Alicia got stung.

I’m not clued up about the mating patterns of craw flies. They don’t strike me as the lovey-dovey, monogamous for life sorts, but there’s probably a bit of prejudice in that assumption. Maybe murderous scumbags can love too, who knows? I only mention this, because I had expected some kind of reaction from the remaining craw fly — I no longer had a clue which was which. Nothing too ridiculous, mind. I thought there would at least be a shriek of rage, though, or a cry of anguish, maybe a nice eulogy? I guess Clive is a poor point of reference when it came to animal romances.

What the surviving craw fly did do, was get straight down to business.

Immediately after its feint against me, the craw fly corkscrewed out of the light, dropped to the ground, and scrambled over to Alicia. None of us saw it coming, and I honestly didn’t even know they could walk on those awkward pincer-toes. And so, even after the craw fly had punctured the wool of Alicia’s tights and dumped its nefarious medicine into her calf, we were all woefully slow to react.

It's hard watching someone you love suffer. It’s even harder in slow-motion.

At first Alicia just winced. She sucked in a little air through her teeth, but she looked for all the continent like she had only stepped on a thorn. Then her leg started to twitch. It spasmed a few times, and then locked below the knee. I could see her trying to roll her ankle, to test her weight, but it wasn’t happening.

“Oh, drat,” she said, sweetly, “Mel, I think I may have—”

Pain wracked her then, and she clutched her belly like she were afraid to lose it. Even in the warm orange brush of the fire, I could see her skin dip towards a putrid green.

“You’re okay. You’re okay,” I said.

“Never better.” She smiled.

Her other ankle turned, crabbing in on itself. She plainly couldn’t feel it, because she stumbled not a breath later and placed her weight awkwardly on the side of her foot. She began to topple, her torso balled up, her legs rigid.

“No!” I screamed.

Mirra caught Alicia before she hit the fire. I allowed myself a sigh of relief, but that would be short-lived. The craw fly, no doubt waiting for precisely this to happen, dove for Mirra’s back. It had injected Alicia, but it hadn’t eaten. It would keep coming for us until it was sated.

I threw my bow to ward it off, but a stick with a string attached is precisely as aerodynamic as nature intended it to be. This left Mirra fighting alone for her life.

The housekeeper had dropped her cleaver to catch Alicia, leaving only the small pairing knife with which to defend herself. It was enough to fend off the first lunge, but the craw pressed its advantage now that Mirra was hampered by its first victim.

The small pairing blade’s tight slashes were eerily reminiscent of Clive’s stunted little talons, which gave me an idea. Not a good idea, but an idea.

“Quickly, to me!” I called to the rooster.

Without any preamble, and without any notion of what you’re planning, this isn’t a very useful thing to say. So I can forgive Clive for responding with, “What?”

That’s when I picked him up and threw him at the craw fly.

Clive arced through the air, a cloud of dun and greens. His clawed feet scrabbled. His splayed wings beat. His sharp beak mostly screamed. For the first time in his life, he was a true avian aviator.

I’m proud to report, it sort of worked.

Clive didn’t pluck the craw fly from the sky, or anything like that, but he startled it enough that the craw stopped what it was doing and wheeled away with more haste than I’d yet seen from it.

To my mind, the craw fly had been fighting dirty the whole time, so I thought it a bit rich when the nightmare bug screeched, “What is wrong with you?”

“It’ll be the donkey next,” I taunted.

“So it does understand,” the craw hummed. Let me tell you, it was unnerving.

I was distracted by a strangled whimper from Alicia, that was cut off as her jaw locked. She was in a bad way.

The craw used the diversion to get away, and just like that I was on the backfoot again, whipping left and right, desperate to spot the next attack before it came.

“Where are you? Where are you?” I was trying to sound fierce, but I knew the fear drenched my voice. I felt so powerless, fighting what I couldn’t see.

Mirra was forced to drop out of the fight entirely. Alicia’s throat was contracting, and she needed basic but constant attention just to keep her breathing. I mouthed a deep-felt sorry at my darling aunt and saw the tears swell in her terror-wide eyes. I had to turn away before my own tears started to flow.

“Where are you, damn it?” I yelled. “Fight or leave!” My breath shuddered. “Why won’t you just leave?”

I paced around Alicia and Mirra, the famous pan in my hand, and kept a vigil that would make the keeper’s of Forge’s Fire proud. The craw was cunning, so I didn’t let my guard down even as the tense seconds turned into painful minutes. Enough time passed that anyone would be forgiven for assuming it had moved on to easier prey, but I wasn’t about to be fooled. Besides, I could read the room.

I hadn’t noticed it before, but the clearing had quietened considerably during the craw fly attack. It wasn’t silent, by any means, but the commotion we had caused was enough to draw the attention of many of our neighbours. They were watching us. Some were confused. Some were scared. Many of them were engrossed. The fact they were still quiet, meant the craw fly was still near.

“Come on. Don’t be shy,” I goaded. “I bet I’m very, very tasty.”

A susurration of whispers washed over the clearing. It was moving.

“When was the last time you ate, I wonder? Has it been hours? Days? Weeks? Just how many cycles have their been?”

More activity.

“And I bet you didn’t feast this well. Nothing could be better than the fresh, warm blood of human. It’s yours for the taking, if you’d like to try.”

And it did. The craw fly came from behind and too my left. Not fluttering this time, but shooting fast and direct, like an arrow. I pivoted to meet it, bringing the pan to bear.

Even with all the warning I had, even haven drawn it to me on my own terms, the thing was too fast. I didn’t quite manage to score a hit with the pan. Instead, the craw connected with my wrist as I went for the hit. The utensil was knocked from my grasp, but the bug took a pretty hard hit as well, thwarting its attack. My wrist ached, but I’d dodged its lethal poison.

I’d have loved to have massaged my cramping arm, but I needed that pan back quickly. I made a grab for it, only to find the craw fly nearly atop it.

I leaped back before it could get at me, but the pan and I were now well and truly estranged. The advantage had switched entirely, now, and the craw fly knew it. It didn’t let up, coming at me with quick, sharp jabs, aimed at pressing me into the darkness where no doubt its vision would be superior even to my enhanced night-eyes.

Things were getting desperate. I was achieving nothing. I shuffled back, and back and back, completely on the craw’s terms. I had to do something. I had to make one last effort. So, I reached out for the closest thing I could find, and hit the craw fly with a tree.

If that sounded weird, it’s because it was.

As my heels edged further from the fire and deeper into the copse, I felt a presence around me. It was an energy, of sorts. A lifeforce, not unlike the beating hearts of the vegetables I had plucked those long days before. I could feel the forest. I could connect with it.

When I reached out in desperation, guided by fear for my life, I felt myself stretch into the limbs of a sagar tree. It was like worming your fingers into a glove; I filled it. I wore it. It was a skin over my skin.

The next time the craw fly came for me, I raised my arms to protect myself. Only, they weren’t my arms. The ancient limbs of the sagar, lichen dotting its skin like liver spots, stretched out to embrace me. Its tendrily branches whipped the fly from the air as they came to me, sending the craw shooting towards the fire that had claimed its lover. It fell just short, but that would not save it. It died on the end of Mirra’s knife.

The chorus of the woods hit a crescendo. Every bird and beetle was talking about our little show. They talked about it like we were entertainers.

I stood there, my chest heaving and burning, cradled in the mothering arms of the sagar. I tangled my fingers in my guardian’s twigs, and I cried.