Hunters Unlucky, Book 1 Storm

  When Storm glanced back to Pathar, he could have sworn that the old ferryshaft looked guilty. The stranger gave a twitch of his head, and Pathar rose.

  “Who’s that?” whispered Storm.

  Pathar spoke without expression. “Charder, our herd leader.” He gave a quick, irritated flick of his ears. “Does your mother teach you nothing?”

  Storm felt embarrassed and looked at the ground. When he looked up again, Pathar had crossed the stream and stood talking to Charder, who never took his eyes off Storm. Storm felt simultaneously uncomfortable and annoyed. He stared insolently back.

  At last, Pathar returned. Storm thought he’d never looked older or more tired. “I have to go. I apologize if anything I’ve said has upset you, Storm. Sometimes age doesn’t make us wise.”

  Before Storm could think of anything to say, Pathar turned, splashed through the shallow stream, and rejoined Charder. They walked away, talking softly and not looking back.

  Chapter 9. To Bend and Not Break

  Storm tried to get Pathar to return to the subject of intelligent species on several occasions. Which ones might talk to him about the creasia? None of the species Pathar had listed sounded safe or friendly. Pathar, however, had become evasive. He would talk only of survival skills—a subject that concerned Storm more and more as winter deepened.

  Grass became scarce. Storm had to paw through snow drifts to get at the frozen stems. Sometimes, he dug laboriously though the frozen surface, only to find the ground scraped bare beneath.

  Hunger became a constant specter. Storm ate tree bark, evergreen leaves, roots, anything within reach. He learned to hunt rock rats and rabbits. He learned how to find frogs and turtles in their winter burrows and to stalk mice in their snowy runways. Meanwhile, the ferryshaft ranged back and forth along the foot of the Red Cliffs, eating as they went and traveling on when there was nothing left.

  As Pathar had predicted, the cats returned at regular intervals. They never killed more than a few animals, but the brutality of the killings made these deaths seem worse than those of the ferryshaft who died of cold or hunger. However, knowing the pattern of the killings gave Storm a degree of security. Creasia like to kill us in groups, he reasoned. They don’t kill for food, so why should they attack a small, lone ferryshaft?

  Storm had reason to hope he was right, because he was wandering farther on his own, both for food and for sport. So-fet did not try to stop him. She had joined a group of other adult females. They were not entirely friendly to Storm, although So-fet tried to cover for their rudeness. Whenever Storm spent more than a day with So-fet, she tried to give him food, which he knew she could not afford. So he kept away.

  Storm still enjoyed playing on the ice. The Igby provided the best sport because of its size and smoothness, and Storm occasionally made all-day excursions to the river, following groups of foals whenever possible. He would have liked to play with them, but he was never invited.

  The river helped Storm forget his troubles. The wind hit his face, the ice fled beneath his hooves, and he flew like a leaf before the wind. He was particularly fond of his ability to change directions quickly—a skill which Pathar had assured him was more valuable than speed. “Rabbits don’t escape hawks by being faster,” Pathar told him. “They don’t outrun. They outmaneuver.”

  As the grass grew more difficult to find, Storm turned ever more to small animals as his mainstay. He hunted at a disadvantage because he did not belong to a clique. Cliques of foals hunted together and shared food. Lone hunters had to work harder.

  In spite of everything, Storm could have managed, had he not encountered an unexpected problem. It began the first time he caught a rabbit. Storm had stalked the creature for some time. After losing it in the initial rush, he had crouched outside its hiding place for a quarter of the day until it emerged. One piercing shriek, and the chase was over.

  Storm felt a surge of pride and pleasure. He was cold and stiff from sitting so still, but the reward would be warm and satisfying. His saliva had already begun to seep into the rabbit’s fur.

  However, the animal’s dying cry had attracted the attention of another group of foals. They approached Storm, eyeing him with hungry interest. Storm’s nostrils twitched. An important clique, he thought, all high-noses from prominent families. What’s their leader’s name? Kelsy. A big two-year-old, and he can fight. Even the three and four-year-olds get out of his way.

