previously: Martin and the party of villagers were preparing camp for a night in the Wilds.
and now: we flashback to Fitcher, one of the villagers, as the attack on his brother is about to happen.
Fitcher (The Attack)
Fitcher sat in the low branches of a large oak tree that grew on the edge of a clearing. The day before, he had left a handful of seeds, too old for planting, in the grass in hopes of attracting some turkeys or maybe a quail.
He had climbed up to his perch before dawn, before night began its retreat to the horizon. Now, with the sun rising at his back, his presence would be obscured to approaching game by the bright rays of light filtering through the leaves.
An arrow was already noched as he held his bow and he waited, eyes half closed so he could focus his other senses. He heard tiny paws, too light and quick to be turkeys, scurry through the debris on the forest floor. Somewhere in the distance a woodpecker drummed away at rotting wood. The buzz of insects was always on the edges of his hearing. And if Fitcher concentrated, squinting his eyes tight, he could even smell the changes in the forest. Moonflowers closed their petals as the sun pushed back morning's chill, and their lingering vanilla aroma gave way to the earthy scents of the forest floor.
He did not have long to wait before hearing the thurrrm chehk … thurrrm … thurrrm chehk of turkeys in the distance. He blinked eyes opened, and with quick encouraging clucks, chuhk … chuhk, he called the flock to him.
When they emerged through the underbrush, Fitcher leaned forward to get a better view of the clearing. He held in his breath, pulling back his bowstring. A big tom entered his line of sight, and he let loose his arrow. It buzzed through the air like an angry wasp before thunking heavily into its target.
The tom let out a startled squawk, flopped to the ground, and thrashed wildly about in the grass. The rest of the flock took flight in a flurry of flapping wings and frightened yelps that smothered all other sounds in the forest. The turkeys were out of sight in a matter of heart beats, but Fitcher heard the whomp-whomp-whomping of wings pushing large clumsy bodies through air for many moments longer.
His prey still flailed about, so using a rope, he began to lower his bow and quiver of arrows to the ground. But that's when another sound caught his attention. A loud snort came from the underbrush surrounding the clearing. He paused, glanced in its direction, and saw a large shadow, about the size of a yearling cow.
A bear? Fitcher worried.
The creature was surprisingly quiet as it stepped into the clearing. Then it lumbered over to the fallen turkey, huffed, and ended the bird's thrashings with a large paw before it began tearing through flesh and feathers.
Fitcher froze with his bow and quiver dangling just inches above the ground. As the bear ate, his fingers grew numb where the rope cut into them, but he dared not move. Dared not make a sound. His breaths were shallow, measured puffs of air. The only sound that might give him away were the increasingly heavy beats of his heart pumping adrenaline to his tense muscles.
That's the biggest bear I've seen in the Wilds, Fitcher thought.
On its hind feet, the beast could easily reach him on his perch. Bears didn't typically attack people, he knew. But there was something about this beast that scared Fitcher. The longer it lingered in the clearing, the stronger its stink grew. Its odor wasn't as Fitcher imagined it should be. Not musky like he'd expect from such a large beast. Rather, it reminded him more of the trash on the outskirts of the village, where they put things that could not be used to fertilize their gardens or feed their livestock. The beast had an unnatural odor to it. A sickly smell that stung his nostrils and polluted his lungs.
Suddenly, the bear rose up on its hind legs. Blood dripped from its chin and feathers stuck to its muzzle. A low growl began somewhere deep inside the bear and grew into a pained yowl. A noise he had never heard any animal make before, especially not a bear.
Did it pick up my scent? Fitcher worried.
But then the bear turned its head to one side of the clearing. It dropped back to all fours, and leaving its meal behind, the bear ran off, crashing through the underbrush like a tidal wave of flesh and muscle. While its approach had been stealthy, Fitcher had no trouble discerning which way it went.
Toward the village, he thought in horror.
He quickly unwound the rope from his fingers and let his bow and quiver drop to the ground. Then he lowered himself to the forest floor. He wasn't quite sure why he did it, but he grabbed his bow and quiver as he began to chase after the bear.
It left behind fresh scrapes in the ground from its heavy paws. Branches from shrubs and small trees were broken and bent out of its path. The trail was an easy one to follow. He could even hear the creature's loud huffs and snorts ahead of him. But it was not so easy keeping up with the bear.
Then Fitcher heard a loud roar.
That was followed by several shouts of surprise.
A throaty growl.
More shouts.
A piercing scream of pain.
Another, louder roar.
Angry shouts.
Cracking branches.
Followed by a flow of curses.
Fitcher did not slacken his pace as the sounds came to him. If anything, every note of pain, every shouted syllable of anger quickened his pace a step.
As the sound grew nearer, he heard people rapidly talking. He heard groans of agony that had an eerily familiar ring to them.
When Fitcher broke through the forest, he saw several people gathered around a prone figure. Others were trying to hold the person down as he squirmed and writhed, bleed and cursed.
"Carpin!" Fitcher yelled, as he ran over to his fallen brother.
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Nice chapter. My favorite bit was Fitcher up in the tree trying to stay quiet and then realizing the bear was headed for the village. Good tension building.