though not so tight as to make himself go numb. Shirtless, tortured, and furious, Noah limped into the brush, knife in hand. This wasn’t only about the fur now - this was equal parts money and revenge. He would claim his prize or die trying.
…
Noah couldn’t believe how far the white otter had run. An hour later, he was still tracking it through the scrub and trees, as reliant on its blood trail as he was its tracks and feces. A strong fishy odor told him he was drawing close to its den - which, it turned out, was located near a clear, babbling tributary rather than the strait where most other otters claimed their territory. Either it laid no claim to its own land - unlikely, given the lack of smaller, brown-furred creatures of its kind in the area - or it was mean and powerful enough to actually patrol the entirety of its space.
The horrible throbbing of his raw, exposed muscle told him the latter was entirely possible.
He finally stumbled his way through a thick nest of thorns and into a stony clearing. The tributary was not even ten feet to his left, teeming with tiny silver fish. A narrow-mouthed cave stood straight ahead of him, the entrance spattered with fresh blood. He did not need to drag his prey out from inside, though; it was already out, whining in its strange, musical way and dipping its reddened face in the river.
Upon smelling him, the otter spun around and puffed its fur out, making a noise that Noah knew to be a threat. He snarled and brandished his knife, prepared and even eager to plunge it into the hollow beneath the base of the accursed beast’s skull. It leaped and danced again, claws clattering against the flaking gray stone of its home.
“Stupid animal,” Noah hissed. He decided then and there that he would not sell it - he would take it to a tailor once it was properly cured and cut, and turn it into a coat. He’d wear it with pride, a trophy that would make him forget that he’d probably never be able to use his left arm properly again.
The otter froze and stared at him before backing up two steps. It whistled then, as a man might whistle for his dog.
Noah was perplexed by its sudden change in behavior. Had he frightened it? Had its pain suddenly become too much? The reason did not matter, so long as it was now subdued in his presence. He laughed cruelly and started towards it, knife raised high…
…and then, an answering call, harsh and low, came from his right. He spun to face the cave, and saw another white otter standing over its mouth, even bigger than the one that had wounded him. It was evident from the powerfully musky smell that this one was a male, and Noah realized in a flash of insight that this was the mate of his wounded quarry.
Its eyes burned with an almost human rage, and it let out a low, churring noise - a snarl. The female clicked, pawing weakly at her destroyed eye. The male did not look down at her, but took a small hop forward and screamed at Noah. Perhaps it was all in his head, but it seemed there was nothing even mildly animal about the sound - it was a man trapped in a beast’s body, his voice full of violence and rage and the unholy promise to act on both.
The male leaped, and the only other screams in the wild that evening came from Noah.
…
Two months later, a young, polite gentleman by the name of Johann Probst stumbled across Noah’s camp. He took up his book and charcoal and sketched it for a bit of fun - it was rather macabre, but peaceful; the remnants of man in a place where man was no longer the dominant species. The food that had remained had all been ripped open and eaten, the fabric of his tent and bedding torn and scattered, blown clear across the field and probably further. Footprints of all kinds, predators and scavengers, large animals and small ones, cut through the camp, indicating it was long abandoned. Johann was no hunter - he was an explorer, humble and curious, simply looking for a good story and some nice scenery to sketch, then sell back at home. But mostly a story.
And by the time he left, he had one.
Of course no one believed him when he told them that he was chased from the wilds by a wickedly bellicose otter, especially not one with fur like snow and an unassuming brown cross-shaped marking on its back.
But then, no one - not even Johann - had seen the scattered bones of Noah Crabtree at the mouth of a cave by a tiny, brackish river, where two huge snowy beasts raised their young.
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What is a dobharchu?
Also known as the dorraghow, some cultures believed there was only dobharchu - lord of all otters, and king of the rivers in which he lived (though he had a mate colored the same as him, and just as proud and angry). Other cultures had them written as rare, massive white otters with brown cross-shaped markings on their backs. All cultures, however, seem to agree that the dobharchu was aggressive, fond of the taste of the flesh of human women, and highly territorial. They were also said to be zealously devoted to their mates; one story tells of a hunter who killed a dobharchu…and was obliged to run for an entire mile before its enraged companion stopped chasing him!
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Author’s Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000730778650
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Author’s DeviantArt: https://www.chubby-choco.deviantart.com
Allison Graham is a scriptwriter and dog-grooming student who lives in the middle of nowhere with a house full of pets and a love of the fantastically unbelievable. A longtime cryptozoology and mythology fan, she started The Bestiary Tales as a way to connect with fans and remind people of the long-forgotten creatures which so many of our ancestors feared, worshipped, or respected.
She loves anime and manga, singing, drawing, costuming, watching elimination-based television shows like Project Runway and Masterchef (she knows nothing about fashion, but fancies herself a pretty good cook), and, of course, studying up in her vast and baffling mythology library.
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