Chapter 22
Birs
~
“He’s too young,” Tiff snorted one last time. “Ya both are gonna freeze yar hind ends off. Have ya not noticed, Birs, it’s winter out there?” She extended her arm and pointed out the window.
Hen. That’s the point of a winter hunt. Geesh. “Is that why there’s white stuff on the grass, ogre hen?”
“Isn’t it cold enough in here for ya, ya lazy good for nothin’ ogre—who refuses to have more than one stick on the fire at a time?”
“These younglin’s warm the place up without the need to waste wood on a fire, along with yar hot air.” I maybe shouldn’t a said that.
She glared. “We just buried a dear friend who died from the cold. What motivates ya to challenge the weather? She’s not one to play fair.”
“What are ya talkin’ ’bout ya old ogre hen? The cold didn’t kill Master Wilbur. His old heart simply tired and gave up on him.”
“It was that nasty dip in the Lake and ya know it as well as I do. He never recovered from it.”
“Well then it’s good Torc and I aren’t gonna be bathin’ in the Lake.”
She shook her fists in front of her. “Neither of ya will sleep in that cold. Ya’ll return with the croup, and give it to the rest of us, ya will, ya foolish old ogre.”
“I’ve gone a-winter huntin’ every year since I was knee high to a purple ant, and every year we’ve been together. When have I ever come back sick?”
“Every time!” she shouted.
Hm. Was that true? “But it didn’t kill me. What doesn’t kill ya—”
“Makes ya stupider the next season,” she finished for me.
“No,” Torc sneered. “Makes ya stronger, Mama. Ya messed up the sayin’.”
Without removin’ her glare from me, she pointed at the eager younglin’. “He doesn’t even have a hair on his chest yet.”
“Winter hunts are what puts ’em there to begin with,” I said, winkin’ at Torc.
“More likely kill the little runt,” she bellowed. “Why do ya hate yar younglin’ so much for?”
Torc grumbled, “Little runt?” under his breath.
“We have too many of ’em runnin’ around here anyway,” I said.
Ren laughed from the dinin’ table where she sat, enjoyin’ the tenth round of the debate. Why’d she get so much joy from our bickerin’?
“I’m no runt,” Torc said in his best ogre snarl.
“If he can go, I don’t see why I can’t,” Asr whined.
“He only wants to kill ya off one at a time,” Ren hissed in a false whisper at her younger bull siblin’.
“Ya be joinin’ us in two years,” I answered my second youngest.
Asr pounded the table with a chubby fist, a pout offendin’ his face. Had to give it to him. A good, proper angst.
“Ya don’t even have the nub of a tusk,” Ren teased him. “Ya be whinin’ about the cold within the hour.”
“I do too have nubs,” Asr shouted, raisin’ his snout and grimacin’ to show off the slightly protrudin’ lower ivories. “And I wouldn’t whine.”
“Would too,” she teased. “Runt.”
“Not.”
“Runt.”
~
I threw the new fur boots, crafted for this excursion, at Torc. “Put ’em on, younglin’.”
Ike, sittin’ in his high chair twenty feet away, lunged for the flyin’ footwear, as though his arms might majically grow longer so he could intercept them. “Toy!” he shouted.
“No toy,” Ren mumbled.
“I don’t need no furs on my feet,” Torc mumbled.
I pointed at my own boots, as I sat to pull them onto my furry feet. With them laced tight, I picked up Torc’s backpack and heaved it at him. The ogrelin’ stumbled backward two steps from the weight of the thin’, and grunted.
Ren giggled, and Torc gave her a murderous glare.
I walked to my own pack that leaned up against the wall by the front door, but before I lifted it, Tiff was there pullin’ me into her arms. She plunged her face into my chest, and as she squeezed me tightly, her tusks stabbed into my breast. I smiled, and pulled her into me hard.
She was not averse to physical demonstrations of affection, but this was more than her usual. I figgered she thought of her friend. Tiff told me how Gladys rued that she didn’t get to tell her mate goodbye one last time.
“It’s a long hike to the lowlands,” I mumbled, hintin’ it was time to let me go.
She pulled away reluctantly, and rubbed the spot on my chest that would show two matchin’ blue bruises within the hour from her tusks. I returned her grin. She had her bull appropriately marked. She stepped back and shook her head.
“With all the deer and elk that remain in the highlands durin’—”
“Enough, hen. We’ve had that conversation. Eight gazillion times.”
