Rootworld Hunter’s Guild
John hooked the strap of his paintball mask to his belt then pulled on his leather bracers in preparation for his hunting final. They were loosely fitted.
He had learned to go a size-up on leather items after hunting the Firewise desert on assignment two years back. Of course, he had read about amateurs being strangled by shrunken leather in the history books of the Hunter’s Guild by then, but hadn’t planned on experiencing enough water to worry about that. In fact, his major worry when he’d fallen victim, was the lack of water. Dying of thirst, for example.
With that memory in mind, he pulled a canteen off his dormitory shelf and shouldered it, then pushed a raccoon-skin hat down firmly on his head over his makeshift sweatband. In a pinch, he could ring the water from it. He wasn’t going to find himself being hoisted home on the shoulder of his mentor again after his clothes had been cut from his limbs by the sharpened bone of some unfortunate animal or another.
“Not this time,” John said, poking at the leather cap and the souvenir bone-handled knife, which hung by the closet on a string. It made a ticking noise as it swung against the wooden trim.
He pulled opened the doors then slid apart the array of uniforms. The outfits were all different colors and textures. One was actually made from leaves that he’d painstakingly strung himself, another entirely of feathers. From behind these, he withdrew his five-foot yew bow. Ran a finger on the string to test its wax, then laid it on the bed. Fixed a quiver of standard wooden arrows in place beside it, then after consideration, added some iron ones, plus some poison tips (corked for safety), four petroleum fire arrows, and an incendiary for good measure. He opened a trunk, rummaged inside, removed a rolled bundle, then closed the trunk and put his foot atop it loosening the laces on his boots. From the bundle he produced four throwing spikes and two hunting knives. The spikes, he slid into his left boot and he pulled the laces taught again. Up went his other foot and he did likewise, first checking that the handles of each knife contained the mandatory, flint, cheese wire, magnet, doggie treat, fishing hook, wax-coated paper, and piece of pencil. He laced up that boot, then folded the dark cloth, the only thing remaining of the empty bundle, into a triangle and tied it around his neck, tucking the excess into the back of his camouflage shirt.
He went to his desk, stopping to admire himself in the mirror beneath the array of taxidermies on his walls. All hunters had taxidermies. Though, a good drawing of a newly identified species was acceptable for a passing grade, real proof was required if you wanted to earn membership in the guild. He thought he looked pretty good. His face could use some paint, but he would do that last. He paused before opening the bottom drawer of his desk to lift a framed photo from the desktop.
Back on the Globe, he had been the captain of his paintball team. He often wondered what had happened to Kristen. She was one year his junior and was likely Globe-side becoming acclimated to a world of magic and science. Maybe she were even married. He thought about Gunner and the other guys. Wondered what they might be doing today. Then he put the photo down, and removed a crossbow and bolts from the drawer. He strung one, put on the safety, and threw it over his back on a thong. He reached over the desk, and took the wooden club from the mount, securing it likewise, over his shoulder. From his top drawer he took a petrified larynx, good for calling any type of game, and tied it to his belt. Four bags of rations went into the pockets of his BDUs. His climbing spikes went into a satchel with some rope. A multi-tool, shaped like a hammer, managed to fit underarm. Then he threw his fur cloak over the whole mess and turned to the mirror, trying to tell if Alpha would notice the unusual bulge. He pointed to his reflection and gave a click and a wink, then took a pinhole camera, which might save himself the trouble of drawing, and hid that down the front of his shirt. He’d recently become adept with the spring trap, and seeing as he’d gone through the trouble of polishing it, secured it, chain and all, to his belt as well.
Then, he threw the bow and the quiver of arrows over the fur, cinching them down. He pulled the stone axe off his shelf and pushed the handle into his tent roll before hoisting it onto his shoulders, then as an afterthought slid a blow gun down his left trouser leg. He thought of his old friend Beaver. Yes, today was the day. It was time to differentiate the men from the boys.
As John applied his face paint he thought of the four years under Alpha’s tutelage. He had taught John everything besides what a heavy burden a guild membership comes with.
“That,” Alpha had said, “you will have to learn for yourself.”
He faced away from the mirror, took one step reaching for the door handle, and clattered to the floor.
"Lesson learned," he thought.
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Crossing the Barrier
Four years earlier, John had crossed the Memorial Skybridge, equipped with little more than his diploma in Minor Magics, a scholarship for the Rootworld Academy of the Arts, and a visa signed by the mayor. He had tried smuggling his paintball gun and equipment, but that stuff never made it past customs. He remembered thinking the officer was going to let him through after the first of two men with swords, who looked considerably suspect, walked right through the stone archway.
“No projectile weapons,” said the Officer.
“Couldn’t he throw his sword?” John had asked as the other guy disappeared into the bright ripple of the portal.
The guard had grunted, then torn off a chit and handed it to John. “Fill out your information and it will be returned to your home address.” He’d hiked an elbow toward a large drum, “Else, the bin.”
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John stepped out of line and started filling out the form on the table beside the officer, stopping only to watch the flash as two more people stepped through the portal. “How does it work?”
