Short Story- THE ANIMAL

It was dusk by the time I’d found the animal's trail.

I’d set out a week before with three dogs, three weeks after the delivery of the animal to the valley. Immediate signs of the animal’s presence were abundant. Patches of grass where it had slept were still matted down; broken twigs and trampled earth showed that it had spent much time in the clearing where my helicopter dropped me off. The signs were so fresh that it seemed highly likely that the animal had cleared out only moments before I had arrived, possibly fleeing because it heard the terrible chop of the helicopter blades over the trees. I was certain that I’d find it by the end of that first day.

But the natural cunning of bestial instinct had other plans.

Beyond the clearing there was no sign of it. It had disappeared entirely, leaving nothing for me to follow. I presented a handful of the slept-upon grass to the dogs, hoping that the lingering scent would lead them to my prey. They took off with energetic fervor, their sharp angles and bristling fur contrasting starkly with the rolling tall grass of the meadow. They returned that evening with nothing to show for their efforts but exhaustion. The smaller two dogs devoured their meals the moment I presented them, but the largest of the three– a graying, gold-eyed hound that I had named Charlemagne– denied even the smallest scraps. As the others ate he only looked out into the woods. Every now and then he looked to me, and I saw the fervor was still there in his gold eyes. He hadn’t found the animal for me. Charlemagne knew that he had not earned the right to eat.

That evening, while the other two dogs slept, Charlemagne sat with me by the fire. He had been with me on every hunt for the last twelve years, and even in his advanced age he was the best hound that I had ever had the pleasure of taking into the field. Just before dawn a wild rooster crowed and stirred me from sleep, followed quickly by the excited barking of the two younger dogs. Charlemagne remained quiet. He would not bark over such trivial things as wild birds. He reserved his voice only for the times when it was most pertinent, for the times when he found something. There was no point in barking if it wasn’t for the hunt. As far as Charlemagne was concerned, there was no point in anything that didn’t revolve around the hunt. It was in this way that the two of us were alike, and how we had become such a deadly pair. He didn’t yip like an untrained pup when he heard the rooster. He only watched as the sun came over the distant mountains, no doubt seeing a chance to redeem the previous night’s failure with the rising of a new day.

But that day was as fruitless as the one before. Days passed as we left the clearing and explored the woods beyond, finding not even the scarcest sign of the animal. I found indicators of deer, of rabbit, but nothing of the beast that I sought. It was as if upon my arrival in the valley that it had simply taken flight and fled. A ridiculous notion, I knew, but all the same it was the only explanation I could think of for the absolute lack of a trail.

It was on the seventh day when I heard Charlemagne bark. I ran to him, leaping over a wide stream and finding the gray dog at the base of a tree. His back was ridged, perfectly level, and he was pointing at a wet spot at the roots of the giant spruce. He stopped his barking as I approached. I knelt down and touched the spot with a gentle finger. It was very moist, and remarkably fresh. I lifted the finger to my nose and smelled ammonia. To me this indicated dehydration, a sure sign of a creature that was running scared and staying away from bodies of water where it might be easily found.

But more than the smell, I trusted Charlemagne. He smelled things in this urine that I could not even fathom. If this had been from a deer or rabbit he would have said nothing to me. But he barked, because he knew it was important. He knew it belonged to our prey.

“Good boy,” I whispered to him.

I stood up and felt the weight of the rifle across my back. I scanned the hill above. At dusk it was impossible for me to make anything out of the shadows that webbed between the trees. Charlemagne seemed uninterested in the direction I looked, and in fact seemed eager to go. The urine was fresh, he was telling me, but the animal had moved on.

But we had found its trail. It was scarce, but it was there. The issue of finding the animal was no longer in question. Now it was only a matter of time.

I whistled for the other dogs and set up camp under the giant spruce. Charlemagne ate heartily that evening.

#

I awoke late in the night to find Charlemagne standing up straight at the flap of my tent. His ears were perked and he was staring into the opaque brown of the canvas, almost as if he could see something through it. I rose silently, being careful not to wake the other dogs. If Charlemagne had indeed sensed something in the campsite beyond, I could not risk the commotion that the others would make. I reached a hand out to touch Charlemagne’s haunches. He twitched his left ear, acknowledging that I was awake and with him.

I leaned forward on the balls of my feet and listened.

I heard it faintly: a delicate shuffling through the bushes as something stealthily encircled my camp. It was sizable enough that I heard the low branches of the trees being brushed aside. There were few animals out here that were as large as this sounded, and only my prey would know not to enter the campsite. It knew we were here, and it was trying hard to make itself unnoticeable. If Charlemagne hadn’t heard it then I wouldn’t have ever known it was there.

