Hunger and the Bear

Everything north of the great river belonged to the beast. A fact held throughout the forest and even spread beyond the trees. Because none matched him in might, only cunning could be brought against the beast. So, when the snow sank back into the earth and the beast emerged from his den, stomping out onto the fertile soil, the hunter decided to make his move and reclaim the land. So the forest whispered war.

The beast was first found wading through the river, surveying what swam through it. Excited. Hungry. Amazingly, the hunter, even with his foreign stench, remained undetected by staying downwind. The hunter knew the lands as well as the beast and felt more experienced in the realm of murder and death. The hunter was wrong.

I’ve seen it myself—how the beast and others like it bumble around killing grounds as if it were a flowery field, tamed and sanctified by past battles and blood. The hunter held the most intimidating weapons, and yet confidence was more common in the beast. Perhaps the hunter did not understand the beast’s power; perhaps the beast reveled in it too much, and that would be his downfall.

For now, the hunter would simply study the beast, hoping to draw him further away from his usual dwelling. The hunter knew that to venture north of the river was suicide. The beast was to cut through thickets, over hills and past ponds, exploring new turf with each heavy step. The beast was to die far away from home, out of his element, completely alone. And he would do just that. Because for the beast, stagnation was no different than a cage. The beast would rise a king or fall to bones. Feed on the forest or lie down and let the forest feed on him.

The moment the beast wandered south of the river, the hunt was on.

…

Deep in the belly of the boscage, the beast settles in. A calm breeze through steady breathing trees, plants reaching up toward the sun like starving children, and the greatest mother to oversee it all, providing a corner for every creature. But it is the brightness of the leaves and the smallness of the sticks and the hiding of the animals that put the beast at ease. Even in unfamiliar territory, the beast considers his surroundings conquered. There is no place where he should not be welcome if not feared.

But there is a balance here. The hunter knows this and justifies his killing that way. The hunter has a strong, instinctual sense of harmony and fights to preserve it at all costs. The hunter knows what is best for the forest.

In truth, many hunters would prefer the beast simply leave their territory. They follow some sort of strict code. Most hunters will only attack when provoked. So far, this beast did little more than admire the hunter’s land, but this hunter was driven by something more complex than harmony… something foreboding. For even when a beast relinquishes control of land, disturbance forever remains in his wake. The hunter did not crave the beast; he only wished to eat—to survive without a scuffle. The beast was not the object of the hunter’s repast but a threat to it. The hunter could not move safely about his own grounds while the beast and his aura lurked.

So the hunter and the beast would kill each other on contact: the beast for his inherently pernicious nature, and the hunter for nobler reasons—at least understandable.

A first encounter was inevitable. Two slayers, one grave.

Dense foliage, overturned logs, and stone walls formed an arena where the beast sat in meditation. Sun broke through the treetops, shimmering in pieces over the hunter as he approached without a hint of fear (as one with such deadly tools in hand often does). But the beast, the ignorant, primitive fool, took no heed of the hunter’s threat even upon seeing it so close.

The beast was waiting.

The hunter had walked into a trap.

Stepping forward brazenly, the beast smiled, revealing a menacing weapon of his own. The hunter stood his ground, proud and unwavering. No beast could defeat an obviously superior creature, or so the hunter thought. Then, in a flash, the hunter was grazed over the left eye. He had never witnessed something so fast. Everything he knew about battling beasts was quickly called into question. There was nothing to do but retreat.

The hunter was humiliated in his own forest. The beast did not give chase, but his roars followed the hunter all the way back to the river.

…

The south was now owned by the beast. This filled the hunter with rage. Indeed, the hunter was brave to draw up a new plan but madder still. And that is why the hunter, the surprising underdog, is beloved and rooted for: because he fights and dies for that which is rightfully his. Most choose to bleed for something assumed to be greater, beyond the dirt, but the hunter willingly enters the woodland and makes a home of it, defending it for the simple fact that a wild life is the one thing he is entitled to; that, and a wild death. So while the others spit on the forest in an attempt to capture the stars, the hunter humbly accepts a place on this sacred ground, respecting it like no other.

Soon, the beast reappeared. He was tracking the wounded hunter, letting him run while envigored and planning to kill him later, while weak. But he was hunted for days, and although still stunned, he was far from feeble and refused to really flee.

The beast was bold but hulking and ham-fisted. The hunter was too clever to let himself be stalked by such a cloddish ogre. He had great disdain for the beast and his ungraceful methods.

During their next clash, the hunter was nearly put down for good. They scrapped for all of thirty seconds before the hunter made another escape. This time, the hunter would feel no shame, for he understood the value of living to fight another day.

The beast roared again, laughing, waiting to follow in favor of a bloody trail. The brutish bully was proud of his cruelty and did not mind a prolonged victory. After all, the hunter was outclassed in every way. The beast could take his time and savor each moment.

