Hunting the hunter

Runt lay in the long grass watching the cottage. It was on the edge of the Wilds, a simple farmer’s house. A small fireplace illuminated the single room with a dull red glow. As far as he could tell, there were two men in the cottage, one older, one younger. Hanging above the fireplace was the object Runt was sent to retrieve.

“Did you know,” the teacher had muttered bitterly to the group of harpies, “the demons wear the skins of wolves? Our brothers and sisters: murdered, skinned, and paraded as trophies. They do it to boast of their bravery because they consider it heroic to take many men, dogs, and spears to hunt and kill a lonely wolf. Tell me, little demon,” the teacher said, hobbling closer to Runt to stare into his eyes, “what would you do if you saw a person wander past and, across their back, you saw the skin of your beloved wolf?”

There was a fenced off area nearby the cottage. Inside, a mob of sheep dozed and dreamed sheepish dreams. Runt crept forwards silently. He grimaced as the gate’s latch squeaked. He gritted his teeth when the hinges groaned but then it was done. Waking up a sheep was harder than he thought. He pinched, and poked, and pulled their ears until finally, and grumpily, some of them stumbled up.

Runt waved his arms and Stripes, still waiting and watching from the long grass, bounded over. Moments later the pup was herding the sheep directly past the window of the cottage. There was a crash from inside, and swearing, and the clatter of boots being hastily thrown on feet. The younger of the men burst out the door.

“Wolf! Wolf!” he cried out over his shoulder. The youth grabbed an axe from beside the door before running after the animals. Runt heard the older man fumbling inside before he, too, emerged from the cottage. The crossbow in his hand glinted under the light of the crescent moon. He ran out after the youth and then stopped to take aim.

Runt stood, frozen with panic. He hadn’t expected the crossbow. He hadn’t expected the man to stop only yards from the cottage door. The farmers were both meant to chase after Stripes or run into town and fetch a wolfhound. Runt’s limbs felt heavy with dread. His eyes darted back to the scrub and the promise of safety in the Wilds beyond.

A voice inside his head began whispering words of doubt. Tyron’s voice, tiny, but somehow deep and booming, bubbled up from down below. Fearful and frozen, Runt stood as his master’s words washed over him.

“Pathetic! Useless! Weak!” The voice screamed silently.

Runt trembled and took a half-stumbling step towards the scrub. From the corner of his eye he saw Stripes dashing to-and-fro, yapping and bounding and wagging his tail. Did the dog not understand they were in mortal danger? If he knew, he didn’t show it.

Runt turned back to the cottage. Through the window, on the other side of the room, a wolf skin hung from the wall.

“What would you do?” the great teacher had asked, “if your friend was killed, skinned, and used for decoration?”

“I would take it back,” Runt had replied, “if someone did that to Stripes, I would take the skin back.”

Despite the terror Runt forced his rubbery legs into action. Quiet as a mouse, he darted into the cottage. He scurried across to the far wall and pulled at the skin hanging above the fireplace. It was stuck. He yanked again to no avail. It was nailed in place. Runt dragged a stool over.

“Who’s there?” a voice from the opposite end of the cottage whispered. Runt nearly screamed. He saw a kettle nearby and quickly dashed it over the fire. The coals immediately blackened. A smog of smoke and steam filled the room.

“Who is it? Who’s there?” the person repeated. The voice had the trembling quality of an old woman. Runt clambered up the stool and yanked at the wolf skin again. Still it resisted. He climbed up on top of the fireplace and ran his hand over the skin until he felt the spike that nailed it to the wall. He heard the rattle of a matchbox. Runt grabbed the spike with both hands and leant back with all his might. The spike gave way and he tumbled to the floor.

“William! William, there’s someone in here! Help!” the voice screamed, and Runt heard the striking of a match. For a split second, an old woman’s terrified face was illuminated as she moved to light a lantern next to her mattress in the back corner of the room. The match was blown out by a gust of wind as Runt raced out the door.

Stripes ran in circles around the young man and the sheep. The old farmer trained the crossbow on them but couldn’t get a clear shot at the dog. Runt ran away from the cottage, but then stumbled and fell. He looked up from the ground towards the safety of the scrub. The distance to the nearest tree seemed to stretch into miles from where he lay.

“William! William!” the old woman screamed, as she appeared at the door clutching the glowing lantern, “there’s a thief, and he’s getting away!”

