Quoted By:
<span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-r">The Hunt Begins</span></span>
Both men look at you expectantly. You set your jaw firm as you come to your conclusions. These men are not Hunters, they are truly here for but one purpose; to allow you to do the work of the Lord. You meet each of their eyes in turn. <span class="mu-i">”We’ll be lookin’ for any corpse sign, that means bits of gut, loose skin, teeth, anything. Also, you see any doe or buck, discharge. Now you fellers stay up about 10 feet in front. This creature is fond of pouncin’ unawares. I’ll stand rear and holler first flash of its imminence.”[i/]
You expect questions, but whether it’s the chill that leeches them of it or they are simply not interested in particulars, they both nod and turn toward the forest. A few minutes pass, your party hesitates. You stand showered in starlight, loathe to leave it. After an uncommonly long pause Quinton reaches inside his jacket, ”Ah, hell”. He unsheathes his flask, relieves the cap, and takes a long swig. Just the one, then he passes it to Mack. He takes a series of gulps, each deeper than the last. Mack passes it to you. There’s about a quarter of nectar left. You stare at Mack, then Quinton, then the almighty flask. Finally, you make your stare toward the deep empty within the trees. Pointing the flask like a saber you whisper, ”Ask of me, and I shall give thee the heathen for thine inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for thy possession. Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron; thou shalt dash them in pieces like a potter's vessel.” You drain the rest, and toss it to Quinton. ”Hosanna.” he says. Mack grunts, and the three of you take your first forward steps.
The moon illumineth. A spider’s web of shine between the trees. The very act of piercing this place seems to wear the light thin. Mack and Quinton press forward, crunching the settled snow with their heavy footfalls. To a voyeur, they would be the only men in view. You keep behind. The trees are wide apart, but you spent the afternoon making your piece with this land, feather fleet and swift as sin, you pass without sign to eye or ear.
The air stills just like before. The wind that whipped your blood into your cheeks and ears evaporates in the course of a minute. This awful stillness. The settling of something on your soul, running down your chin, staining your belly. The Cheyenne fog rolls around your ankles. You watch the jerked motions of Mack and Quinton ahead of you. They walk like puppets with strings on their knees. This feeling to them must be the feeling of the rat, the hare, the robin. There is something here.</span>