I crawled into my pack, picked up my bow and quiver, and Torc ran to the corner, his sleepin’ area, and retrieved his own bow and quiver. I gave the younglin’ a grimace. “And ya and I have discussed that topic too,” I growled, pointin’ at the lad’s bow.
“I know. I don’t have the strength to put down an animal, and there’ll be no woundin’ of any creature large or small,” he quoted.
“Then ya need not be carryin’ it. I mean it. Ya’ll be gettin’ tired enough by the hikin’ and the cold alone.” The low vibration in my chest, the ogre-growl, emphasized my words accordin’ly.
“It weighs next to nothin’. I promise, nothin’ but stumps.” Torc’s chin rose, showin’ his determination.
“I won’t tote it for ya when ya tire,” I mumbled.
“I won’t be tirin’,” Torc answered.
Ren laughed, and Torc flashed her a snarl. I believe she was mouthin’, “Runt,” at him again, but I ignored it.
I walked to the table and gave Ren, then Asr a kiss on the top of the head, jabbin’ them lovin’ly with my tusk. I stood a little too close to Ike though, who managed to reach out and grab the bow slung over my backpack.
“Toy!” the babe screamed. Oy. The little bull.
“No toy,” Ren mumbled, as she rushed over to help wrench away the white-knuckled, little fingers so I could escape.
I strode for the door. Wasn’t gonna give Ike another chance at grabbin’ somethin’. I growled, and the family answered it in kind, and Torc and I hurried out the door to keep from chillin’ the cabin too much.
Outside, the breeze immediately nipped at my ears and I hurried to pull on my fur hat. I watched as Torc followed suit, reluctantly, as though his hat stripped him of masculinity. I grinned, but looked away to hide it. I studied the white surface of Black Lake as I walked, shiftin’ under the weight of my pack, to get it settled the best it would get settled. I drew in a deep breath. The cold flowin’ through my throat burned.
This is more than a bit crazy. Maybe our bull tusks make us fight unnecessary battles.
“This is great!” Torc shouted.
I reached out and grabbed my younglin’s shoulder as he started to dash forward. “Pace yarself,” I grumbled. “We’ll be a-hikin’ all day.”
~
The first hour the younglin’ chatted non-stop, never waitin’ for an answer to any of his very serious proposals or questions. After that, his voice lowered and he started askin’ more frequently about breaks and snacks.
“Ya aren’t with the hens any longer. Suck it up.” I enjoy those expressions each time the younglin’ gave me the excuse to use them.
“I wonder what Asr and Ren are doin’,” Torc said.
“Lookin’ at four walls,” I said. “Listen to the crows. What do ya think they’re sayin’?”
“Who are these brave ogres traipsin’ through the woods,” Torc answered.
I smiled. “Did ya know crows are the only creatures that follow hunters, instead of run from them?”
“No. Why would they do that?”
“They know we don’t hunt them, so why do ya suspect?”
The younglin’ thankfully thought in quiet for the first time in hours. “Because—they have—a curious nature.”
“That’s true. Ya don’t want to leave any shiny little thin’ ya want to keep layin’ out, ’cause the critters will swoop down and steal it from ya.”
The ogrelin’ laughed as though that was the silliest thin’ he’d ever heard.
“Ya don’t believe me?” I asked him.
“No.”
“I’m crushed,” I said, pressin’ one hand to my heart. “Ya carryin’ that shiny, pretty toy ya like so much, the one ya traded with the tinker for?”
“Yes.”
“When we take a break, throw it up in front of ya a ways, and see what happens.”
Torc was quiet another moment. “Never mind,” he said. “I’ll trust ya.”
I laughed.
~
When we did take a break in a bit, I watched Torc turnin’ the little brass figure over in his hand. He looked into the pines at the crows that never seemed far away, and down at his toy, before returnin’ it to his pocket where it was safe.
“Ya never told me why the crows follow us,” he grumbled.
“They get a fine meal after we gut our prey,” I answered.
The younglin’ grimaced. “Sorry I asked.”
~
By the time the sun set, scores of deer must have crossed our trail. But the journey wasn’t as much a huntin’ trip this year, as a papa-oldest-younglin’ adventure. If we didn’t find an antelope on the lowlands, I’d pick a nice buck on the way back, near home, when I didn’t have to carry the weight so far.
I selected a flat little dell to make camp. In every direction I could smell some settler’s hearth. There would no doubt be ogres all about more than happy to allow us the use of their barn for the night, to keep the frost off us through the night. But we’d be sleepin’ under the stars. It’s the ritual.
