The drop-bear

With supreme effort he opened his eyes. Nothing around him had changed apart from the angle of the sun beams. Runt only realised later how long he had been dreaming for as the poison worked through his body. Hours had passed.

Outside, he heard the unmistakeable sound of claws ripping into the trunk as the drop-bear began to climb. Runt struggled to his feet and wobbled uncertainly. Leaning on his spear for support, he took a deep breath and yelled a warning to the harpies.

“Drop-bear”, he croaked. The effort felt like yelling under a mountain of rock, as if he was still deep underground with his tree-toes soaking in the earth. He sucked in another breath, deeper this time.

“Drop-bear!”

None of the harpies stirred. It would be at least another hour or two before most of them awoke. For the older harpies, it would be even longer. The oldest of them slept more than three-quarters of the day, only waking to feed and grow their eggs.

Runt stumbled towards the light of the nearest exit and poked his head out. The bright light and fresh air made him gasp, and the fumes of the poison in his head began to clear. He looked down and stared, face to face, with the fierce and fearsome drop-bear.

Runt froze. The drop-bear, several yards below, hissed at him but then continued its work. Its razor-sharp claws hacked at the trunk and bit at the bark with its pointed front teeth. Runt stared, seemingly incapable of movement, as it began ripping chunks of bark away. He realised, with a jolt, what it was after.

“Hey!” Runt yelled, and started wriggling out of the hollow, “you leave those baby harpies alone!”

He squeezed through the hollow and collapsed in an ungainly pile on the nearest branch. The drop-bear looked up again and hissed more viciously. Its mouth opened wide. Runt gulped at the sight of its teeth. Four long, curved fangs protruded from the very front of its mouth, two top, two bottom, as well as flat, blade like teeth along the sides. It looked like it could take a person’s arm off in one bite. The drop-bear turned back to the trunk and, jamming those curved fangs back into the worm hole, ripped off a huge chunk of bark. Its head plunged into the gap and there was the sickly sound of death.

The drop-bear, gripping the tree with its terrible claws, began scaling the trunk up to the next glow worm hole. Runt yelled and waved his arms without effect. The creature clearly did not see him as a threat. Fear and anger made Runt’s vision turn red. Gripping his spear, he jumped down to the next branch and landed in a crouch.

The drop-bear hissed and growled. It was close enough now for Runt to feel its breath stir his hair, and the rank smell of death from its lungs made him gag. His spear swished through the air. The drop-bear crouched back and roared. Its muscles coiled like a spring and it leaped up the trunk in several great bounds. Runt stabbed at it and stopped it from reaching the branch he stood on. Instead, it clung to the side of the trunk right next to him. It lifted a paw to swipe at him. Runt saw, in slow motion, the claws extend and slash towards his face. He leaned back and felt the puff of wind of a near-miss. The drop-bear rocked a little from the effort but regained its balance. It slashed again but, this time, Runt was ready.

He ducked under the slashing claws and stabbed forwards with his spear, aiming for its other front paw that clung to the bark. The hook of his spear wedged in and under the paw and, yanking, it came away from the trunk. The drop-bear flailed its front legs for a moment before leaning back and tumbling towards the ground.

Runt leaped from branch to branch and chased it down. He landed in the soft grass at the foot of the tree and looked up. The drop-bear was there, looming over him, with vicious red eyes glaring murderously.

Runt swung his spear again but this time, on level ground, the drop-bear easily swatted it aside. It growled, crouched, and prepared to pounce. A flash of grey and black stripes blurred past and tumbled into it. Runt’s dog barrelled into the drop-bear with fangs bared. The two beasts tumbled for a few seconds before separating. Runt and Stripes stood, now, side by side, Runt brandishing his spear, Stripes growling and showing his fangs. The drop-bear hissed again but slowly began retreating. With another swish of the spear, it turned and lumbered off.

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It splashed into the lake and Runt saw how ungainly it was at swimming. Unlike Stripes, who slipped through the water, the drop-bear splashed, hacked, and wrestled at the water. It looked exhausted as it reached the other side. It turned to cast one last evil glare at the two of them before crashing back into the scrub.

Runt threw down his spear and sat, trembling, against one the of the tree roots. Stripes, meanwhile, huffed at the retreating drop-bear then wandered off to chase frogs.

