Dobharchu: The Bestiary Tales
By Allison Graham
Copyright 2011 Allison Graham
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The shore along the Strait of Juan de Fuca, Canada - 1791
Noah Crabtree held his knife up to the light, smirking as it glinted clean and silver in the sunlight. He was going to be so rich when he got home - so stupidly, unthinkably rich. He’d have to treat himself to something nice; maybe a nice, big steak dinner and a sharp suit, all his own. He shivered in excitement at the thought, eyeing the red-weeping skins on the floor of his boat. Seventeen otters! It was wonderful working on his own instead of with a crew; now he decided where and when to camp, which rivers to follow, when to pack up and head home…and best of all, there’d be no one to split the profit with when he was done!
“You’re going to make daddy so wealthy, little ones!” he cooed to the empty skins. They stared back at him, hollow, boneless eye sockets devoid of eyes. The sight filled him with glee. Three more would give him an even twenty, and he’d head back to the port with his cargo - to home, and to see what the going rate was for an otter skin.
On his way back to his camp, Noah caught, strangled, and skinned one more slippery, soft prize. Its dying wheeze once would have made him cringe, but now, it was the sound of coins in his pockets. Its struggles, desperate and determined, were no longer something to be ashamed of, but now an unwelcome obstacle. Wriggly little demons, gouging his hands and making his life hard. When the time finally came to draw the knife, it was almost a relief, rather than the miserable requirement he once found it.
Noah whistled a sprightly tune as he rowed back to his home away from home - a tent of thick, sturdy fabric, stuffed with scrap cloth to help him stay warm. His bedroll was nestled in the middle of it all, rather like a nest, and after a long day of rowing and hiking and getting bitten and scratched, a warm fire, some beans from a tin, a gulp of brandy, and sleep sounded amazing.
He was almost there, perhaps a five-minute trip away, when he saw it.
The setting sun cast lavender-gold shadows over the sleek, fuzzy form. Lounging on a rock, surveying the strait with big, round brown eyes, was the largest otter he’d ever seen. At least twice the size of all the others he’d killed, its dark nose quivered as it sniffed the air, and its tail trailed in the water. Most intriguing, though, was its fur - chalky white with a creamy brown cross-shaped marking on its back.
Noah was close to salivating at the thought of how much that fur would go for. Natural white fur with a humble brown cross? He could sell it to a church and retire. Slowly, he inched his boat towards its spot, moving for his gun at a snail’s pace. One clean shot through the head. He wouldn’t have the face, which would be unfortunate - head-and-tail leather bags were obscenely popular at the moment. Still, one otter would yield him twice the fur; surely he’d be able to sell it for double. No, more, given its odd coloring.
Just as he lifted his gun, though, its ears flattened against its head and it dived into the water, letting out a high-pitched whistling sound - nothing Noah had ever heard an otter make before. He swore dourly, dropping his weapon, but didn’t lose too much faith. Otters were territorial; small clans would defend their space with voracious abandon. Which meant his prize would come back…and maybe bring some precious silvery babies with it. If he could bring the little ones back alive..!! But no, one thing at a time. No sense getting greedy, not when life had fortuitously presented him with such a lovely gem already.
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In the morning, Noah helped himself to a hearty meal of journey bread and salted pork, washing it down with some of the water he’d boiled last night - a cold drink in the morning might not have been preferable to coffee, but he’d run out, and the frigid water did a reasonable job of shocking his senses awake. So, food in his belly and bullets in his rifle, he packed up his essentials and got back into his boat, smirking to no one in particular.
The otter had been five minutes downstream from his camp, which would mean a swift return to its territory…in fact, given how large it was, Noah’s camp actually may have been right on the edge of said region. He scanned the area with sharp, determined eyes, looking for tracks, fish bones, broken shells, or stool. Any would have been a good sign; more than one would make his day.
An idiot couldn’t have missed the signs. Not thirty feet from where the beast had been resting last evening, he saw shattered shells and massive paw prints. Noah’s face split into a huge, brilliant grin.
“A fond kiss, and then we sever,” he sang softly, reaching behind himself for otter chum. He hummed the rest of the tune, smirking to himself as he scattered fish heads across the shoreline. He reached behind him for more bait…
…and turned back to see the white otter, warily approaching the smelly lures.
“Bold thing, aren’t you?” he asked softly.
It looked up at him and made a rough noise, its tail stiffening.
This close, Noah could see just how large it really was - from nose to tail, it would be even longer than he was tall. The cross on its back was a mottled brown-red, flaring outward and fading pale at the edges. Now that he was so close, Noah was starting to think of strangling it, as he had the others…but then again, a beast of that size could rip his hand off if it were so inclined, and with very little effort. Better to simply put a bullet in it, and lose the face fur for the sake of safety, rather than put his back into it and lose a limb.
Just as he reached for his gun, though, it leaped for him.
That was new; otters never attacked unless cornered…and because it was a fresh behavior, Noah was completely unprepared for it, both mentally and physically. He cried out in fear as the otter bared its teeth in midair, screeching. Its mouth opened wide, revealing yellowed fangs and a tongue like a pale pink farrier’s rasp, all rough and ragged on the surface. His fear turned to pain when it clamped those impressive incisors down on his arm, shaking its head and pressing at his muscle with its forefeet. Tears streamed down the hunters face when a large chunk of his limb left him, sliding down the otter’s mouth and into its belly. It spat out the fabric of his jacket and shirt.
There was something disturbing on a deeply primal level about being eaten, and despite the tough air he put on, Noah was hardly immune to such a horrifying piece. He wailed, using his good hand to scrabble for his revolver - less clean and precise than a rifle, but all he could hope to fire with his left arm in a bloodied mess. He leaned back, away from a second bite, and frantically cocked the hammer before pulling the trigger.
The gun clicked uselessly.
Noah cursed; of course it wasn’t loaded! Keeping a loaded gun by his bottom would be asking to have his bits and pieces blown off, but in his terror, he hadn’t been thinking about that. The white otter came for him again, and this time, its jagged maw sank into his leg. It appeared momentarily stunned when its teeth met with resistance - his shin bone - but then focused its attention upon severing the soft meat of his calf. The pain spiked through Noah like a red-hot poker, and he choked back a second scream and forced himself to think through the searing agony.
No gun. No knife - and then, once more, he cursed at his own stupidity. His skinning knife!! It was ill-designed to deal with something still living and fighting, but it was better than the handful of nothing he currently wielded.
Noah threw his belongings aside, barely caring when his net missed the shore and was swept away. Finally, his fingers closed around the leathery grip of the blade, and he sat up with a roar of suffering to slash at his furry assailant.
A deep gash opened up across the otter’s face, and one of its eyes popped in a thick rush of pink, jelly-like goo. The sound it made as it reeled back was ha
lfway between a scream and the highest shriek of a flute. It twisted and leaped as it retreated, reminding Noah of the mongooses he’d seen fighting cobras in India. Finally, it disappeared into the brush, high noises following it.
Noah would have headed home, but his mind screamed at him to follow it. The otter was wounded - now was the time to kill it, before it retreated to a burrow or warren or whatever the hell it was otters lived in when they wanted to hide. It was half-blind and in pain, and would no doubt be confused and frightened. Prone to make a mistake. So, despite his own discomfort, Noah wrapped his now-ruined jacket around his arm, tying it tight to staunch the flow of blood. He found his brandy and poured it over the gaping marks on his legs, causing a fresh round of shouting, swearing, and tears. His shirt went around his leg,