We’re a sadistic race, doin’ this to ourselves, and our younglin’s.
Every season the ground seems to get harder, sharper, colder. Back aches more. Shoulders struggle more under the weight of my pack. I shouldn’t have waited so long to start my brood. But, I thought proudly, I have a wonderful stake to pass on to them—more than the average ogre. I picked Black Lake as much for the beauty of the place. Never imagined my luck of selectin’ property next to the most popular visitin’, fishin’ and huntin’ lodge south of the humans’ realm.
They’re a strange race, those humans.
Livin’ near the Inn created opportunities that couldn’t be matched. I smiled, and tried to concentrate on my younglin’s unendin’ chatter. He wanted to attend the next Ogre Council.
“Maybe in a few more seasons,” I told him.
Torc was quickly onto his next topic without a pause. He had noticed a lot of medium-tusked ogres makin’ their way to Black Lake, and stoppin’ by to offer me their respect. “Why is the Lake so popular these days?” he asked.
I grinned, as I nudged the tin with the meltin’ snow closer to the fire. “I suppose, they might be there more to say hello to Ren, than to acknowledge me.”
Torc shook his head. By his expression, that made no sense to him. “Ren is borin’. She doesn’t like to run, or throw stones, climb trees, or go grubbin’. I think yar surely mistaken.”
“That’s why ya need a couple more seasons before ya sit behind me at a council gatherin’,” I told him.
Torc turned to his next topic before I finished my last explanation. The ogrelin’ couldn’t understand why it was takin’ so long for Ike to start walkin’ and talkin’ proper. “Be good when he can visit the outhouse on his own,” he offered.
“That, yar mama would agree with ya about.” I grinned. The youngest was indeed in no hurry to prove himself. But he’s definitely gonna be the—bigger personality—of the four. The most challengin’.
“And when will he learn more words? Mama, papa, and toy are gettin’ old. Especially toy. And why does he have to shout it at the top of his lungs?” He was on his next thread of thought without slowin’ down.
I finished hottin’ up our meal. We ate. I cleaned up the mess, and we were under our furs with a new log on the fire, and the questions and monologue continued. It stopped a full hour later mid-sentence, accented with a snore.
What could he have meant about poor Mistress Gladys?
I looked over to make sure Torc’s fur hat was firmly pulled down on his head. It was. I pulled my own sleepin’ fur up to my tusks, and shivered against the damp cold.
If I get a stitch of sleep it’ll be a miracle.
I lay a long while listenin’ to Torc’s heavy breathin’.
~
The sky was brightenin’ when I woke from the sound of a critter mussin’ in my pack. I opened my eyes groggily and looked directly into the brown eyes of a gray-faced, ancient bear. For it to be out and about this early in the winter and not in its den was not a good sign. I knew instinctively the beast had to be sickly, and hadn’t put on enough fat for the winter, or it would have been curled up in its cozy place, asleep.
The most dangerous kind of bear—desperate.
I snarled, “Go away, bear,” not botherin’ to get out from under my furs. “That food is ours.”
The bear leaned up a bit, but didn’t look as though he intended to charge. My heart went out to the creature. Younger bears probably encroached upon his territory the last couple seasons. Kept him from the best spawnin’ sites in the spring. Prolly hadn’t had a full belly since. He didn’t have long on Earth. The thought made me think of Master Wilbur. His death had been sudden. This bear was dyin’ way too slowly, the poor thin’. Didn’t even know it lay on the near horizon. Maybe it did. As near to death as I ever want to experience—for many years.
I rose slowly from my furs, expectin’ the bear to race off with just that threat, but he glared back. “I’d love to share my smoked venison with ya, my friend, but the little I’m carryin’ wouldn’t do ya much good but make ya even hungrier.”
The bear stood on his haunches.
“Ya think I look a little less dangerous than yar other competition, do ya? Not fast enough to catch yar own sickly deer, are ya?”
Now is a good time for patience.
I looked down at my younglin’. Torc’s eyes were as big as Ike’s fisted mitts. I felt proud the ogrelin’ followed my seasons of instruction, to stay totally still if confronted by any dangerous critters.
So why aren’t I doin’ exactly that? Some teacher I am.
“Be a nice bear,” I said softly. “Ya can’t have my pack. I know ya’re hungry, feller, but ya gotta go.”
“Papa?”
