The Hunter of Ulangi

By: Ulvgar Posted on: June 01, 2009

Seven pairs of unblinking eyes stared up at the Proctor. "I hate this part," he thought to himself, "Even I can tell some of them shouldn't be trying." The previous Hunter had fallen, however, and the village needed someone to take care of its needs. "Now that you have proven yourselves of adequate mental capacity, you will undertake the final, practical, portion of your training," Again the Proctor glanced around, made a gurgling sigh in the back of his throat, and continued, "The prey you choose may be any on the Isle of Ulangi, but remember that quality, not speed, is the determining factor of who shall be named the next Hunter." A series of quick chirps signaled the start, and the young Grook sped away from the village in pairs. And one lone hunter.

The bounding gait that seemed awkward in his peers instilled a particular grace in the lone apprentice. His long, leaping strides combine the speed of natural prey with the sure-footedness of a trained predator. The young Grook's mind was quiet and still. Everyone, even his father, had thought him slow. This was not true; he simply lacked imagination.

As he ran through the tall marsh grass, the young Grook watched his comrades spread out: most headed for the forest, while he and another pair loped off into the bogs. Keeping his outward eyes peeled for any moose-sign, the young Grook allowed his inner mind to recite the hunter's litany he had been taught. 'The Hunt is eternal, it is the now. It is as long as the moment, as long as eternity. A hunter must be swift but cautious, bold but discerning. In the Hunt, to gain much, you must risk much.' As he ended the litany, a memory played across his inner eye...

...He was running beside his father. It was his first hunt, and he was anxious. Not anxious of harm or what lay in store during the hunt, but anxious to please his father. Anxious to please The Hunter. "Keep your eyes sharp, ur'gwop, many little signs add up to a trail," The Hunter wasn't even panting as he said this, "But let your mind split in two, one to be in the now, and the other to remember lessons from the past. Sometimes remembering a basic lesson can save your kerr'chip neck." All the young Grook could do was nod, speech was beyond him, he was so out of breath...

Not panting now, though, as his mind came back to the matter at hand. He had trained most of his life for this with the singular, dull persistence that came to be his trademark. There! Moose-sign. Fresh, too. Medium weight, but healthy, judging from the way the stride broke through the mud and reeds. This would be the spot to wait. The young Grook settled himself down into the curious squatting-sit, characteristic of his race. He allowed just a touch of self satisfaction to enter his mind, as he saw the other two Grook race by even more obvious tracks. His congratulatory mood died, however, as he saw much more sign, indicating a commonly used run. A whisper-quiet chirp of annoyance escaped the young Grook's throat. He knew he should have seen it sooner. Stilling every motion but his eyes, the young Grook waited for sight of his quarry, and remembered...

... "The longest part of the hunt is the wait, son," The Hunter and his child crouched together, hidden beside a deer trail. "Once you've picked a good spot," The Hunter's eyebrows rose, the meaning clear: you WILL pick good hides, "wait patiently. It's an ambush; you must not let your quarry draw you out." The young Grook blinked his understanding at his father's words. "Hold fast in your hide. Let your eyes and front-mind do the work. Relax your body and hind-mind, because they've got a lot more work ahead"...

Three sharp croaks to the south brought the young Grook completely back to the present. That was the village-wide call for aid. The young Grook almost rose to help, but the stolid part of his personality reasserted itself. It could be a trick by the Proctor, to see who abandons their hunting first. Besides, his mundane mind refused to conjure images of a horrible maiming. The call had come from the forest, and not even the stags can do any real harm...

... It was there, on the trail: A young stag. Too big to be a yearling, but not big enough to have established his territory. That would explain the tentative way it moved about, sniffing of the underbrush, glancing about, worried about being challenged. In a whisper barely louder than a breath his father said, "Fast. He's scented us. Speed and surety. Now." Gathering all his strength, the young Grook burst from the undergrowth, bringing his apprentice spear to the ready position. The stag reared, startled, and turned to flee just as the young Grook threw his missile.

Struck in the flank, the stag pivoted from the blow, eyes wild with fear and pain, and charged the young hunter. The young Grook tensed to leap, but hesitated, and was knocked to the ground, stunned and bleeding. His vision returned just in time for the young Grook to see the stag about-face and prepare to put all its weight down in one mighty stomp on his head. With an angry curse, The Hunter broke his cover and threw his spear with enough force to knock the stag backwards, away from his son. "Chirl'upp! Fool! Trillupp! Bungler! Never try to anticipate a wounded animal! There is only the NOW in that kind of struggle. Strike hard and sure. Action defines you in moments like those! Hesitation means death!"...