  Storm recognized the foal almost as soon as he remembered his name. No mistaking Kelsy—fine nut-brown coat, deep hazel eyes, intelligent and proud. “Hey, runt, is that your rabbit?”

  “Yes,” said Storm, muffled around the rabbit.

  Kelsy advanced until only a pace separated them. Storm had to tilt his head up to look Kelsy in the eyes. “I don’t think you understood me. I said, is that your rabbit?”

  “And I said that it is,” replied Storm with his mouth full.

  “Wrong!” In one movement Kelsy snatched the rabbit and left a clean slash in Storm’s cheek. “It’s my rabbit!”

  Storm’s eyes opened wide, and so did his mouth. Blood began to trickle from the cut, and the watching ferryshaft exploded into laughter. “Did the little orphan lose his favorite toy?” they cooed. “Well, you don’t deserve a rabbit if you can’t keep it. Isn’t that right, chief?” Kelsy grinned, the rabbit dangling from his jaws. Then they turned and trooped off without a backward glance.

  Storm sat on the cold stone and stared after them. His belly rumbled. As he turned away, he could not suppress a whimper of frustration and pain.

  In the days that followed Kelsy’s clique continued to persecute Storm, relieving him of his prey every time he caught anything of significance. Storm’s search for a solution intensified as he grew thinner. So-fet watched with concern, but she could offer little assistance, as the attacks always came when Storm hunted alone. She tried to find extra food and often went hungry for him, but she could not support him entirely.

  Storm was not the only youngster who suffered thievery. Older and bigger foals often stole from the younger and weaker, but it only happened to the same foal occasionally.

  Kelsy’s clique had chosen to heckle Storm on a more personal level. “Is it a ferryshaft?” asked one with mock uncertainty.

  “I don’t know. It looks like a rat to me.”

  “Yes, with all that ugly fur. No ferryshaft has fur that color. It must be a rat.”

  “Poor, scrawny rat. I wonder if it’s hungry?”

  “Are you hungry, rat?”

  “Where’s your father, rat? Don’t you have a father? My father says the herd is stronger when the weak don’t live to breed.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Storm almost screamed. “What did I ever do to you?”

  “It’s not what you did,” returned Kelsy, his eyes half closed. “It’s what you can’t do.”

  Perhaps Kelsy’s clique did not know they were killing Storm. Storm got the idea that they taunted him more for entertainment than out of malice. Of course, they also enjoyed the extra meat. They were hungry just like everybody else, but they could have survived without the food, and Storm could not.

  After one particularly demeaning episode, he ran whimpering to Pathar. Blood trickled from his nose, and his gray eyes looked unnaturally large in his thin face. “Pathar,” he wailed, “they’re awful! They won’t let me keep anything I kill. I can’t find enough grass to survive. What will I do?”

  “Kelsy’s clique?” asked Pathar as if he didn’t already know.

  “Yes! Just Kelsy, really. If he didn’t harass me, the others would leave me alone. I’ll starve if they don’t stop, Pathar. Please tell me what to do!”

  Pathar watched him. “Storm, do you know why I chose to teach you?”

  “No,” said Storm miserably. I don’t know why you do anything.

  Pathar smiled. “I chose you because you don’t give up.” Half to himself, he added, “And neither did your mother.”

  “But, Pathar, it’s not fai
r—”

  Pathar’s voice grew harsh. “Storm, nothing in your life will ever be fair! You should have died when you were a baby, and everyone knew it. You remember being angry last summer because adults predicted your death this winter? This is exactly what they were talking about.”

  Storm flinched.

  Pathar’s eyes softened. “Storm, do you see those trees up there?”

  Storm followed his gaze to a few gaunt trees, hardly more than bushes, that grew, spider-like, from crevices on the cliffs. “Those scrawny things are the only kind of tree that grows on the cliffs. You would expect a sturdier tree in such harsh conditions. But those tall, proud trees by Chelby Lake could never survive up there. Do you know why?”

  “No.”

  “Because, at Chelby Lake, trees grow close together to shield each other from the wind. Soil is scarce on the cliffs, and the trees must stand alone. They survive up there, all alone, in winds that would snap those tall, straight trunks by Chelby Lake. Do you know how they do it, Storm?”

