Run From Strangers

“We cannot go back. Not empty-handed.” Ted tried to pull more of himself into his hide garment.

Duruk nodded. After so long in the wilds, they did not need to speak much. The two huddled in the tiny cave were attuned to the same rhythm, almost like they were one man. They could have been two portraits of the same man, painted thirty years apart. They had the same broad hands and thick brows. They both wore their hair in long, unkempt masses, twisted with dirt and sweat and sprigs into ropy tendrils. Ted’s were grey at the roots and hung to his middle back. His son Duruk’s were deep brown and shoulder-length. In a few more seasons Duruk’s skin would be as craggy and elephantine as Ted’s. Accumulated dirt darkened their pale skin, so that they looked like creatures of the earth.

Ted grunted and tossed his head toward the exit. The light at the mouth of the cave had been strained through the mists of morning and the layers of the forest so that it was empty and colorless. The two picked up clubs and stone-tipped spears and trundled out into the forest to hunt again. They were both short men, with broad shoulders and thick limbs. They kept their heads low and their eyes darted constantly, searching for any sign of food.

Though they were heaped with roughly-sewn hides, the cold still seeped into their skin and threatened to deaden their hearts. Winter was coming, and the tribe had no food. The two had been hunting for fifteen days, but had seen no game. It seemed the forest gods were not pleased with the tribe anymore, despite their offerings.

At midday, when the sun was bright and small but the air was still cold, Duruk quickened his pace to catch up to Ted. He pursed his thick lips and pointed them at the wilderness around them. “Empty. It’s all empty.”

Ted shook his great block of a head. Grey ropes of hair shuddered like the roots of a falling tree. “We must not go back without food. Have faith. The spirits test us. Show your strength to them, and be worthy.”

Duruk dropped back into his place behind his father. After a few steps he mumbled, “The spirits have fled this forest, and left us alone.”

Ted pretended not to hear. They were words he thought every moment.

It was late afternoon, time to begin looking for shelter, when Ted froze and tensed, then lowered to the ground. Duruk crept up next to him and followed his gaze.

They were at the edge of a stream. A large stag stood at the banks twenty yards upstream of them, drinking.

Duruk made hand signals that said, “It’s upwind.” His mouth watered. It had been months since they had seen so much meat in one place. The tribe had been living on gathered seeds and roots, and the rare squirrel or crow.

Ted nodded and signaled Duruk back into the forest. They would creep behind it and take it from either side. Duruk nodded and they crawled back into hiding.

The Stag was still drinking when they approached behind it. They hid at the edge of the forest about ten yards apart, on either side of the animal. Duruk shifted his spear in his hands, trying to find a good grip. His hands were sweating, despite the cold. He tried not to shake. Taking a stag like this was dangerous. They would have to burst form cover together and drive their spears into it before it could turn and gore them with its many-pointed antlers. They had no other choice; the tribe needed the food, and they were the only two hunters the tribe had.

Before they could strike, some thing burst from the scrub across the stream and rushed at the stag, whooping and flailing its limbs. The animal bleated and bolted, startled senseless. It ran upstream, away from the whooping creature. A tiny thing, flying too swiftly to see clearly, shot from the forest and buried itself in the stag’s heart. The beast crashed to the muddy ground without a final bleat, and the last of its blood pumped out into the muck.

The whooping creature crossed the stream and ran toward the stag. It was a man wearing too many furs and carrying hide-wrapped sticks, so that he looked enormous. Another came out of the forest ahead. They began tying the stag’s feet to a thick pole to carry it away.

Duruk crawled over next to Ted. “What are they, father?” These were men, but not like any Duruk had ever seen. The second one was not wearing a silly costume, so Duruk could see that his body was long and thin, and his skin was dark. His head had no hair. He carried a long, shaved stick that was kept bent by a length of tight sinew that was tied to each end. On his hip he carried a bag full of tiny spears. His furs were cut and sewn so that they fit his body, as if they had been taken from a man-shaped beast.

Ted whispered back. “They are the Strangers.”

Duruk gasped. Men from other tribes had whispered about the Strangers in fear. They came from the south. Their stone knives were sharp enough to shave hair and part flesh with only the slightest pressure. Many of the southern tribes were gone now, and the Strangers lived on their lands.

“Father, they look so small and weak.”

“Don’t be fooled.”

The costumed one took off his disguise of hides and sticks, and the two strangers lifted the pole onto their shoulders.

“They’re taking our meat.”

“I know, Duruk.” His father turned to him with a hard gaze. “Duruk, stay here. Whatever happens, you must return to the tribe to warn them.”

“Father?”

“Shh. Do as I say.”

Duruk looked down. “Yes father.”

Ted rose and walked out from the cover of the forest. He shouted “Leave the stag! That is our food, and this is our land!”

The two stopped walking and looked back uncomprehendingly.

“Go! This is not for you!”

The two looked at each other and nodded. They set the stag down onto the ground. For a moment Duruk was fooled into thinking they would do as his father ordered. Then the second one lifted a tiny spear up alongside his bent stick, pulled it back, and let it go. The spear flew straight at Ted. The stone tip burst out of his back. He staggered under the blow, gurgled helplessly, and fell face-first into the mud.

“No!” Duruk clamped his mouth shut, but not before his shout escaped. Father! Father! He had to force himself to remember his father’s words, and not run with his club raised high toward the murderer.

The killer looked in the direction of Duruk’s voice, and their eyes locked together instantly. In those eyes Duruk saw only the dark hatred one holds for vermin.

The Stranger reached for another small spear, and Duruk took off running, crashing through the forest away from them. The Strangers picked up their kill and carried on toward their camp at a leisurely pace. They cared not for the short people, and had no reason to chase the pup.

Duruk gave all his strength to runing. His legs were short, but they were thickly muscled and he ran swiftly through the familiar woods. He had to return home to warn his family of the danger. He cried for his father, and it shamed him to admit that they could not fight these people. They would all have to run, deeper into the angry lands of the north. It was that, or disappear just like all the others. The Strangers were here, and his kind would be helpless before them.