The guard waved another woman through and then had briefly turned his head toward John, “Don’t you know anything?”
“Well,” John said, putting the pen back in the little cup and holding the slip toward the guy.
The officer pointed to a roll of yellow tape and a collection of large plastic bags with drawstrings.
John started to bag up his items and noticed the guard waving another over to relieve him at the entry for a moment. “What about my face mask?”
The officer made a short exchange with his relief then took the paintball mask in his hands, rotating it, then examining the small snorkel. “Hmmp. No moving parts?”
“It’s adjustable if that’s what you mean,” John said, wondering what that had to do with anything.
“I guess you can see if the rubber survives.” Then the guard said, “Hey Lance, they have rubber in Rootworld?”
“Dunno,” said his relief, “never been.”
“How they make rubber anyway?” said the Officer.
“Plant, I think. Should be okay.”
John had wrinkled his nose at that. Maybe he hadn’t known anything.
“You can try the mask. Now, put the slip in the bag with your stuff. Write your name on the tape and stick it to the front. I will take care of the rest.”
John had done as he was told, then watched another person pop through the lighted pool in the rock archway.
“Nothing to worry about. Didn’t your parents tell you anything?”
“You mean besides happy hunting? I know the history. I just don’t understand if it is still the sun out there.”
“Sun, white hole, what’s the difference? We’re still going around it and all. The Globe has just stopped spinning because the ocean’s all in one place.”
“I know that! I got top marks in Geography and Science.”
Pop!
Another person vanished through the ripple.
The officer had tapped his relief. The guy began walking away. “You’re up kid.”
John had stepped back to the front of the line and remembered telling himself not to close his eyes. “Yeah, but…”
“Quantum entanglement,” said the Officer nudging him forward. “Should have paid attention in Physics class.”
“My counselor said I could enroll on the Rootworld side.”
The officer laughed just as John began feeling the heat at the threshold. He looked back.
“I think he meant Meta-physics,” said the big man, then slapping the next traveler and hiking a thumb toward John, “Guilders! Always neglecting the tangible! Happy Hunting!”
POP!
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Rootworld Hunter’s Guild
“The belt’s most valuable aspect as a tool,” scolded Alpha, “is firstly, to hold your pants up.”
The crimson color was just reaching John’s ears as Alpha’s eyes fell on the knot he’d tied in his belt after the buckle had broken back in the dorm. He had hurriedly liberated himself of some of the unnecessary equipment and made it to the crossroads just before the last student straggled in.
The last student had been Maurice. He was only a second year, but because his father was the guild supervisor, he was getting to run the trial early. John felt only a little self-pity when Alpha’s sarcasm chastised him instead.
“Hazeus,” John thought, “Maurice is wearing an orange vest for gods’ sake. Who could possibly get close to a respectable bit of game like that?”
But today, Alpha had no large interest in correcting mistakes, only in giving out final orders. He liked calling them ‘last rights’.
“Discoveries are to be presented no later than next Solar-full. Complete with documentation.”
Maurice leaned over and nudged Benjamin, who was a fourth year like John. “When’s the next Solar-full?”
“Can’t really tell,” said Ben, adjusting his binoculars, which were strapped to his head semi-permanently. He wasn’t adjusting the focus, just pushing the glasses further up on his nose.
Alpha began handing out the collapsible cylinders for the students’ specimens. After Ben respectfully received his in turn, he continued, “That could be Mercury or Venus occluding the last bit of the white hole this morning, or it may be Mars. If it is, I would give us less than a day before nightfall. Then it matters how large the object is that passes by—"
“Never mind,” said Maurice, extending his tube and looking into it. “Howm’I gonna fit a dragon in here?”
“—the antikythera device could tell us precisely how much time we have, but I think they won’t let one of those through customs for another hundred years!” Ben finished. This time he was adjusting his focus to judge Maurice’s reaction.
Maurice was too close to the lenses for it to help. “I said, never mind!” He put a hand over the end of Ben’s glasses and turned to John.
“Well,” said Ben, seeing only darkness, “I withdraw my previous conclusion… We’re buggered.”
Maurice yanked the binoculars back and forth, letting Ben know that the end had not yet come.
“You don’t need the whole beast, Maurice. Just a sample,” John said.
“I’m not daft, John! Just sayin’ I’m not coming back here with less than a taxidermy. I plan on joining the guild. Why would anyone settle for a sketch?”
Ben’s magnified lashes flicked at the ends of the binoculars like some cartoon character’s. “Well,” said Ben recovering, “some of them took this as an elective.”
John considered this. He wondered how the students who didn't specialize were going to make a living. Guess, there’s all the night shift jobs, like trash collecting and outhouse pumping. But, why would they need to learn math? Or language arts for that matter? Though, over here, Language Arts involved a bit more paint and Spelling had a tad bit more to do with conjuration. No, he felt much more confident in a trade. Besides, he’d heard that there were vampires to deal with at night, not to mention the Rogues.
That wide world waited to be explored in depth, just beyond the horizon of this final exam.