  Storm squinted. “They bend?”

  “Yes. They don’t fight the wind. They bend, but they don’t break.”

  Storm felt tired. His belly rumbled. “So you don’t have any real help?” He’d been half hoping that Pathar would give him something to eat. Many ferryshaft brought gifts of food to Pathar when they asked his advice.

  Pathar sighed. “I see only two options. You can fight, or you can run.”

  “But, Pathar, I can’t fight Kelsy! He would kill me! Run? Their legs are so much longer than mine—!”

  “Storm!” Pathar almost barked. “I have given you my thoughts and my council. I have nothing else to offer. You will solve this problem yourself, or you will not see another spring.”

  Chapter 10. Pursuit and Evasion

  Storm thought. He went to sleep thinking, and he dreamed about rabbits and hawks and things that fight and things that flee. Next day, he hunted deliberately, choosing rabbits, since they had been the beginning of his troubles.

  His tormentors appeared predictably. “I think you have something for me,” said Kelsy when Storm did not respond at once. “Drop it, rat.”

  Storm did drop it, but he didn’t back away. “My name is Storm, and if you want it, come and get it.” He snatched up the rabbit and ran.

  “Haven’t you grown suddenly bold!” exclaimed Kelsy behind him. “Or should I say stupid?”

  As Storm listened to the voice growing fainter, he felt a prickle of fear, as well as a surge of pleasure. Whatever happens, the expression on his face was worth it. The rabbit waggled in Storm’s mouth as he ran over the snow-dusted rocks. He could hear his pursuers, their hoofbeats clattering. They were not far behind him, but they were behind and out of sight. Storm assumed he was getting away.

  Not until he raced around a rock and came face to face with Kelsy, did Storm realize his mistake. He made a dodge that would have certainly been unsuccessful. Fortunately for him, the rest of Kelsy’s clique galloped around the rock at that precise moment, and collided with their leader. The group took only an instant to disentangle themselves, but Storm was running again, now just a few lengths ahead of them.

  Kelsy ran to the unbroken ground on the edge of the boulders, Storm realized, where he could move faster and more quietly. I ran in a straight line. He guessed which way I’d go and got in front of me. I can’t be so predictable.

  Storm heard a crunch and realized that he was gripping the rabbit tightly enough to break bones. His legs felt wobbly. If this doesn’t end soon, I’m done.

  * * * *

  Meanwhile, Kelsy was berating himself for not being quicker. He thought of how foolish he would feel if stories went round that he’d been outrun by a lone runt with no fighting experience.

  Then Storm disappeared behind a boulder that Kelsy recognized. “Len, you and those others go around, and I’ll take these five straight through.” Storm had entered a short slot canyon. Kelsy planned to send one group of foals to the opposite end of the passage and another through the front, trapping their prey in the middle.

  Kelsy’s eyes widened in surprise when he charged the length of the slot and slid to a stop. His friends swore that Storm had not left from their end, and no ferryshaft foal could have jumped over the high walls.

  Arguments erupted, and everyone accused everyone else so fiercely that Kelsy thought they might fight. “Listen to me!” he barked. “No one made a mistake! If that foal did not leave by either end of the canyon, then he must still be inside. How many places can he hide?”

  So the clique stopped fighting and spread out to search. Before long, they were scouring the thorn bushes that grew thick along one wall of the passage. “He must be in there, Kelsy. Like you said, how many places could he go?”

  “But I went through that whole section already,” argued another. “It’s not deep.”

  “Here’s the answer to your riddle,” called Kelsy, who had left them and begun poking among the thorns. The foals gathered around him. Kelsy stood in front of a hole in the rock, hardly bigger than a fox’s den. The thorns had overgrown it, but a faint trail of beaten branches revealed that some animal had been coming and going recently, prying back the thorns to get inside. Kelsy stared into the darkness.

  “Well,” he said, after a moment’s dismal silence, “I suppose we weren’t so far off when we called him a rat. He certainly goes to ground like one.”

  His clique gave a few half-hearted chuckles.

