Spirit of the Lonely Places

VI: The Hunt (Part I)

For the first time in over hundreds of years, Achak settled his claws into the dampened dirt of the Ikwa and felt the earth beneath his feet. In the stillness of the forest, his labored breathing was an anomaly. His jaw gaped, tongue lolled out to one side. His hunt had tired him.

From his mouth surged rivers of blood, twisting between his teeth, dribbling down his furred chin until they could go no further. Chunks of flesh lay sandwiched between his incisors and premolars. Bits of deerskin clothing and human hair were matted into his fur, held there by the sticky black stain of human vitals. The sweet taste of muscle and fat still lingered in his mouth, taunting him; he knew he should've saved some of the kills for later, but in his frenzied stupor, he'd simply devoured every human that his teeth could find.

He couldn't count how many he'd torn apart. Ten? Twenty? Whatever the number, it hadn't been enough; his nerves still pulsed with adrenaline from the kills, and most noticeably, his stomach ached. Badly. He was famished, after all.

Subconsciously, his claws twisted into the dirt and his face wrinkled at the snout. He hadn't missed this hunger. "If only they'd fattened themselves up, the damned skinny whelps," he snarled to no one in particular. "Maybe then I wouldn't be so hungry. All the years I've waited—only to feel this when I finally find a host foolish enough to befriend me!"

In response, the Ikwa coughed a jet of bubbles at him from the bottom of the river. They floated aimlessly towards the sky, popping when they broke the surface of the waves. Achak was, for but a moment, intrigued, and he lowered his head to the water; the blood was near-instantly swept from his jaws as his flesh met the Ikwa. The waves lapped at his chin and inched towards his eye sockets, but Achak did not care to reposition his muzzle. He'd long forgotten the sensation of water, how soft and cool it felt against his face. He could feel the strength of the current as it tugged at his fur, pulling it downstream; he could plunge his whole head underwater and be enveloped by the Ikwa's embrace, with only his antlers protruding from the surface. He could exhale and watch his breath become bubbles or rings that danced in the water. How he loved this river!

When he emerged from the water, he found the forest had gone silent. The crows no longer spoke. The trees no longer whispered with the breeze, nor did the Ikwa babble. Perhaps he'd delighted too long in the life of the river, draining it of its essence as he once had many centuries ago. After all, in a world full of purity, Achak was a smear—a parasite, corrupting all that he touched. The lands, the people, the rivers. He'd corrupted the forest once, and the mountains, and the Witikoans. He'd corrupted that girl—that Akseli. She'd wandered right into his grasp, starry-eyed and naive. Not once had she suspected his ulterior motives.

"Akseli," he mused, and the forest seemed to shudder. Thinking of the girl reminded him of the village from where she'd come, and thinking of the village brought her back to the memory of his hunt.

————

He'd been greeted by an earth stained black when he entered the Witikoans' village. Thick, sticky cruor coated the fields and the dirt; it squelched underneath the paws of wandering foxes and matted the feathers of vultures if they were careless enough to touch it. The origin of this, though, could not have been traced to any single victim. Mauled bodies were strewn about the wigwams like macabre decor, some with mouths agape, others with a look of serenity as if death had not been excruciating. Every tribalist as far as the eye could see was slaughtered, throats cut or hearts punctured by blades of all sizes.

The elderly were the first to go; they stood no chance. They were killed within the safety of their own homes. Then, the feeble youth. Some of the children still clasped their toys in their greyed fists. But the ones who had tried to run--they'd gotten the worst of it. Lacerated from head to toe by ragged steel, uneven wounds scored their flesh, ripping skin and muscle and exposing bone to the fresh air. Fingers lay paces away from the hands they'd once been attached to. Eyes had been gashed, heads had been beaten in. It had been a brutal massacre—the scent of which pricked at Achak's greedy snout.

The wolf-men had been negligent in their initial conquest. A few stragglers skirted around the crippled village—but those who had been left alive would not be for long. Achak recalled hearing their defiant screams and war-calls as they fought to their last, standing one final time for the life they had built there in the village. Achak, though, had not cared about the poor men or women or even children that were struck down beside him—he was searching for only one person. He knew she was alive; she had to be. The strength of her soul still called out to him, even more prominent in his mind than the reeking odor given off by the heaps of corpses dotting the land.

Against his better judgment, he took the bait. All he could think about was flesh—that sweet, enticing treat that lay scattered all around him! How he longed to feast once more, feel the blood on his tongue, between his teeth! His heart wrenched painfully in his chest, a pang of longing. Desolate.

He traced his way to the wigwam where Akseli had been hiding just in time to see the spear bury itself into her chest.