Years Later

“The predator’s appetite rises, as does the temperature of the valley, Dahj. No longer encumbered by winter’s chill, the threat closes in,” Grentat, Dahj’s assistant leader, said over the bison’s shoulder.

Dahj trudged with heavy steps through the resurrecting valley, continually chewing cud of fresh spring flora. Winter’s curtains had finally been fully drawn about two weeks prior; exactly enough time for the herd to return to the northern region they called home. Spring had prepared generously for the herd’s arrival like a hospitable host – offering a bounty of food and warmer climates. The bright season had happily replaced all of which its severe sibling had taken away.

“We go through this every year, Grentat,” Dahj said out of the side of his full mouth. He paused for a moment to savor a small yellow flower he had uprooted in his most recent bite. “And every year, I tell you the same thing. We keep moving. We defend only when approached. Otherwise, we ignore the packs and stick to our rotation.”

Grentat grunted and pressed further with his unsettling intel. “Three – just this week. Rond; fallen to a mountain lion. Zenlyn; dragged away by an unrelenting force of rabid wolves. Embua; found herself between a mother grizzly and her young. All stoic defenders… They were warriors, Dahj.”

Dahj stalled a rebuttal to take a deep breath. Grinding away efficiently while moving, the bison grazed down to the roots of every blade and stalk he passed over. Bite, step, bite, step; a line of severed grasses was left in his wake of green. “You know this is a critical time of year, Gren. We have just returned to our annual feeding grounds. They are lush and satiating – once depleted, we will move to the next. Consistency breeds prosperity.”

Dahj was steadfast in his statements – his plan was always the same. Food was abundant and snowmelt provided a seemingly endless supply of refreshing, ice-cold water in the form of rushing rivers and streams throughout the landscape. Resources were not unlimited, however, and relied greatly on the short, forgiving months of the year.

Marked by a paint derived from reddish-brown mud and bark shavings of a red cedar, the runes Dahj displayed on his sides and shoulders represented his herd – The Kleecloks. Designs carved into his horns each signified his years of leadership. Having accepted the position at a young age, he was quickly running out of room across the surface of his sturdy horns for additional hash marks.

He gazed at the barren mountain tops that created a jutted horizon. Each of them unique, rigid, and inhospitable. From this distance, Dahj could picture himself standing on the very tip of the grand mountain’s highest peaks. With the perception of their size, he was convinced that he could perch his entire body atop their summits if he were to bring all four of his hooves together. Assuming their smallest point was about the size of a large leaf, it would take a great amount of balance and focus to hold himself up. Traits a species of his size did not possess. Besides, the task of scaling one of the giants seemed to be daunting enough.

“We live a templated life. We eat, we move, we eat again, then we reproduce. We conserve as much energy as we can and we wait out the winters – our second greatest enemy,” Dahj said, maintaining eye contact on the highest peak of the region. The thought of climbing it exhausted him – it would be easier to just keep eating... “To defy the template will only cull the herd. I have been doing this for generations, Gren. I might just know what I’m talking about.”

“They will never relent. Not until we demonstrate our strength!” Grentat said gruffly. He huffed with force through his gaping nostrils and stamped a fore hoof into the ground, scraping at grasses and moist dirt. His displays of aggression were a terrible waste of food.

Dahj turned to the prideful adolescent. Grentat’s eyes protruded from his skull with frustration. He worried Gren’s eyelids would be unable to fully blanket the bulging balls in their current state. “Heh. I appreciate your tenacity, Gren, but that strategy has been attempted in the past. Before your time. We are not a species bred for battle. We have been gifted with great size and sturdy horns – for defensive purposes only. To constantly seek battle is a tremendous investment of energy that we need to reserve for winter. Hunting… death. Predators… prey. It’s the cycle of life that nature has orchestrated since… always! Sure, we may be the victims, but we need to focus on other methods of survival that don’t include chasing packs of coyotes throughout the forests.”

Now middle-aged, Dahj had taken a more passive approach to leadership. Previous experiences had taught him that aggression and suppression will not sway a herd. It was always best to keep the herd together and move as one; a technique passed down from his father.

Head down, Dahj was suddenly shoulder-checked by a herd-mate that mindlessly droned his way through the valley, breaking the leader’s attention to his rich meal. A cloud of fine dust lingered in the air from the friction of their matted pelts scraping against one another. Eyelids lazily hanging nearly closed, the bull unapologetically plowed through the field, gorging himself on the abundance of spring’s bounty.

