They had run a considerable distance when Caregiver halted and rose onto her rear legs to scan their back trail. Runt imitated her. Far off through the trees were the strange new creatures, and it was plain the creatures were after them. They were being hunted, just as they so often hunted other animals.
Caregiver grunted, dropped onto all fours, and headed up an adjacent slope. She traveled swiftly, silently, grimly. Her neck bled profusely from the horrible wound inflicted by the black bear, but she paid it no heed.
Mean and Nice were also silent and somber. Runt did not blame them. He sensed that they were in the greatest danger they had ever been in. Even greater than the danger from the males of their own kind.
On a bench midway up the mountain Caregiver again stopped, and wheeled. An angry snarl escaped her. The creatures were still back there, climbing swiftly. There were as many as Runt had claws on all four paws. He could see them more clearly, and what he saw bewildered him no end.
The creatures moved on four long lower legs but had two others midway down their bodies. A pair of smaller limbs were higher up, near the smaller of their two heads. Flowing black hair grew from the tops of both heads and at their hind ends. Their hides were a confusing mix of colors and textures. They were one color high up, another lower down. Most perplexing of all were the feathers that grew from the hair on the smaller of their heads. It had been Runt’s experience that only winged creatures had feathers. But these new creatures did not have wings.
Caregiver had an urgency to her movements Runt had seldom witnessed. He noticed she appeared to be tiring. Usually she had more stamina than all of them combined, and he wondered if the loss of blood was to blame. He had seen creatures weaken quickly after being severely wounded.
Fear spiked Runt, as it had that day at the river when his mother fought the large male. Fear he might lose her. She was the single greatest thing in his existence, and he cared for her as he did no other. He watched her closely, his worry mounting as she ran at a slower and slower pace.
Finally they came to the crest of a high ridge. Here Caregiver stopped and looked down. The strange creatures were still back there, still climbing determinedly toward them. One glanced up and whooped. Others responded in kind, with much gesturing and waving of odd sticks they carried.
A knot of fury formed in Runt’s chest. He wanted the strange creatures to leave them be. Rearing upright, he roared his defiance. Most animals would scurry for cover at the sound, but the creatures below yipped louder than ever and came on faster.
Runt sank back down. He looked at Caregiver and saw she was looking at him in a way she had never had. To his surprise, she came over and licked him as she had so often done when he was a cub. He licked her in return, and she placed her forehead against his and voiced a low whine such as he had never heard her make.
The moment passed, and Caregiver stepped back. Growling, she swatted at the three of them to goad them on. Mean and Nice hurried higher. Runt started to, then realized Caregiver wasn’t following. Turning, he waited for her. He wasn’t expecting her to do what she did—to abruptly roar and slam into him, nearly bowling him over. Her claws ripped at his flanks. In pain and shock he scrambled up and sped on up the mountain, and he didn’t look back until he came to a clearing high above.
Caregiver was still where he had left her, staring up after them, her neck bright scarlet in the sunlight.
The creatures were almost to the top of the ridge. They were moving more slowly, more cautiously, but they continued to yip and howl.
Runt’s fear for Caregiver eclipsed all else. He started to go back down, but something stopped him. Something internal he could not define. A sense, an intuition, a feeling he must not do so. Caregiver had driven him off for a reason, and he must do as she wanted.
Then a remarkable thing happened. The strange creatures halted and split in half. The upper parts broke off from the lower parts and continued on under their own power.
Runt grunted in surprise. It dawned on him that there were actually two creatures. The smaller had been riding the larger, much as baby opossums rode their mothers. The smaller had two legs, the larger had four. And now the two legs, the ones who had feathers on their heads, were converging on his mother and making more noise than a pack of wolves, while the four-legs stayed where they were.
From that moment on, Runt always thought of them as Feather Heads. He marveled at their stupidity. As creatures went, they were puny and frail, clearly no match for Caregiver. She was many times their size and could slay any one of them with a swipe of her huge paws. He saw her face them and heard her growl, and his fear drained from him like water down a hole. She would show them. She would tear them apart if they dared match their puny might against hers. Runt didn’t understand why his mother had been so fearful, or why she had driven him and his siblings off. The four of them could destroy these creatures without half trying.
