Feathers

A History

After he finished carving the meat from each bone, leaving the ribs whole, he tossed it out between the trees, watching it spin away all white and red. Playing with Strix and holding him had strengthened Bain's determination to catch Sorren, but she had become more and more elusive. Before he and Rutiger had left, she had only been spotted once, by Rutiger, far from the other three points toward Incitatia. Every time she had fled from them or left the Everberry grove, she had gone west, so for her to be so far east made no sense. They were not making as much progress as he had hoped.

He woke earlier that morning, wide awake, with a nagging feeling. Though it was not much after midnight, he felt that it was the exact moment to move as though his instincts were predicting the course of the day. It was a strange sensation, one that he knew he should heed, something telling him that he should be up long before she was, hiding in a place that he might spot her. They had all been getting up early, but perhaps not early enough.

He had arrived at the Everberry trees well before dawn, when it was chilly and dark. There was not a sound in the world at that time. He could not help but reach up and pluck three or four of the dark berries, a couple inches in diameter. He found the place where he sat the last time and folded his legs, putting the berries in his lap as he leaned back against the trunk of a tree. Everything remained asleep, unaware of his presence. Bain popped a berry in his mouth and was surprised at how sweet and juicy it proved to be. The others disappeared just as quickly.

He waited there for hours as Deepfell woke around him, even the trees seemed to start creaking as they stretched. He watched the rabbits come in first, but did not move and let each one hop away as though he had not even noticed them. He was after different prey. The boars came next, brazen and unafraid, coming in as a thick wave of greys and dirty browns with grunts and noisy squeals, nudging and bumping each other out of the way.

The dew had not even left, nor had the sun even pulled the whole of its body over the horizon when he saw a gust of wind bow the grasses down as it swept through the clearing, rustling the leaves on each plant for only a moment. There had been no breeze before it; everything had been perfectly still and quiet except for the morning calls of chattering birds.

Bain leaned into the branches of the undergrowth so that he could see between the leaves better. He knew exactly what would have caused such a gust and the fact that he had not heard anything added to his suspicions. Ferals were silent flyers.

At first, only a few fingers appeared, slowly moving a leafy fern to the side, then a foot, toes sliding into the grass. She eased her weight onto it and, using her shoulder to hold the plant back, carefully leaned into the clearing, her eyes thoroughly scanning for any movement, snares or dark shapes. The boars had not even known that Bain was sitting only feet away for nearly an hour and they barely looked up at all from their foraging when they sensed her. She did not speak to them and he did not know if she could.

It took a few minutes for her to listen, turning her head side to side, and smell the air carefully until she decided that it was safe. Then, eyes turned upward into the branches, she searched for ripe berries. She saw dark, round ones, high out of reach of the boars in one of the trees closest to Bain, the same one he had picked from. She crept over to it and grabbed one branch with one hand, using it to help pull herself high enough with a little jump to grab two of the fruits in the other hand. Bain had reached the same height easily.

Her back faced him the whole while. Bain's muscles tensed and he felt waves of adrenaline surge through his veins, his heart beating hard. Should he do it? Should he spring out and grab her at that very moment? He could so easily grab her hips, his hands over her knife so she could not use it, and wrestle her down. He could probably use the weight of his chest again to allow him to reach into his pocket where he kept a cloth, damp with an odorous sedative. His inner predator screamed to act upon his desire, but as a hunter he sensed that it was not right. If he let go of her to get the rag and she stabbed him, or escaped, that would be it. She would completely vacate the area and they would have to start from square one to locate and close in on another, if he survived. He did not know if she was armed, but could guess that she probably carried her small axe and knife. He had to remind himself, through the roar in his mind, that he was observing, figuring out her daily or weekly routine, instead of trying to catch her at any chance. This was a game of tactics now. She was no ordinary prey animal that simply ran. She could predict his actions, anticipate his movements, and knew his weaknesses already. He just needed to figure out hers.