Corporeal Nightmares

The Hunt

Ebbing flows on either side of the brook betrayed a cold indifference for his quest. Against the subtle yet chilling wind, he lifted himself, the horn's blare now echoing against the rocky walls of the swampy quarry. The returning call echoed back better than expected. There were three of them, now drawn into collusion by their lust for prey.

"Won't be long now," he thought gleefully.

The rifle slung across his back tapped a steady beat on his shoulder blade as he leapt from mound to mound in the bog, trying his damnedest to find the drier ones or the ones which were not, in fact, very large and hungry snapping turtles. When he did find himself boot-heel against one of these beasts, he pushed hard and jumped as far as he could, as he had been taught. The snappers were ravenous but not eager enough to follow a potential meal more than a few flipper strokes away from their resting spots. This was especially the case if they had done well enough to acquire a well-secluded location among the tall duck-reeds.

Cold dew had begun to form against his brow as dusk settled in a fair autumnal breeze. The air deceived, however. A storm brewed in the distant hills. Within several hours, there would be enough cackling thunderheads to drive even his prey, the most dangerous of creatures, back to their accursed lair. Against the rising fog, there was a strange solace and yet a bit of sumptuous danger. As a drop of the liquid adventure trickled down his brow, he felt the electricity of nature seeping into his skin. He licked his lips and sprung to an outcropping of limestone.

The ticking of their claws could be heard now, albeit faintly. Only echoes. Echoes of lives he would soon taste in their blood, stewed, against the tightly drawn iron pot in his pack. A stew that would Faintly hint of basil, tarragon, and most importantly, the vengeance and that had boiled within his own blood for so long. He waited for another sound from the beasts but none came.

Halting, he waited for some sign of their intent. Perhaps they had caught his scent or perceived of his movement as they had done to others and plotted a coordinated attack against a now very open position.

After a few breathless moments, realization came that this was not an ambush but a fortunate situation. It was only a few more meters to the lookout point which had been favored by his now passed father. As he scurried against muck, he knew it was there he would plan his slaughter.

He pushed aside the last stand of heavy grasses with a his leathered glove that separated him from his quarry in the quarry. The reeds made a hissing which distinguished itself from the bluster of the coming storm flirting with the underlying brush.

Against the fading, pale azure of the passing day he saw them. They bobbed upon a deep pool, far from the banks. He had suspected a late mating season but, nay, they had found their rest for the evening. It was truly strange to see such creatures at some kind of peace. The carnage they had wrought upon the kingdoms had changed the world and now he would remedy that.

Drawing one short sword, he gripped it carefully between his teeth. A nick or two was fine but he had already lost the tip of his tongue in preparation for this hunt. He slinked into the still waters soundlessly, as he had learned from watching them. He swam to their position.

Swinging the blade wide he caught two unaware, beheading them. A wash of blood sprayed in a nearly crescent arc that reached the edge the shore. He had saved other means for the final kill. Grabbing the final creature with his bare hands, he struggled to choke its spindly throat just as he struggled to keep afloat. Its jaw clacked and snapped. The beast relented, finally, falling limp against the ripples of the disturbed pond.

The water he treaded felt thinner, almost lighter, as he held the now-stiffening corpses within the death grip of his right hand. These creatures which had killed his father would honk no more. They would no longer migrate to finer climes. He would become a scourge upon their family as they had upon his.

Goose. It seemed such a silly word. When father had not returned from the war, he expected tales of his glorious death, but nay. Mother had recounted, quite tearfully, the horrible state his body had returned from the far east in. Holes peppered his body, flesh viciously removed. "Fowl pocked" it was called. The winged plague that had swung itself directly over his realm, the sages called an "invasionary species".

He had doubted mother's words at first. After seeing groundskeepers chase the abominations from the palace gardens, the keepers had been careful to break their flock lest these "geese" swarm and kill them all. Devastation was wrought on the regal flowerbeds. What other specimen of creature would defecate so much over such a small period of time? They were the epitome of sloth and vulgarity.

Bringing the kettle to a boil, he dropped their meaty remains in. He would not consume their flesh without sanctifying the dish fully with all of the herbs and blessings of the elders he had brought in his pack. It would be the finest goose stew that had ever been prepared in the land, and it was. Taking the first sip of the deep red broth as the feast thickened over dying embers, he smiled.

His father would rest better now knowing that he had been avenged.