The Feather Heads slunk toward her. They were not quite so noisy now, and one had advanced slightly ahead of the rest and was holding a long stick over his head.
Runt kept waiting for Caregiver to attack and send them running, but she did nothing. The strange creatures were almost to the top.
Finally, with a tremendous roar, Caregiver hurtled down the slope. It was then Runt discovered that there was more to these puny creatures than he had imagined. For as his mother charged, Feather Heads on either side of her rushed in close. Some threw long sticks they carried. Others somehow sent small feathered sticks flying from larger curved sticks. In a span of heartbeats Caregiver bristled with sticks like a porcupine with quills. They were embedded in her neck, in her chest, in her sides. Not only that, but the foremost Feather Head had stood his ground and hurled his long stick, which caught her full in the front between her tree-trunk legs, and sliced deep into her.
Caregiver halted and reared. She roared again, a roar of rage and pain, and as she stood there, her great maw agape, the Feather Heads darted in closer and unleashed another hail of sticks.
Runt was in shock. His mother’s coat was splattered with red. As he looked on, a Feather Head dashed up beside her and buried a gleaming object in her body. Before the Feather Head could skip out of reach, Caregiver swung a forepaw and caught him flush across his small head and neck. Her claws sheared through his flesh as if it were soft mud, and his head went bouncing down the slope.
A collective howl rose from the throats of the Feather Heads. They swarmed around Caregiver, stabbing and thrusting. In a fury Caregiver fell on them. Within moments three were down, one with his ribs stove in, another with a limb missing, a third with half his face gone. But still the Feather Heads fought. Still they sent feathered stick after feathered stick into her giant frame. Sticks so small, it did not seem as if they could inflict much harm. Yet Caregiver was matted thick with blood, and her movements were becoming slower and slower. Her monumental reservoir of vitality was running dry.
Runt had witnessed enough. He raced down the slope to help her, whether she wanted his help or not. He had the presence of mind to use the timber and brush for cover, and he was almost there when the unthinkable occurred.
Caregiver threw back her great head and bawled like a newborn cub. Feathered shafts were jutting from her ears, from her nose, her jaw. One jutted from an eye socket. Long sticks protruded from her chest and sides. She took a few ponderous steps, then, with a loud groan, she collapsed.
The Feather Heads went wild. They howled and shrieked and pranced around her body in wild abandon.
Runt slowed to a deliberate stalk. These creatures had hurt his mother, had hurt her badly. A savage bloodlust seized him, an urge to rip them to pieces. He was about to barrel from cover when he noticed that several Feather Heads were scanning the slope for sign of him and his brother and sister. They would spot him if he broke from cover, and would warn their companions. Better, then, he wait for the right moment.
After a bit all the Feather Heads gathered around Caregiver. They were chattering like chipmunks, and several had drawn shiny objects from their hides. The same one who had thrown the long stick into the front of her chest now grabbed her under the throat and raised the shiny object as if to plunge it into her.
Runt could no longer contain himself. Venting a roar that shook the very ground, he hurtled toward them. They heard him, of course, and whirled to confront him, but by then he was in among them, his claws flashing. He upended four or five before the rest galvanized to life. A sharp pang lanced his side. Another his flank. Ignoring them, he gutted a Feather Head and left it convulsing in his wake.
They were brave, these creatures. For as Runt would bring one low, others leaped to take his place. Runt was cut, slashed, stabbed. Their long sticks sank deep into his flesh, their feathered shafts sliced through hide and muscle with deceptive ease. Ten or eleven littered the ground, yet still the Feather Heads fought with a ferocity belying their stature. Runt split one from chest to crotch, felt a sharp pang in his left side, and wheeled to find the Feather Head who had thrown the long stick into Caregiver’s chest about to strike him again with a shiny object. Surging upright, Runt flung his arms wide and wrapped them around the creature’s body.
