Morg

Chapter 8

 "Off, Arlen. Get off me," she said.

     One moment there was just Arlen, then the grove was full of hounds as the rest caught up. They sniffed the ground, tracing the boar's movement. Then one of the dogs howled. He had caught the scent. He plunged back into the forest and on to the trail of the boar. The rest of the hounds followed. Arlen, with a backward look at Morg, went too.

     The grove was empty. Morg could hear the hunting horn in the distance, and the yells of the huntsmen as the hounds picked up the scent. But they did not come into the grove. No-one saw her victory over the boar.

     Morg sat flat down. She thought for a moment of finding the hunt, of telling her father what had happened. But she'd never catch them, and anyway they would not believe her. When the boar had turned and gone back into the forest she'd thought that the goddess had answered her prayer, that the boar was a test. The boar was, after all, a sacred animal. Maybe the goddess had taken on its form. She had hoped it was a sign that she would be allowed to go on the hunt. But now the hunt had moved on and she knew that no-one had heard. Her voice was too small, too unimportant. Probably the goddess was angry with her.

     Morg was hungry. She had forgotten to bring any food with her. She did not even have the chunk of flat bread her mother would usually send with her into the fields. She cupped her hands and drank some of the water from the goddess' stream. Perhaps it would bring her fortune. She needed it, she thought.

     Suddenly she shivered. It was getting colder. All the warmth had gone from the sun and it would not be long in the sky. The nights were squeezing the days hard at this time of year. Morg slung her cloak around her shoulders, and started to scramble back down the bank.

Morg was tired. Her legs were as heavy as the trunks of trees. Her stomach rumbled with hunger and misery. She dragged herself on, eyes to the ground. The path to the sacred grove was usually well-used by the tribe, but there had been no ceremony there for some time. In places the way was not always clear. So Morg did not notice that she had strayed off the path, and that now she was walking along a new track.

     Morg was thinking about the cold in her toes and wiggling them as she walked when she heard a rustling in the undergrowth to her left. She hesitated. She should go on. It was getting late. She did not want to be in the forest in the dark.

     Morg heard the rustling again. Curiosity overcame her. She had to know what was in the bushes. The noise was coming from a group of low thorns. Walking round she saw a space that she could slither through. As she slid along on her front, she heard thin squeals. Something knew she was coming.

     The thorns opened out and she came upon a clearing in the centre of the bushes. A shallow bowl had been scraped away and lined with leaves. On the leaves were four little wild boar piglets. They were each the size of three of her hands, and they were squealing and tumbling over each other to get to her. They can only be days old, thought Morg. Pale brown and cream stripes ran from the tips of their snouts to their tails, which were twitching with excitement. They're just like bumble bees, she smiled. But it was late for a boar litter. She knew that they usually had babies in the sowing season, that was when boars were most dangerous. Perhaps this was a second litter.

     Then she frowned. Where was the piglets' mother? Female boars stayed close to their babies, to protect them. Which meant it was not far away. Which meant that Morg needed to get out of the bush quickly. She hesitated. She'd had an idea. Everyone was going to be cross with her when she got back to the village. But if she came with some boar piglets....