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They’d been in the Deep Woods for months on end. But, this was not the longest hunt they’d gone on or the longest expedition. They’d go until they reached their target, but there was no telling when.

It was difficult to gauge such things without direction or a quantifiable distance.

A man could walk into the woods in summer and emerge in the spring, having only spent four nights beneath the green canopies. He could be walking north, not once straying from the path, and come out to the westernmost woodland edge. The forest shifted and flowed the way water does, without laws limiting or restricting its whims.

The compass Erlan held switched direction suddenly.

“Good time to stop,” Erlan called, already beginning to pull at the straps and snaps of his equipment.

Marat considered the thick brush around them, his eyes scanning the trees. He nodded.

“She’s moving slower lately,” Erlan said, a fire between them, their belongings sprawled around their campsite. “What do you suppose she’s chasing?”

“Don’t know.” Marat didn’t look at Erlan; he stirred the branches, and they produced more sparks. He was uninterested in conversation, and the brother understood it.

“You sleep.” Marat stood, picking a hood off the ground and buttoning it under his chin. A thin cheesecloth hung across the face. The whole of it rubbed down with yarrow. The plant was crushed in a mortar and mixed with holy oil under low heat. They had produced it in small batches as the mixture grew stale, but the need for longer stability forced them to develop a stabilizer of salts and animal fats to make it keep for a full year - they’d rarely exceeded that for a single trek.

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The yarrow acted as a repellent for many of the forest’s natives. It grew on the outskirts of the woods, said to have been planted there to keep the evil of the dark contained—a holy plant.

Erlan wrapped himself in blankets, becoming a large heap by the fire.

But, he would be disturbed shortly by Marat tapping him lightly on the leg. On the shoulder was to wake - on the leg was to wake quietly. Erlan did not make a sound, joining Marat in a crouch. The fire had been put out, and only smoke rose.

Marat pointed at the trees ahead, where the trunks met the roots. Something small and mole-like fussed there. It did not seem to notice them.

Moving very slowly, carefully, and quietly - they’d taken waxed horse hair from their pockets, rolling it between their fingers and pressing it into their ears. They could not afford to disturb the foliage or snap a twig beneath their weight.

The mole-like creature sniffed and turned to them. No eyes adorned its wrinkly head, with sparse white hairs springing up here and there. But it had honed in on something in their direction. Was it a smell, the whisper of the dying coals, or maybe it had sensed the warmth of the blood coursing in their living flesh?

It stepped forward, revealing its uneven teeth. Some were in its mouth; some grew in seemingly unplanned locations. Its back legs were long, like that of a frog, and its little snout - like a mole’s - trembled in its efforts to learn its whereabouts.

Perhaps it was a bit of bad luck; perhaps it was the subtle movement by one of the men - but this creature had decided right then that it was in danger.

What happened next sent both the brothers writhing on the ground. The creature screamed. It was so loud and piercing - the sound was far more than a threat.

The veins on Erlan’s head pulsed, threatening to burst right from his skin. Marat’s chest had cramped, rendering him unable to take a breath. Only by the grace of the wax and horse hair were they alive for long enough for Erlan to kick the still-hot coals at the creature - burning it and momentarily ceasing the attack. Marat coughed as a desperate breath caught up in his lungs and, at the same moment, leaped at the creature, crushing its neck with a loud crunch of the bones.

They did not speak and did not light a fire again that night.

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