The loudest howl yet was voiced by the Feather Heads as they rallied to the aid of the one in Runt’s grasp. Runt was oblivious to their blows. Applying his full strength, he heard the crack and crackle of bone and saw blood spurt from the Feather Head’s nostrils and mouth, and trickle from both ears.
But that was not enough to satisfy Runt. He bit down on the crown of the creature’s head. His iron teeth crunched through bone into a soft, pulpy matter that was tangy to the taste but which he did not get to savor. For just then another Feather Head executed a high leap and buried a short stick with a shiny knob at one end in his face.
Torment spiked through Runt, clear down to his hindquarters. A moist, sticky sensation spread across his eyes, and a red haze enveloped the world around him. Letting go of the two-leg he had hugged to death, he tottered backward, swiping at his eyes with his forepaws. The Feather Heads pressed him, hard. His belly was pierced multiple times. So was his back. Sudden weakness came over him and he fell onto all fours.
More blows rained onto Runt’s head and face. He was bleeding as profusely as his mother had been. In pure reflex he swung his powerful paws, but he missed more than he connected. It abruptly dawned on him that the Feather Heads were on the verge of doing to him as they had done to his mother.
They were killing him.
A new sound rose above the din. The sound of roars and snarls not his own, mingled with screams and screeches from the two-legs. The downpour of blows on Runt’s head and body ceased, and the next swipe of his paw across his face wiped away enough blood to reveal a sight he would never forget for as long as he lived.
Nice and Mean had come to his rescue. Bristling in unbridled ferocity, they were wreaking havoc right and left. Already, almost all the remaining Feather Heads were dead or dying, and the few who were left were fleeing in terror.
Mean went after them.
Nice finished worrying the throat of one she had slain, and came to Runt.
Only one Feather Head got away. He was the only one to reach the four-legged creatures his kind had ridden in on, and swinging up, he raced headlong down the mountain. Mean was too busy killing others to go after him. The rest of the Manes also fled, riderless, whinnying and snorting in fright.
Runt’s fury faded. He had one thing, and one thing only, on his mind now. Stepping over dead Feather Heads, he crossed to Caregiver. He nudged her, but it provoked no response. Her eyes were open but vacant, her body as limp as a wet leaf. Runt nudged her again, then licked her several times. He stopped when he tasted his mother’s blood in his mouth.
Nice whined like a small coyote and placed a paw on Caregiver, but there was nothing either of them could do.
Caregiver was dead.
Runt felt a new emotion, one so potent his chest felt heavy. A feeling of loss, of vast emptiness. A part of his life was gone, the part that meant the most, and which he could never reclaim.
Turning to the body of the Feather Head he had crushed, Runt examined it closely. The feathers were not part of its body, as were those of the Winged Ones, and had come loose. The hide below its neck was not its own hide but that of another animal, a Small Antler, judging by the smell, which the Feather Head had somehow attached to itself.
Runt had never encountered a creature that wore the hide of another, and he did not know what to make of it.
A sweet blood scent, like that of ripe berries, clung to the two-leg, perhaps the sweetest such scent Runt ever inhaled. Runt ran his tongue over a wound gushing scarlet and liked the taste greatly. Like the scent, the blood was sweeter than that of any other creature. He bit off a chunk of flesh and chewed. It, too, had that exceptionally sweet flavor.
Runt turned to his mother and was suddenly awash in agony such as he had never felt. Not in one part of his body but all over. Throbbing waves of pain washed through his skull as he twisted his neck from side to side to examine himself. Feathered sticks were embedded everywhere. Long sticks protruded from his sides and flanks. Not as many as were in his mother, but enough that he was losing a lot of blood and would lose a lot more before the flow stopped.
And that wasn’t all. A large flap of hide from Runt’s forehead kept falling across his left eye, partially obscuring his vision. Whatever that last Feather Head had struck him with had cleaved to the bone.
Runt had an urge to find a quiet, shaded spot and lie up for a spell. Formidable waves of torment were racking him, the worst spawned by a long stick stuck in his shoulder. Bending his head back as far as he could, he clamped his jaws onto it and pulled. The stick moved but did not come out all the way. He yanked again, more forcefully, and the stick slid loose with a wet sucking sound. It was drenched with blood. Biting down, he snapped it in half and cast it aside.