This is why they need a leader, Dahj thought. He shook loose dirt from his back and sides. Without one, they would devour only the most convenient regions until depletion.

“The cycle of life at work…” Dahj grunted and gestured towards the hungry bull.

“So that’s what we are? What our species is? Just part of a cycle of eating and being eaten?” Grentat inquired. He let out a loud grunt that resembled a scoff. Strings of snot flew from his wet nose. “Is that why we’re here? To fatten ourselves up to provide a banquet for the predators?”

“You’re misinterpreting the message, Gren. All creatures rely on what the land can provide. Grass is alive; does that make us ruthless predators taking advantage of a helpless creature?” Dahj asked sternly. “I never said we’re just supposed to roll over and be part of some kind of ‘food chain’. We will do what we can to resist and thrive regardless of the escalading threat. However, going out of our way to kill another creature will not solve our struggles.”

Grentat looked as if he wanted to retort again, but was interrupted by an elder cow that approached the pair.

“Dahj, the red dogs are ready for your instruction…” said the cow. Still famished from winter, loose, extra belly skin hung from protruding ribs. Her fur was a dull, copper red. It seemed her coat had never full transitioned in color from her younger years. Two stout horns grew vertically from her head before slightly curving outwards at the top.

“Thank you, mother – I will be there shortly,” Dahj acknowledged.

As Hanla walked away, Dahj turned back to his frustrated friend. “We stick to the plan,” he said bluntly. “It has worked every other year, and it will work this year.”

***

Some time later

***

Dahj awoke to the light of noon’s sun penetrating his eyelids. Before opening his eyes, or taking a deep breath, he instantly felt the stiffness of his muscles strain throughout his entire body. Like a bedridden patient awakening after a millennium of rest, his joints felt petrified from lack of movement. Build-up of lactic acid prevented him from immediately moving any of his limbs. Lying on his back, stings of pain shot across his sides and under his ribs, through his legs and over his shoulder. He had never been one to sleep on his back, as it was generally impossible for his species. The exaggerated hunch of his spine caused this to be a tremendously uncomfortable position to lay in.

Teeth and eyelids clenched, he sat upright with a massive groan. As he lifted his back, long strands of grasses that had blanketed his arms, chest, and neck were uprooted in the pull, stuck to his pelt as if growing from it. Leaves and dirt cascaded from his face and chest into his lap and onto the ground below. Underneath him, a patch of moist soil – once protected from the elements by his body – was now exposed in the exact shape of his frame. Small worms writhed in the nutrient-dense dirt. Insects scattered and attempted to flee; returning to the cover of overlapping grasses for protection.

He gasped as the air was taken from his lungs from rolling his body into a sitting position. The movement felt odd – a function he had never performed before. First inspecting his forearms, he froze upon lifting them before his face. The hunch of his spine had caused his hands to meet his head with minimal effort.

Dumbfounded by the physical state of his hooves, he found that both sides had split directly down the middle. Four stout, leathery, movable fingers had now replaced the rock-solid, black hooves he once walked on. His dew claw had turned into a fifth finger, that had moved to the side of his new “hands”, which he was able to tweak and move. After flipping the extremities over multiple times to inspect them, he used his fingers to begin prodding the wounds that riddled his body.

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Most of his torso and limbs had lost the short, curly brown hair that once covered his body; now nearly shorn. Yet his head, shoulders, and the back of his neck still grew thick brown, matted fur that ran down his spine like a fashionable, tightly-fitting cloak. Due to lack of bathing and maintenance, the hair was tangled and had dreaded. Dirt and small pebbles were now imbedded into the fur; something he generally only enjoyed during the warm seasons. Gingerly touching the wounds on his side, he found no blood. The old wounds had already fused and scarred over seemingly long before he had awoken.

Confused and disoriented, he gazed around the valley where his body had been left. Yes, he nodded, yes, he recognized it. It was home. He had spent his entire life here. But the time of year wasn’t right. Jagged mountain tops surrounding the valley were already capped in snow. Many aspen trees were already dropping bright yellow leaves. Some were already completely barren – their branches looking skeletal and rigid in the cool air. The mighty ponderosa pines still stood tall and lush, however; unaffected by the changing seasons.