The bear jerked his attention to the ogrelin’. Fear the bear would challenge this new threat lanced me through the chest. I ran to get between them as the bear charged. Findin’ me standin’ before him, it slammed to a stop, but raised up and swung two mighty paws. Somehow the long claws missed. Perhaps it was a bluff. The bear dropped to all fours, turned, and ran into the woods in an awkward, stiff gait.
I took a deep breath, watchin’ the bear disappear into the brush. “Poor guy.”
“Poor guy? Look at yar coat.”
I peered at Torc first, who stood beside me now, before lookin’ down at the slashes in my coat. For a bluff, the swings came a little too close. The damage would be hard to explain away to Tiff.
Torc’s mouth was awake and full of vigor. The questions, opinions and theories poured. I shook my head, realizin’ my knees trembled more than I’d ever admit.
“This is gonna be a great story,” Torc said.
“Why don’t we keep this one between ya and me,” I offered. “Yar mama doesn’t need to hear it.”
“Are ya kiddin’, Papa? Asr’s gonna die he missed this. And I’ll bet Mama will wish she’d seen it too. Especially the way ya stood up to that old feller.”
I groaned. I doubt very much she’d be excited to hear of it. Next season it’ll be even harder to get out of the cabin.
~
I got us fed and on our way. The drier, warmer air was a relief as we hiked out of the foothills. We were both barefoot and bareheaded by then. I followed my younglin’, listenin’ to his constant prattle. I have to admit the lad is more game than I expected. Very little whinin’, and he more than kept up. But it was hard to shut Torc up as I tried to show him the marvels of nature, pointin’ out this grub and that pod as edible, what kind of critter the various tracks belong to.
We saw plenty of game. Found a good place on high ground at mid-mornin’ to set up camp. I set a snare next to a hole near camp, not really wantin’ to get my antelope yet. I hadn’t walked that quietly all afternoon to ensure it. Not that any creature would miss the younglin’s yappin’ mouth. Winter is the only time off a bull gets in the Range. I was havin’ too much fun actin’ the younglin’ myself, traipsin’ around with Torc without a care in the world.
We passed a number of other papa-younglin’ pairs. We greeted briefly each time, but we were all quick to be on our own way. It’s a special time of shared freezin’ nights, sunburns durin’ the day, bruised feet, and mosquito bites between papa and younglin’.
We ate the hare from our trap for dinner. Not nearly fillin’ for two ogre bulls, but it would do. In the mornin’, Torc learned to set his own. The day rushed past too quickly. As the sun lowered in the west, I placed an arrow through the heart of a beautiful creature, and Torc tearfully helped to prepare the carcass. It was the first quiet I enjoyed since the bear. How’d we manage to get near enough to any wild thin’.
We ate roasted rabbit again that evenin’, after several hours of hikin’ out of the lowlands, so the colder air would keep our prize from goin’ bad. Torc fell asleep the moment his head hit his fur.
The critters that woke us the next mornin’ didn’t concern me nearly as much as the bear two days earlier. But the raccoons turned ornery eyes at me. Torc sat up and laughed as I waved and shouted at them. The situation remained only frustratin’ until the one angry raccoon decided to run up my stinkin’ pant leg. I let out a less-than-masculine screech, maybe—I’ll not necessary admit to it if I did—and ran in place slappin’ at the beastie actin’ as though he climbed a tree.
Torc fell over laughin’. When the raccoon finally ran off with his friends, Torc jumped up and acted out my brave maneuver to frighten the terrible beasts—tears of laughter streamin’ down his chubby cheeks. He fought for air, and finally fell to the ground and rolled about holdin’ his side. Maybe bein’ a bit dramatic.
“Oh it hurts,” he screamed between more laughs.
I was none too humored by that point. “Ya’ll dare not tell that story on me,” I demanded.
“I certainly will.” He giggled, throwin’ his head back in a mean howl.
“Ya do, I’ll tell them ya peed yarself.”
Torc’s laughs stopped suddenly. He looked down and grimaced at the tiny spot in the front of his pants. His brow and eyes formed a single line across his face. I figgered the lad weighed the benefit of tellin’ the story versus the cost. Yoso and Jear would no doubt get hours of enjoyment from the tale, but Asr and Ren hearin’ his own little embarrassin’ side of it—and I would tell, if he did.
“I think my story trumps yars.” I couldn’t hide my grin.
The younglin’ growled, the vibration that emanates deep in a mature ogre’s chest. Didn’t quite rate as real ogre-ish. But close.
He’s growin’ up too fast.
~
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