Nice came over. Runt lifted his head to nuzzle her, but she moved to his flank, wrapped her teeth around the end of a feathered stick, and jerked. It snapped off, leaving the tip buried inside him.
Runt stood still as his sister went from stick to stick, doing what she could to remove them. The long ones came out easily enough, but many of the short feathered variety broke off. As for his many other wounds, the cuts and slashes and stabs, there was nothing either of them could do.
A grunt reminded Runt of his brother. Mean had come back up the mountain and was next to Caregiver. His brother nosed her several times. Then he looked at each of them, wheeled, and went off into the forest.
Nice gave Caregiver a few final affectionate licks. With a last glance at Runt, she, too, walked off, but in a different direction than Mean had gone.
Runt felt a ripping sensation deep inside that had nothing to do with his wounds. His family, his precious family, was no more. Their mother had been the bond that held them together, and with her gone, an instinct none of them could deny was compelling them to go their separate ways.
Runt looked at Caregiver a final time and whined softly. Then he headed up the mountain. He knew of a stream near a secluded clearing. By sunset he had reached it, and after slaking his thirst, he sank onto his stomach with his head on his forepaws and slept. He needed rest, lots and lots of rest, but his sleep was fitful. Pain constantly woke him up. Whenever he so much as twitched, his anguish doubled.
By morning Runt was in awful shape. He felt hot all over. Not sweaty hot, as he would from the sun, but a heat that came from within his own body. Many of his wounds were festering and starting to ooze pus. He licked as many as he could reach. Then, rising, he shuffled to the stream and waded into a pool. The water rose as high as his chest. He dipped lower, immersing himself to his chin, and relished the brief relief it brought.
In the pool’s surface Runt saw his reflection. He had seen it many times before, but never with a flap of hide as big as his paw hanging from his brow. Never with blood matted so thick he could not see the hair. His left cheek had been split open, and that side of his face was swollen to twice its normal size.
Runt stayed in the pool most of the day. Now and again his stomach rumbled, but he didn’t go in search of food. He was too weak, and thinking of food made him queasy. He was also plagued by spells where his mind spun like a whirlpool in river rapids. He could not take more than a few steps without it happening—added reason for him not to go anywhere.
The second night was no better than the first. Runt’s whole body was aflame. His head hurt so much that merely opening and closing his eyes took all his force of will. For long intervals he lay with his chin on the ground, crushed by misery that was more than physical.
Runt thought frequently of Caregiver. Of how she had cared for him. Of how she fought off the male of their kind to save them, and how she had tried to drive off the Feather Heads and sacrificed herself for their sakes. She had been the best of mothers, and he missed her with a yearning that only grew as time went by.
Runt also thought of Nice and Mean. Each would seek a territory of their own now. Perhaps near, perhaps far. He might run into them again one day, but things would never be the same. They were his sister and brother, but the blood they shared would mean nothing. His kind were loners by nature. Except when mating, they generally stayed to themselves. And woe to another who invaded their domain.
Runt needed to find a territory, too, but it could wait until he was well enough to travel. As it was, he couldn’t go more than a short distance without collapsing. His strength, his wellspring of energy, was at its lowest ebb.
Now and then Runt would also think of the Feather Heads, and when he did, his lips would involuntarily curl back from his teeth and he would growl deep in his chest. A new feeling took root. A feeling of intense and total hatred. Only one had escaped, but there might be more, and from that day on, whenever he encountered them, he would do to them as they had done to his mother and nearly done to him.
There was much about the Feather Heads Runt could not comprehend. They were so different from every other creature. So much about them was strange and alien. The feathers they wore in their hair. The hides they covered themselves with. They did not have claws or talons or hooves, like most creatures, but instead had flesh-and-bone sticks at the ends of their limbs. Then there were the wooden sticks they used to hurt and slay, and the shiny objects that were as sharp as Runt’s teeth. Most perplexing of all was their use of Manes to get around, rather than use of their own legs. And why was their blood and flesh so uncommonly, deliciously sweet?