“See? See! I told you he was a gorgon!” a voice called out from above, “He saved the glow grubs from the drop-bear!” Looking up, Runt saw many faces poking out of hollows that dotted the enormous trunk. Patch stood up there, pointing, and looked down at Runt in wonder.

The teacher returned not long after, as the shadows lengthened towards dusk, to find the harpies being entertained by Patch’s storytelling. The young harpy must have woken at the sounds of struggle and managed to rouse a few of the other young ones. Now, as more harpies began to wake, Patch retold the story to each freshly woken group. The story, Runt noticed, became more dramatic with each retelling.

“…and then Runt, the Wolf-ghost, whacked it three times with his spear. Whack! Whack! Whack!” the small harpy acted this out, holding a small stick, “and then he grabbed it by the whiskers, and growled in its face. The drop-bear turned and ran after that. He won’t be back anytime soon. And the glow grubs were saved!”

“So as you can tell, fellow harpies, I was correct in my original judgement. Runt, the Wolf-ghost, is clearly a gorgon after all.”

“For the last time, little one,” the teacher yelled across the lake, “the Wolf-ghost is not a gorgon!”

The teacher sat atop a mammoth which immediately plunged into the water and made its way across. The massive bulk of the creature caused waves to wash up and over the shore. When it was nearly across, the teacher leaped and landed on the grass. The mammoth, still paddling, turned back to the other shore and disappeared into the scrub.

Patch scampered over and the two harpies, younger and older, conversed for several minutes. The drop-bear story was clearly being related, once more, as Patch again waved his stick to-and-fro to highlight the deeds. The teacher’s eyes widened in wonder as the story continued.

“Harpies,” the teacher announced, “we owe this demon another show of thanks. But do not mistake him for a gorgon. It is true that, long ago, the gorgons stayed by the mother trees. They made nests, they ate fruit, and they spread seeds to make new mother trees. Most importantly, they scared away the drop-bears to protect our harpy grubs. Those days are gone,” the teacher said solemnly, “and, I fear, those days will never return.”

“The gorgon minds have been poisoned by the demon’s lies and enslaved by the demon’s evil drink. The gorgons no longer scare the drop-bears. They no longer eat the fruit. The mother trees are barren and empty. All the grubs are gone, eaten by drop-bears without mercy. And if we were to lay more eggs in the roots of those mother trees, out in the Deep Wilds? They would, all of them, be eaten without mercy.”

“It is true that we hoped some gorgons, even one, might break free and return to us, return to the mother tree, eat the fruits, and scare away the drop-bears. I do not hope for that anymore.” The teacher said bitterly. “The gorgons are nothing more than a hairy demon, now. They cut stone for demon walls. They cut wood for demon houses. They drink the demon’s booze. They do as the demons tell them. And the demons have told them this: the harpies must be eliminated.”

“The demons plotted our extermination and convinced the gorgons to be the executioner. For years, the demons asked gorgons to cut down trees for their houses. Now, they have them cutting down the trees that are our lifeblood. The gorgons, every night, seek out the mother trees and destroy them. They carry them back to their dark caves. And not just any mother trees. They take the very ones we rely on. The trees that taste the sunset. Once the last of the sunset trees are cut, there will be no more stardust, and the harpies will slowly starve. The trees will be gone. The harpies will go with them.”

The teacher paused, and then puffed out its chest, before saying “But that day is not yet come. Dusk approaches and, drop-bear or not, the skies do not wait. The old ones still need to eat. Prepare yourselves to fly the loop.”

“But why are they doing it?” Runt asked, hotly, “Don’t they need the fruits to eat? It doesn’t make sense! I know they’re vicious, but we need to try. We need to ask them why they’re taking the trees and we need to make them stop!”

The teacher looked over to Runt sadly and sighed.

“Wolf-ghost, you cannot ask the gorgons why, for they themselves do not know. You cannot ask them to stop, for they only listen to their master. If you want to find the truth, you need to ask the demons who control them. The ones who live in the circle of stone in the heart of this land.”

The teacher pointed a wrinkled hand off towards the city.

“The demons do not listen to us, Wolf-ghost. They decided, long ago, that harpies did not exist. We are a shadow to them, a legend, a story to scare children. Only you, a demon, can talk to the demons. Only you can ask why they seek our extinction.”