The hunter was now hit in the right arm and right leg. He wobbled as he tore through the treeline, out into an open field. He lay in the tall grass, whimpering. But even without medical attention, the hunter refused to give up. He absorbed the damage through pure will alone and integrated the pain into his psyche.

And that is when the hunter realized that for the first time, he was north of the great river. A new line had been drawn, and as long as the beast lived, the hunter would always be on the wrong side of it.

…

Only the strong will survive—a concept crude enough for any creature to understand. It was up to the hunter to accept the challenge. Some may think that he should just roll over, but that would go against nature (and not only his own). Of course, the hunter did stand back up, because though it may be a catalyst, no tale is truly about a beast. It is the raw grit of the hunter that begs a raconteur. It is the fervor of a true warrior that draws an ear.

Now the hunter had one great advantage: allies. Due to his overwhelming ferocity, the beast could have no friends among the forest; he would always be a sorry sight. But the hunter still had the majority of the earth where he could take refuge and let himself be healed.

The beast grew restless waiting for the hunter to return. The blood trails had dried up weeks ago. For a time, the beast wondered whether the hunter had died and been washed away by the river. This prospect was stirring and, more than anything, left him unsatisfied. So in the hunter’s absence, the beast eviscerated and devoured all life he could get his grimy hands on.

Balance was no longer maintained without the hunter. Weaker life was snuffed out, and the beast only grew more ravenous. For unlike the hunter, the beast cared not for a fair fight. The hunter ate to satisfy his hunger; the beast lived for it and felt nothing without it, therefore convincing himself to never feel full.

It was up to the brave hunter to return and restore, to push back against an impetuous foe, to lay down the real law of the land. The beast was an unholy product of an overpowered body and corrupted mind. The wicked beast was of no benefit to the earth, and the forest would swallow his remains without a second thought. After nearly two months, it was time for the hunter to come home. This third meeting would see the matter settled. This time, the beast would hold nothing back. This time, the hunter would not run.

…

All the woods are home to savages and survivors. Rabbits and squirrels darting through piles of fallen leaves and broken branches, wolves and snakes weaving in and out of hedges and weeds. All the world is home to predators and prey. One can seriously consider which is the preferable role. Perhaps there is meaning in maintaining life and no honor in taking it to propagate your own. But in the end, the rabbit and the wolf are like the hunter and the beast: one of them is ugly and the other one will feast.

Being, after all, another animal, the hunter took his time to find his footing and reacclimate to the forest. He had never been challenged like this before. His first lesson after two defeats was humility. He had been the most powerful creature all his young life, but now he had to think harder than ever about his place on this hostile planet.

The hunter was one for brute force and quick, decisive victories. The usual strategy of stealth had failed. He was on the back foot. Scared to find the beast, let alone have the beast find him. It was a fear he had never known. But one thing inspired courage in the hunter: his presence had proven difficult to eliminate. For all his folly, if nothing else, he was tough, sturdy, stubborn.

For a brief time, the hunter believed that he could not be killed.

It is simply not the right of the beast to rule the earth, and so the hunter had to live.

And so the hunter had to fight and more importantly strategize. It seemed that the beast was always prepared, which meant that the hunter would have to change the predator’s paradigm. He would have to let himself be hunted. The chase was a distraction, a pursuit that had narrowed the hunter’s vision. As long as the two foes were focused on each other, the beast would maintain the upper hand. This led to the hunter’s greatest epiphany: boredom would surely soon befall the beast. The hunter had one advantage left: his hatred for the vile beast had not wavered. But the beast, that sadistic animal, required constant combat with nature to avoid conflict with himself. With the beast’s undoing clear, the hunter learned his second lesson: patience; for of that, the beast most certainly had none.

…

Nature did its part. Dirt mounds brimmed with insects, lizards combed the trees, birds flew overhead, and fish swam all the same. All life did its part in fascinating the beast—keeping him occupied. The wilderness and its inhabitants were no stranger to the precarity of existence. And we know how the mother tolerates it all: she bears the full weight of everything, silently and stoically putting up with life, death, and destruction, keeping a detailed list of debts, until finally swinging her mighty axe, chopping away chaos and letting order fall in its stead.

Everything was in place. Surprisingly, the beast had stayed in the area just south of the river. To say the beast was content would be false, but he reigned over one location longer than any other before. He specifically patrolled one large, flat clearing day after day. This is where the hunter rediscovered the beast.

The hunter never got close. This section of the woods was no good for an ambush. The beast would spot him coming from many yards away. The hunter was methodical with his tracking. Being such a crude animal, the beast had a distinct pattern; he visited the same spots and drank from the same creek. The hunter only did not know where the beast slept or what or when he ate. No matter; the beast was mostly predictable.