  “Don’t worry, friends. We’ll have other days. I don’t know how far back that tunnel goes but...Storm! If you can hear me, I hope you realize that this isn’t over! We’re not playing games anymore!” He turned, tail still high, and the group trotted away.

  * * * *

  “It was never a game to me,” muttered Storm. He crouched only two lengths away and breathed a sigh of relief when they had gone. For a moment, he remained perfectly still, savoring the silence and safety. Then, as the tension left his body, he began to laugh, softly at first, then louder. “I am going to survive this winter, Pathar.” And he settled down to enjoy his meal.

  Kelsy did not catch Storm the next time he chased him, nor the next. Soon the clique chased Storm every time they saw him, whether he had food in his possession or not, and still they could not catch him. Storm had a new hiding place every other day. He was so small that he could fit almost anywhere. Other foals laughed at Kelsy because of Storm, but not too loudly. They were not so clever at hiding.

  Chapter 11. A Race and a Corpse

  Kelsy, as it turned out, had the sense to know when to quit. His efforts to catch Storm were only calling attention to his failure. Within a month, the chases ceased. No one tried to steal Storm’s food, and he received no more ripped ears or torn shoulders. But in solving one problem, Storm had created another. At least while the foals chased him, they acknowledged his existence. Now they completely ignored him.

  Storm discovered, even as he enjoyed his meals, that he missed the chases. He still explored the rocks and caves, but no crisis arose to give meaning to his actions. As the days passed, he grew bored and lonely.

  One bleak day in midwinter, Storm followed a group of foals to the Igby to skate. The sky was a dismal gray, and it fit his mood as he drifted back and forth some distance from the others. He practiced by running as fast as he could and then stopping as quickly as possible.

  He became so preoccupied with his efforts that he did not notice a light brown male of about his own age, who glided by with increasing frequency and finally stopped to watch him. The newcomer laughed.

  Storm looked around.

  “What are you doing?” asked the stranger.

  “Practicing stopping.”

  “What’s the point of that?”

  “So that I can turn faster.”

  “I don’t see how stopping can help you turn,” observed the newcomer, “or what good turning is for that matter.” There was an uncomfortable pause, during which Storm fervently hoped that th
e foal would leave. “Do you want to race?”

  That question caught Storm by surprise. He did not care to inform this person that he had never raced another foal before. “Alright.”

  “We’ll race to that big tree across the river. Do you see the bird sitting on the closest branch? We start when it flies.” The two foals crouched in tense silence. At last the bird ruffled its feathers, flapped into the air...and they were off!

  It didn’t take Storm long to relax and enjoy the race. Although he wanted to be annoyed by the stranger’s remarks, something inside him glowed under the unexpected attention. The pair was evenly matched, and they flew side by side over the frozen surface, laughing at times when they hit a rough place and skidded.

  However, when they finally reached the tree, the stranger was ahead by a body length. Storm found that he didn’t mind. The two stood together for a moment, catching their breaths. “You’re not a bad runner,” said the newcomer. “I didn’t win by much, and my legs are longer.”

  Storm smiled. “Yes. But I’ve played your game, and now it’s only fair that you play mine.”

  “Oh?” The foal looked surprised. “And what is that?”

  Storm shoved off, putting several lengths between them. “Catch me if you can.”

  * * * *

  Some time later, the stranger stood panting on the ice. Storm watched from several lengths away, winded, but laughing. “Do you give up?”

  The other foal smiled. “Yes. I’ve never seen anyone run like that. You double like a squirrel under a hawk! What do they call you?”

  “Storm.”

  “My name is Tracer, and I know some friends who might like to meet you. If you come with me, I’ll introduce them.”

  Storm knew what he was being offered. He knew he should pounce on it, yet he hesitated. “Why would they want me?”

  “Because I say you can run.” Tracer was smiling, but there was something desperate and brittle behind his eyes. “We’re orphans,” he added, after a moment. “Our best runner died yesterday. Are you coming or not?”

  Storm followed Tracer back across the river, but he almost turned back when he saw the group, tearing at a sheep they’d managed to bring down in the deep snow beneath the trees. No clique would allow a stranger to approach a fresh kill, and these foals looked rough—scruffy and half starved, with a few open sores.