The crossbow swung around as Runt flattened himself against the ground. The grass was well chewed by sheep here. He was exposed.

“Who’s out there?” the old man growled as he stomped towards Runt. There was an enormous bellow and crashing of foliage from the scrub. Runt could feel shock waves of force vibrating through the ground. A mammoth burst out of the tree line and charged towards them.

The old farmer panicked, and his shot went wide. He dropped the crossbow and ran back towards the cottage. Runt leaped to his feet and sprinted towards the safety of the scrub and whistled for Stripes to do the same. The mammoth, meanwhile, ran in a long arc around the cottage and disappeared in the scrub further down. Runt plunged into the tree line and his heart burst with joy as Stripes joined him.

“Stripes, you were brilliant!” he whispered, gripping his pup’s shoulders, and prepared to jump on. He paused in shock. Holding the wolfskin up against the flank of his dog, Runt noted the similarity in the pattern of stripes. Had things turned out differently, his pup’s fur would be nailed above that fireplace. He turned and crept back to the edge of the scrub.

As Runt approached the farmlands his inner voice of warning, fear, and doubt began heckling him again. Across the clearing he saw the old farmer holding the lantern now. The grey-haired man gingerly crept back to retrieve his fallen crossbow and cursed to see it broken. Clearly it was not built to withstand the weight of a full-grown mammoth. He stood there, holding the broken crossbow lamely, and peered out into the scrub.

Runt cupped his hands around his mouth and tried to call out but the words choked in his throat. His hands fell limply to his sides as Tyron’s deranged laughter echoed in his ears.

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“The teacher would know what to say.” Runt thought desperately. “I’ll pretend to be someone like that. Someone brave.”

Runt, in the night shadows, raised his hands to his mouth again and his voice carried, clear as crystal, across the farmlands.

“You leave the wolves alone, old demon!” Runt yelled, “Or we’ll be back! We’re watching you! And we know what you’ve done! Leave the wolves alone and maybe we let you farm in peace!”

Runt climbed onto the shoulders of his pup and raced off into the Deeps with his heart pounding so fiercely he worried it might burst. The farmer, meanwhile, simply stood there, gripping the busted crossbow, and staring out into the dark. Then, turning, he flung it aside and walked back to his cottage.

Stripes barely hesitated at the edge of the lake, this time, and they plunged in. The night grew long. Runt’s eyes felt heavier with every blink. As they approached the shore he realised something was different. The fey-tree was close to silent, the harpies were still, but they were not asleep. A voice echoed across the waters.

“…threw the water right across the fire, he did. Whoooosh! The room disappeared into dark and smoke.”

Runt looked up. Patch was there, standing atop a branch, waving their hands and hopping around as the scene was re-enacted. The rest of the harpies hung from the canopy in rapt silence.

“…and he had it! He had the wolf skin! But he wasn’t safe yet. The big wrinkly demon had the stick-shooter and he pointed it at Runt!”

All the harpies gasped. Stripes made it to shore and immediately collapsed onto some soft grass. The pup was snoring before his head even touched the ground. Runt watched him jealously, wishing for sleep. But first, there was a job to do.

“…came crashing through the scrub. A mammoth! It scared the demons and Runt was saved. What luck! And then, oh, this is the best part, and then he said –“

“It wasn’t luck. You made it run out, didn’t you? Like you did with Stripes. You hypnotised it, somehow, and made the mammoth risk its life. For a piece of skin.” Runt said, while throwing the bundle of wolf fur down at the base of the tree. “And you followed me without telling. Guess you wouldn’t trust a demon, though. Figures.”

The tiny grey form of the great teacher appeared out of the shadows from behind one of the enormous tree roots. It slowly crawled atop the root until it was at eye level with Runt. Meanwhile, the harpies, all of them, descended quietly. Most hung from the lowest branches. Others glided to the ground. Runt was surrounded.

“You can hypnotise animals, can’t you? You force them to do what you want. And then you tell me off for making an animal my slave.”

Runt slumped to the ground with his legs crossed and head down.