Unfortunately, ever since the hunter’s return, he stuck out like a limping deer. Bushes shook, stones tumbled, dirt kicked, and wings flapped in a hurry everywhere the hunter went. The forest would always give him away; that was the mother’s gift to the other animals. But leave it to the hunter, the wise hero, to never mistake a blessing for a curse.

So he could never get close, but he could let the beast get close to him.

The hunter could set a trap of his own.

…

The canopy sheltered dens and nests from lashing showers. Everything was quiet under the pounding precipitation. Rich mud was the only smell save for sopping fur that could only be sensed while in close proximity. Open fields were no longer points of interest. Curtains of heavy rain made the perfect cover for a devious plan. But the beast was nowhere to be found…

Now thunder. Now bolts of flashing electricity in the sky. Under the dark clouds, the hunter’s new plan would shine.

The beast was skulking somewhere, hyperaware. His senses overloaded. In keeping a careful eye and ear on everything, he would be more vulnerable to one single, consolidated attack.

Seeing nothing, the hunter would have to hone in on the beast’s inanition. The hunter caused a stir, hoping to drum up curiosity.

Screams and roars echoed amid the pummeled air. The commotion, seeming to originate from the north, let out traceable fragments in the form of continual cries and crashes. The beast wandered through the harsh weather, relentlessly seeking to satiate his curiosity. And he never flinched once but perked up at every new clue. Ramming his way past mossy hills and fallen rocks, the beast came to the great river and trailed it up to the source of the noise. A moaning doe lay bleeding out on the ground, its stomach cleanly punctured. The poor thing could not have picked a better place to die: a scenic overhang with warped trees and long glowing vines surrounding a large freshwater pool filled by the culminating river. The animals would come here for drinking and singing and resting peacefully and fading away painfully yet happily.

As the beast drew near, he realized that this great river might be more of a stream or a canal and not really a river at all. But it made no difference, for the beast had no real conception of such things. Water was water, and this water belonged to him. For a deer to die there meant a baneful hand not his own—a discovery with unacceptable and invigorating implications. The hair on the back of his neck rose like the splashing water and the spirit of the doe. Wildfire lit up his eyes. Sharp hands, thoughts of—

The loudest roar yet bellowed from the depth of the hunter’s lungs, ready to skirmish and murder and die and there were knives hidden in his hands too.

When the beast turned, he yielded to the hunter’s imposing force, slipping on a patch of sludge and falling into the water, submerging fully under.

The hunter stood at the bank, taunting.

But the beast swashed his way back to shore. His power was greatly dampened, his resolve not so. It was almost an even fight.

The hunter was prideful, rash, and rage-filled, taking the beast head-on in close quarters. They wrestled—the hunter bravely, the beast wilder than ever before. But one lost his footing again. Balance never came easily to the beast.

Now bogged down by the engulfing mud, the beast had to regain his muscle and rely solely on that. There was no speed left in his limbs after just this short battle, and so he retreated back into the water where the hunter was weary to follow. He dove straight down, eluding the hunter and his attacks.

Then the hunter completely let loose all circumspection. There was only a barbarous zeal, the likes of which even the beast could not understand.

The hunter hit the water.

Panic claimed the oh-so ruthless beast, stuck out in the middle of the pond. So he dove under again, and the frenzied hunter waited for him above.

The struggle put both at risk of drowning, but soon the hunter stabbed the beast in the meat between the neck and shoulder before digging in and using all his miraculous force to drag the beast back to land. There were generations of carnage fueling the hunter’s brawn.

The abominable beast would not be allowed to sink and have his defeat covered and washed away, but instead have all the forest see him suffer. And so the beast flailed on the silt, hemorrhaging, practically begging to be spared. But the hunter stood over his enemy, roaring like never before, letting globs of drool drip onto the face of the beast.

And it is here I will tell you that I have not one ounce of pity for the sordid, disgusting beast. A terrible, unnecessary soul in an all too forgiving world. I share blood with the beast. We all do, though I more than any. But close as you may come, there is no reasoning with him. The beast will only deface and destroy with reckless abandon. That is why I hate the beast. Mother may love him, but nature and God and the universe will always scorn the beast. Life is threatened by him, and so his kind have no right to life. The beast must be struck down, again and again, until none can rise to reclaim the title. The beast must be eradicated, cleansed from the earth.

Well that came the time for one such beast…

The righteous hunter prepared to drive his daggers down into the heart of the struggling invader.

Surprisingly, the beast had breath yet.

“I ain’t gon’ die,” said the beast.

There was a wet click…

…then a sigh.

The hunter raised his thick furry arm, unsheathed his razor-sharp claws once more, and knocked the shotgun from the beast’s hands before ripping him apart.