There! Just on the edge of vision! A breeze blew in from the forest, carrying debris into his eyes and obscuring his vision. Careful not to move any other muscles, the young Grook blinked his membranous eyelids. Yes! The moose! A healthy, moderately sized bull! Carefully, slowly, the young Grook surveyed the surroundings, not wanting to steal a hunt from one of his fellows. But no one was tracking this moose. His prey was here. Easing himself off his haunches, the young Grook waited, watching his quarry graze it's way slowly south. Patience, his back-mind told him, patience, and it will come to you. Inhaling and exhaling deeply to still his treble-chambered heart, the young Grook wound all his energy, instinct, and teaching tightly around his being. He was floating in a sea of ice-cold calm, his eyes watching, and his mind analysing in a business-like manner. The hind would be the best, so as to prevent the bull from fleeing, but a shot directly at the heart or lungs is not to be passed up. His real weapon isn't his antlers, but his weight. Be sure to use his weapon against him. Not yet, too far to sprint. Wait. Now!

All at once, seeing the best angle he was likely to get, the young Grook leapt up and threw one of his two apprentice spears. Striking true on the hind thigh, the spear sank deep into the moose's flesh. The bull bellowed with rage, and turned to face his attacker. Uncharacteristically for his unimaginative brain, fear sprang into the young Grook's front-mind. You may have underestimated this one, it said.

But the calculating part of him, the part he knew best, simply urged him on to finish the hunt quickly, so the beast did not suffer. Grasping his remaining spear in his webbed fingers, the young Grook sought to move close enough to make a clean, killing blow. The bull, sensing his intent, whirled, hooked the young Grook with the massive weight of his head and antlers, and sent him spinning off into the mud and muck. Bright light and pain flooded the young Grook's world, and in those brief moments before his vision cleared he could see...

...His father stood over him, after taking care to clean the stag. "Stop that. The bone's not broken, chrill, I can see that from here. I can clean and dress the wound fine." He bent down beside his son, gathering cloth and compress from his hunting bag. Quickly he bound the gash on the young Grook's arm and was back on his feet, carrying the stag back towards the village. The young Grook, trying hard not to sniffle, caught up some distance down the trail. "Your mother will have my hide for this," The Hunter grumbled to himself, but to his son said, "Next time you'll get up faster"...

And he did. Blinking rapidly to clear his sight, the young Grook rolled in the mud to the right, where he remembered seeing a patch of more solid ground. He heard a splash and sucking sound when the moose's hoof pulverized the swamp grass where his chest had been a moment before.

Without a look back, the young Grook pivoted, rising to a crouching position, and lunged in the direction he believed the bull's chest would be. He was not mistaken. Pierced through the heart, the behemoth dropped into the mud and lay still. Now panting heavily, every muscle quivering with exertion, every nerve tingling with exhilaration, and every bone aching in pain, the young Grook bellowed at the top of his voice the Call of the Hunt. A hero would have charged away to meet his comrades and the Proctor, to lead them back, triumphantly, to his kill. However, he had not the imagination to be a hero. As such, the rest of the hunters-to-be and The Proctor found him engaged in the business of cleaning and segmenting the carcass for transport.

The next night, the young Grook stood before the villagers and scholars. The Proctor stood before him and said "You have proven yourself worthy in thought and in action, for it is through action that you will help this village. Through your actions we may thrive, we may continue to make our goods and reap nature's bounty." He paused a moment, for dramatic effect, "Your past life and name are of no consequence now. Now, before all of us, you are The Hunter of Ulangi!" As the village cheered it's approval, the young Grook look into the fire burning in the middle of the square...

... in the middle of their little hut, his family's fire burned. His father had been badly wounded by an old bull moose not two suns before, and the outlook was grim. He lay now, the Once Hunter, beside the fire, it's glow reflecting off the sheen of water the young Grook's mother continually applied to his skin. Breathing was a ragged, painful process, and his heavily bandaged chest heaved tiredly with each breath. "It's... now... dearest," The Hunter croaked to his wife. She, choked with tears, nodded and stopped applying the water to her beloved husband.

"Please go... don't remember me... like this. Must speak with the... boy." Once alone, grasping his father's hand, the young Grook looked despairingly into his hero's eyes. Rallying himself, controlling his painful breaths, The Hunter said to his son in his native tongue, "Son. I'm sorry. I am proud of you. No matter what happens, where you go, you are The Hunter of Ulangi!"...

And, to the general confusion of all those present in the village square, the new Hunter smiled and said, "Yes. I know."