“The demon has seen our magic, harpies,” the teacher began, in a croaky, whispered voice, turning to the crowd, “he knows the truth. But his truth is a lie. Do not be too harsh. It’s not his fault. Demons are born innocent, like all creatures, but brought up surrounded by lies. They are wrapped up in lies from their earliest days, swaddled in deceptions, and gently laid down in a bed made of falsehoods. The lies are repeated over and over until they become the only truth they know. I have watched this from afar…” and at this, the teacher sighed and turned back towards Runt.

“We do not enslave our friends, demon, we do not control them. We love them. It is you demons that control animals, using fear to coerce, and violence to convince. Harpies only encourage animals. The creatures do some of the things we ask because they love us. The mammoth would not charge out if it was afraid. It wanted to help. And those stick-shooters don’t scare a mammoth. Not even a drop-bear scares a mammoth.” The teacher finished with a small chuckle.

“Was the pack of wolves afraid when you asked them to attack our dogs? Or did they kill my friend, Fang, out of love?” Runt asked bitterly.

The teacher’s eyes opened wider, and it drew back a little.

“Harpies,” it said, harshly, “listen and learn. Here is a lesson on the heart of a demon. They love like a fire that burns everything else away. How many wolves have you demons killed? Do you know? How many skins like this one are pinned to your walls, or slung across your backs? Harpies know the number. Harpies know each and every creature in the forest. Brothers and sisters, they are to us. We know the smell, the sound, the look of them. We mourn the death of every single child, and more of them are killed every day.”

“But see, harpies, see into the heart of the demon. They love with a fierce passion, but anything they do not love, they kill without thought. How many wolves, demon? Do you know the number? Hundreds have died. But you come here, to our last place of safety, and call us murderers, for the death of one dog. A demon’s love burns hot until that love is lost and then, harpies, then a demon will seek revenge. And they will kill every creature in sight to quench those fires of vengeance. Everywhere the demon goes, it will bring death, until it has forgotten the pain of loss.”

Tears flooded down Runt’s cheeks. The teacher sighed and continued, more softly.

“The truth is, the demons are trying to destroy us, and the forest, and all the creatures within it. We harpies do not have the skills for war, but war is forced upon us. We are desperate. I fear that you have met us in our final days. Already, so many of us are gone.”

The teacher slowly eased down the log and approached the wolf skin. He unrolled it to reveal the stripy fur.

“Harpies, do any among you recognise our fallen friend? Look closely. Touch it. Smell it. We should bring its memory to life again. And then I will take it to rest forever at the remembering place.”

One by one the harpies walked past the wolf skin. Some stroked the fur, others sniffed it, others simply looked on with unshed tears. One of the harpies stopped, sank down, and clutched the skin in its tiny hands.

“I remember this wolf.” The harpy said, breaking the silence. “I remember their birth. I remember the day they wriggled out of the pouch. I remember these stripes. They were a good friend. I miss them. But they live on in my memory.”

Others crowded around the mourning harpy, stroking its fur, and whispering words of comfort. Patch, meanwhile, stood up atop the tree root.

“Harpies! You didn’t let me finish my story, and I was up to the best part! The mammoth helped Runt to escape. He rescued the wolf skin and made it to scrub. Did Runt hide? Did he run away? No! He was not afraid. He turned back to the demon! He turned to face the demon with the stick-shooter and he said this,” the young harpy stood up straight, puffed out its chest, and did its best to make its voice sound deeper, “You leave the wolves alone, old demon, or we’ll be back! We’ll be back for you! Leave the wolves alone!”

Runt felt the pressure of hundreds of eyes now glued to him in shock and admiration.

“Teacher?” It was the mourning harpy, still sitting by the wolf skin. “My friend is gone, but their spirit remains. I asked the spirit of my friend ‘do they want their skin to be taken to the remembering place?’ and the wolf said no.”

“The spirit told you no? We are not to return the skin?” the teacher replied, eyebrows raised.

“They said the boy should take the skin as his own. To become a hunter.”

Runt’s head swam with exhaustion. He was too tired to object. A group of harpies picked the skin up and draped it across Runt’s slumped shoulders. As they did so, something fell in his lap. It was the spike from the cottage that nailed the skin to the wall. Runt reached down and held it up in front of his tired eyes then let it drop again as he rolled over and fell asleep.

Patch crept over and picked up the spike gingerly. “Is that what I think it is?” Patch said, gasping.

“Drop-bear claw.” The teacher replied gruffly. Somewhere in the distance, birds began to sing in anticipation of dawn.