The wind was strong, muting the sounds of any birds in the area. If there are any… he thought. Had they already migrated? The last day he remembered being active was the end of spring. Trees were full, and mountain tops were relieved of snow and ice. The sun was strong and many in his herd had been shedding their winter coats. A new generation of adolescence – or ‘red dogs’, as the herd liked to call them – were nearing completion of their annual training.

“But it’s already fall?” Dahj thought out loud. “What happened?”

Patch by patch, he removed stubborn grasses, leaves, and pine needles that clung to his skin. His fingers being quite rigid and useless, he performed more of a ‘brushing’ motion, reminding him of swatting away pesky horse flies during the summer months. Each caused a light stinging sensation, especially the blades of dried grasses that had interwoven with his remaining pelt.

He swore under his breath and decided to stand. If it really was fall, he was already behind on his annual routine for the herd. Winters in this region were relentless and unforgiving. The land offered almost no nourishment under the blanket of snow and ice that covered ground plants, and shelter was scarce. He feared that the red dogs had not received proper training; lack of preparation could easily lead to suffering or death for the young and defenseless. He needed to find the herd, round them up, and finish consumption.

Plots of land for the rotation were planned ahead of time – where, and when the herd could consume the most amount of food to store as fat, saved for the cold months. When one area was exhausted of food, his herd would move together as a group to the next designated area. At this point in the season, however, they must have already moved south to drop in elevation; seeking warmer climates. Hopefully Grentat, along with his other assistants, had assumed temporary leadership during his absence to bring the herd to the correct plots, at the right times, for efficient consuming.

Pulling plants away caused sporadic twinges as singular hairs were plucked from his hide, tied to the natural blanket that had unintentionally weaved together with his matted fur. He winced as aged scabs were removed, exposing tender patches of skin to the cool air. Bonds broken, the plants slowly shriveled and retreated into the soil. He had never seen a plant grow backwards, and assumed it had something to do with the seasonal effect over the land.

Brush and pine needles surrounded his resting area, shrouding it like a padded wall. Pushing through the brush released the light scent of juniper that tickled his nostrils. This late in the year their branches were already ridden of berries, unfortunately. They would have been a welcome, easily-grabbable breakfast.

Upon uncovering his feet, he paused; finding them to be in a similar physical state as his ‘hands’. The hooves at the end of his hind legs had split down the middle on each side and rounded off as well. Four gruesome toes with disgusting nails had taken the place of the hooves, and moved independently when curled. The toes had elongated, extending much longer than they were wide. Heels had formed, rounding off the back of each foot. Even his knees had changed orientation; now bending forward instead of backwards, and gained caps. Powerful calve muscles had grown on the back of his once-skinny legs, now necessary for his new form.

This isn’t normal, he thought. He felt like a specimen in an experiment led by a herd-mate attempting to prank him. If it was, he commended the creativity. How could one’s body undergo such drastic physical changes, then be left for dead in a field?

Assuming a standing position on all four limbs like normal, Dahj surprisingly felt incredibly uncomfortable. His fingers were hyperextended. His knees were now oriented the opposite way. The exaggerated hunch in his back forced his head to look down at the soil beneath him. To look straight ahead in this position would cause far too much strain on his neck. Attempting to walk on all fours felt far more laborious than it used to be.

Standing still for a moment, he took a deep breath to allow his arms and legs to stop shaking. Dust and pebbles on the ground – mere inches from his face – were displaced into small puffs that lingered in the air from his heavy exhales. Stretching his quivering arm, he retrieved a large stick while standing on three limbs. To his surprise, it was quite easy to grab with five fingers. Standing it upright, he pushed down on the end of the stick and forced his fatigued legs to lift his body weight. He roared in agony as it felt like the muscles in his legs were made of thin rubber being stretched to its limit. Air was pulled in his through his wide, wet, leathery nose and exhaled out his mouth as he panted in pain.

Standing erect, Dahj was about eight feet tall. His wide, flat teeth clamped in pain while stabilizing himself. A straight beard ran down his long, narrowing chin that stretched his face downwards. His round, deep brown eyes were now closer together than they had been before, but were still separated by his large nose and forehead. One physical feature that had not changed was his complexion. Almost matching the color of what his fur once was, he was now slightly darker. Hopefully, this would assist his now-exposed body would be more resistant to the brutal summer-sun’s rays.

Slightly stumbling, he was able to gain his balance and take a few steps quite gingerly, followed by wet huffs and a slight groan. When he felt comfortable to remove one of his hands from his stick, he reached up to inspect his short, stout horns with pointed tips. He was relieved to feel that they were both still intact. The condition of an individual’s horns was a status symbol within the herd, and it would be a shame to come home with them damaged or broken.

