Coyotes: Denis

Chapter 5: Peccaries

  

   I was awake long before Dawn. I knew that if I didn't try to get more sleep, I would tire out much earlier than I wanted to during our hunt. But, I had butterflies in my stomach that refused to let me rest.

   It had been a little over a month since my last, and quite frankly disastrous, hunt. What little muscle I had, had gone a bit flabby. Benoit had advised me to keep up stretches to the best of my ability, so I wasn't lacking too much in flexibility.

   If I was being honest, those are all superficial reasons that I chose to focus on to avoid to real source of my anxiety.

   I do not wish to go through another near-death experience anytime soon. It was lonely, the loneliest I had ever felt in my life, and I was helpless to experience it. The thought of it had robbed me of sleep for many nights, and contributed to many nightmares. But, I have to carry on with my life.

   And on top of that, I was incredibly nervous to go on a hunt with Benoit. He was so sure, so capable, and I couldn't help but feel like I would never live up to his expectations. He hadn't even set expectations, just a homework assignment to learn about how a map and a compass worked.

   Easy enough. So why did I feel so sick?

   In the darkest hours of the morning, with nothing but snores all around, I held the bracelet up to my nose and breathed deeply. I felt myself relax when I did, and I had to take some advantage of it while the scent was still strong.

   ... How the hell was I supposed to spend a whole day with this guy, when I can barely contain myself this close to a mere remnant of him?

   I knew better than most that a lot of hunting was sitting around on a high point not doing much. Silent surveying of the area until movement caught your eye. Then suddenly, depending on what your prize was, it was either a slow stalk or a mad dash. No matter what, it was a sharp rush of adrenaline to go after your prey.

   He has no problem with the silence, it's me who can't shut up.

   For the millionth time that morning, I unpacked, checked, and repacked my travel bag. It gave my hands something to do.

   After a lifetime of pacing, picking up objects I've looked at a thousand times, repacking, and going over chapters of the Field Guide, I caught a whiff of that bergamot smell on the breeze while I was sitting out front.

   I tried not to keep my nose in the air for too long for fear of looking rude, and just tried to act as though I wasn't fazed to see Benoit at my front porch.

   He had some items with him that I hadn't seen before. On his leather belt was the satchel I had seen him keep first-aid supplies in, with the addition of a strange two-forked rod, a canvas bag, and a canteen.

   I felt underprepared with just my own canteen, and the supplies he had given me the day before. He didn't seem to judge me on that, thankfully.

   With a simple tilt of his head in the direction of the wilds, I went padding behind him. This route, I was used to.

   Just before we reached the boundaries of the village, he turned and raised an eyebrow to me expectantly.

   I choked up, eyes darting nervously as if I would find the answer he was looking for.

   He let out a little huff before saying, "You brought your compass, right?"

   I furrowed my brows at him. What a pretentious way to ask me a question. Nonetheless, I scrambled to grab the device from my pack, and held it out to him.