The Feather Heads reminded Runt somewhat of Gluttons in that while both were small in stature, they were not afraid to confront Runt’s own kind. A rare trait. Also like wolverines, the Feather Heads were extremely vicious. They hadn’t simply killed Caregiver; they had slaughtered her. And they were rendered doubly dangerous by the fact that they traveled in large packs, like wolves.
Runt’s world had been irrevocably changed. It was much more perilous than he ever thought. His size, his power, were not enough to ensure his survival. He must never allow the Feather Heads to catch him unawares, as they had his family. It would entail perpetual vigilance, but the alternative was to end up like Caregiver.
Morning came. Runt slowly rose and shambled to the pool. He felt worse than ever, and sinking into the cool embrace of the water did little to soothe his wounds and ease the agony. Nevertheless, he lay there until midday, at which point his empty belly insisted he go in search of food.
Runt let his nose guide him. It took him to a decayed log, which he ripped apart for grubs. From there he meandered to a marmot burrow. His nose told him the marmot was inside. Forelimbs flying, he dug down to the lowest chamber and cornered it. The marmot hissed and snarled and tried to dart past him, but a swipe of his right forelimb squashed it flat and in several greedy gulps he swallowed it down.
Runt was still famished. His nose led him along a game trail to a thicket. As he plowed into one side, a doe and a fawn shot out the other. The doe was much too fleet of hoof, but the speckled fawn was another matter. He crushed the spindly little thing before it had taken four bounds.
Runt ate slowly, savoring its soft, delectable flesh and the salty tang of its blood. He cleaned the meat from every bone and then cracked open the leg bones to get at the marrow. By the time he was done, he almost felt like his old self.
The feeling did not last long. The pain and festering sores continued to plague him for an entire cycle of the moon. Eventually, though, the pus ebbed and his wounds healed. Even the large gash on his head. From then on, for the rest of his life he would be reminded of them on wet days and cold mornings by sharp aches and stiffness.
As soon as Runt was able, he made a beeline for his mother’s den and claimed it as his own. The warm days waxed and waned, and in due course the aspen leaves began to change color, a prelude to cold weather. Runt gorged in preparation for hibernation, and shortly after the first snow fell, he was curled up snug and warm, protected from the harsh elements by the only home he had ever known.
Came the spring, and Runt, like the wilderness itself, found new life and new purpose. He roved his kingdom, marking its boundaries in the traditional manner of his kind. A growth spurt increased his bulk substantially, and throughout the summer he continued to pack on muscle and sinew until by the next changing of the leaves he was as big as the male his mother fought that day long past, and still growing.
Of Mean and Nice there was no sign.
One morning, early, Runt rose from a temporary bed in a stand of firs and walked to a nearby spring to drink. He hadn’t seen his reflection since the battle with the Feather Heads, so he was considerably startled by the image that stared back at him. The flap of hide had not healed properly. Part of his face was grotesquely twisted, and where there should be hair, it was bald and scarred. His split cheek had not resealed, making it appear he had three cheeks instead of two, and his one eye was slightly higher than the other.
After slaking his thirst, Runt traveled over a ridge into a valley he had never visited before. He stopped short at the sight of tendrils of smoke curling skyward from peculiar conical structures beside a river far below. Scores of creatures were moving about among them, but his sight was such that he could not identify them. He needed to get closer.
Halfway down the mountain Runt bisected a frequently used trail and his nostrils were assailed by a scent he had not smelled since the day Caregiver died. Cold fury filled his veins, and he instantly veered into heavy timber and followed it down until he was close to the conical structures and those who used them as dens; the Feather Heads.
Runt had found their lair. The strange creatures were everywhere: males, females, and young ones, doing all sorts of odd things. Some males were rolling small pieces of bones. Some females were scraping at an elk hide with shiny objects. Young ones scampered and frolicked, as was the wont of the young of all kinds.
Undetected, Runt watched them, his fury growing and growing until it pervaded every fiber of his being. Until he could no longer contain it. There had to be a hundred of them, but it was of no consequence.
Throwing back his head, Point roared his hatred and attacked.