When adrenaline had finally stopped coursing through his body, and his legs were no longer shaking, Dahj took his first steps. He felt like a red dog again himself.

***

Still under the assistance of his walking stick, Dahj uncomfortably descended the steep hill face he had awoken on into a familiar valley. Had the rotation been carried out properly, this would have been the herd’s first feeding field. It was wide, open land with acres of nutrient-rich grasses and shrubbery. Juniper and sagebrush littered the area in dense patches. This valley sat at a lower altitude than the regional average, causing water from the mountains to gather here, hydrating the grasses and plants his herd fed on. Small streams veined their way through the valley, providing fresh water for local fauna as well. This late in the season, the herd should have been long gone by now, but he had to be sure in case they had stalled or carried out the rotation improperly.

Upon arriving, Dahj found the area to be quite uninhabited. The sun that had once illuminated his eyelids was now mostly covered by overcasting clouds, and the vast sky was quickly turning a sickly grey. Parts of the valley were patchy and dead, either from grazing or early-season nightly frost.

The only life he spotted were a couple does and their fawn; born in the spring of that year. On opposite ends of the valley from him, they cautiously stuck to distant tree lines. Deer were skittish animals and would be difficult to approach, especially with his current posture. The mothers generally kept watch for threats while allowing their fawns to eat. The doe’s white-tipped tail flicked nervously as she kept her black, emotionless eyes locked on Dahj.

As his stomach growled in a low, desperate tone, Dahj deflated to find that food was scarce. It appeared that this land had already been heavily trafficked – most likely from other herds – or even his own moving through earlier in the year. It was going to be more of a chore to get his fill, but his body would be unable to sustain itself to his southern-most destination if he didn’t eat.

Turning to address the same mountain peaks he had remembered gazing at, he froze in confusion to find them capped in snow. I was just here… he thought, spinning in a full circle amongst dead grasses while leaning on his stick for assistance. Talking to Grentat about… something-or-rather… those mountain tops – they were barren. Despite being shrouded in snow, he still fantasized about standing on their highest peaks. At least from there, perhaps he would be able to spot his herd!

***

The sun was beginning to set. Dipping behind the mountains to the west, deep shadows were cast across the valley where Dahj was mindlessly eating his fill. His new posture had made this daunting task much more laborious. Once able to eat in mid stride, he now had to drop to his knees before consuming a patch of grass. After grazing to the roots of the blades, he would stand again and move to another. Saturated ground produced lite squishing sounds under his heavy steps. The closer he was to running water, the deeper his new extremities sank. He worried that he would displace the land he walked on right into a frigid stream, or become stuck! These new feet did not feel nearly as sturdy or efficient as hooves…

Wet dirt and grass stained his joints from gently sinking into the soil if he stayed kneeling for too long. Tiny bubbles rose from the displaced mud, allowing air to escape. The meal was far from enjoyable; morning frost had killed the grasses, leaving them limp. Seasonal rainfall had saturated the field, mixing it with wet, cold mud. The process of decomposition had already commenced as it prepared the valley for new growth in the upcoming year. Winter was on its way to selfishly claim the life of nearly every living plant and animal that was not resilient enough to survive its icy grip. He cursed his soggy, wet mess of a dinner, but knew it was the only way to achieve any nutrition during these fruitless months.

The temperature dropped rapidly as Dahj slowly grinded a wad of grass between molars in the back of his mouth. Feeling colder than normal due to the lack of fur on parts of his body, the anxiety regarding the current state of his herd crept back into his mind. He feared for their existence. Leaderless, the herd may not have been able to reach suitable lands in the south before the elements caught up with them. His vision was blurry and obscured in the darkness. The moon had not yet risen, and he was no longer able to identify what he was eating. Each bite tasted more and more like dirt. Sand and grit filled the gaps between his teeth as he spit small rocks onto the ground. It was time to find some cover and sleep through the night.

Still near the edge of the forest, Dahj found a large tree surrounded by exceptional ground cover to nestle into and blanket himself for the night. As he drifted off to sleep, howls rang through the air, reminding him that there are more threats in the forest than just the changing seasons. After adjusting multiple times to find a comfortable position to lay in with his new posture, he felt safe enough to close his eyes until dawn.