View source for 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."


[[Category:Bardic Runners Up]][[Category:2009 Bardics]]