Winter Prey

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

It roared in rage. The sound reverberated off the walls and dislodged stones and age-old dust from ledges. It had trod between the two meals - the old one stored for the next season and the new one hung down a different tunnel - until Its heavy weight eroded a path in the dirt between and around each body. At one point, It had even sought sleep again, but only drifted in and out of wakefulness.

The inability to decide was new, or at least, a dimly recalled emotion. Where did that come from? The voice, which seemed a little louder each time? The faint flicker of hope that seemed to swell?

No, none of that. It had buried any thoughts of hope eons ago. Buried them deeper after the last hunt. Someone had violated the lair. Someone had been so close they could have found It sleeping. Could not have killed It, but that was not the point. Now some sort of new protective measure must be made before the new sleep.

In a mind long inactive except when hunting prey to feed the hunger, even thought was new this time. Always before, It had followed instincts as much a part of this existence as the need to eat...a need an inherent part of the being It had become. A need inborn, in one way or another, to any species...or non-species.

Now something interfered, some nagging sense of an attempt to alter the established pattern of previous hunts.

Every four decades for three centuries, It had answered to nothing but the urge to seek revenge and satisfy the hunger, then return to unconsciousness until the next waking period. It buried each and every memory of the previous life, the one before It lost any hope of peace in nibowin, death. Death that would pass It through to the land where the ancestors waited. It accepted this existence. Granted, there was no choice, given what It had done. Even during the act, It knew the possible consequences.

One memory would not stay hidden, though. It crouched and contemplated the fresh meal, allowing the smell of the blood to infiltrate wide nostrils, as a childhood memory surfaced. A game all the tribal children played: Windigo. Cannibal. The children would play the windigokazo odaminowin game, foolish with fear as they enjoyed each moment. Still, in the back of all their minds was the knowledge that this was only a game, the legend only a tale passed down from mouth-to-mouth for eons.

This legend was true, though, as It found out as a young man. Found out within a year - one exact year - from that first bite of the forbidden And then every forty years afterwards.

The legend could not begin to put words to the reality of a cannibal existence. Nor could anything compare to the hunger during the last month of Its previous existence, which ended in the seasons of deeds It now had no control over. Except for who It chose to slake the hunger.

The smells of both old and new kills tempted beyond measure as It rose again to pace between, and around, the bodies. Trying to decide whether to eat now or again seek sleep until the proper season next month. Yet the voice would not leave It alone.

A choice loomed. Follow the nearly inaudible instructions and feed...or resist, wait until the more suitable giticmanidogizis, the time past experience had shown more suitable. The time when spirits were stronger than in manidogizisons.

Too soon. Now was too soon. Once It fed after dormancy, the urge for more would be ravenous. Uncontrollable until sated over and over. Until the quota had been met once again.

Yet...the smell of near-fresh blood enticed. What would happen if the hunt began early?

So tempting...fresh food, food It had not stored. Who had found the other tunnel off the lair? Brought this new body so close?

Feed. You must feed. The time is now. Someone comes.

Abruptly, It raised Its head and stared down the tunnel toward the entrance to the lair. The voice was right. Someone was coming. Far off, yet in Its territory. Close enough for the sense of the arrival to reach Its keen awareness.

So this was why the season had started early.

Decision made, It strode down the tunnel and grabbed the new kill. This one would fuel the powers more quickly than the moldering one. It dragged the body down the path worn in the dusty floor and moments later, into the storeroom. Then It stared back down the tunnel. It should seal off this portion of the lair. But the new body called. That could be done later.

With the first bite, the rage took over. There was no difference in this one than those chosen in other seasons and slowly killed by Its own hand. Nothing else mattered except the taste, the only fuel needed to feed the thirst of revenge and reignite the sluggish body responses. As anticipated, the responses grew faster - and greater - with this fresh kill than they had at the beginning of other seasons. Within moments, there were no other thoughts, just the delicious tastes of flesh, blood, satisfaction, and rising power.

One thought did struggle through: this would be a special season.

Even that sensation was swallowed quickly as It reached for a choice inner organ....