I sniffed, and smelled the remains of my campfire. The lingering scent of cooked meat hung in the air. The animal was hungry as well as dehydrated, then.

I heard the shuffling stop, and then felt Charlemagne’s chest go still as he held his breath to listen. I reached slowly to the rifle sling at my feet, and felt the fur of one of the other dogs. It had rolled over in the night and was lying atop my gun. I gritted my teeth in frustration and reached a hand under the dog to lift up its rear, and then I felt the dog move. It woke with a start, ruffling the edges of the canvas tent as it sat up.

The cautious shuffling outside resumed, and the newly awoken dog cocked its head. I lunged for it and wrapped a hand around its snout, but not before it had let off a shattering bark.

The other dog woke at the sound and began barking as well. It sounded off like a klaxon, and between its splitting barks I heard branches snapping and bushes being trampled. Charlemagne barked twice, demanding to be released from the prison of the tent so that he may give chase.

I unzipped the tent and Charlemagne shot out like a bullet. I grabbed my rifle and exited after him, kicking one of the other dogs in anger as I left. I hefted the rifle to my shoulder, looking down the scope and seeing nothing but darkness. I had night vision optics in my bag, but by the time I’d attached it the animal would be long gone. It probably was already at this point, anyway.

I swore and lowered the rifle. The other dogs came barking out of the tent, and I kicked one of them in the side. It whimpered as it tumbled through the dirt. The other one froze and quieted up, smart enough to know when to quit. They crawled back into the tent, heads hung low.

These dogs were turning out to be a liability. Charlemagne was aging, and as much as it pained me I had to acknowledge that he would no longer be an efficient hunter in a few years. I needed to begin training his replacement. I had bought these two dogs from a breeder named Martin. He had insisted that they were of the finest stock, and that they’d be the greatest hunting companions I’d ever had. I doubted this at the time, knowing that no hound could ever match Charlemagne. But if Martin was to be trusted then perhaps these dogs would come close.

They were only pups. Impulsive, imbecilic, purebred pups. Terribly trained and barely even aware of their own existence, let alone the commands and subtle cues of their master. Martin was a swindler, and when I got back to town I’d make sure he never sold another dog again.

But for now I was stuck with these dogs, and they just scared off the prey I’d been hunting for the past week.

I whistled for Charlemagne, but I knew he would not return. Not until he had either caught and killed the animal or the sun rose and illuminated his failure.

#

I found the animal’s tracks the next morning.

Charlemagne came back with the dawn, exhausted and full of pride. He held his head high as he approached me, mud clinging to his wiry coat. I knew he would not boast unless he had achieved something, so I gave him a strip of bacon from the pan that I held above the fire. The other dogs looked on in despair.

I ran a hand over Charlemagne’s face as he savored the crispy morsel. His beard was rough and matted with more than just mud. I drew back my hand and examined my fingernails, seeing dried blood underneath. I inspected Charlemagne’s snout for wounds, and finding none I scratched his ear.

“Good boy,” I said, giving him another strip of bacon.

He’d not killed the animal. If he had, he’d be deep in the forest howling and standing over his kill, waiting for me to find him.

No, he hadn’t killed it last night. But he’d wounded it.  It had fought him off, and he’d dealt it a fearsome blow. Now it was even weaker than it was before.

I packed up the camp and followed Charlemagne out into the woods. He led me and the other dogs to the place where he’d fought the creature. Trampled brush and kicked up earth were spattered with blood. At the edge of the scene, returning into the dark morning forest, were the tracks.

They were long and deep, curved and lithe, as should be from an animal built for running. These were the feet of a fast creature. I judged by the depth and shape of the print that the animal was the largest of its kind that I’d ever hunted. Easily two hundred and thirty pounds; probably much more.

One of the smaller dogs ran in front of me to investigate, tromping across the track in the process. I shouted and shoved it aside. It turned to me, hurt confusion in its dumb eyes.

I brushed the dirt out of the print. I tried to salvage it, but the monstrous four-toed mark of the dog had crushed the whole thing. I swiped the track clear in anger and looked up at the pup. It cowered under my glare, knowing it had done something terrible but not knowing what. Charlemagne would have known what I was angry for. Then again, Charlemagne would never have been so careless as to destroy the only track of the animal I was hunting.

I cursed Martin’s name and stood up. I walked in the direction that the track was headed, Charlemagne and the dogs in tow.

I found some of the animal’s blood on a leaf within the hour. It was thick and bright red, glistening off the sun through the trees. It was twenty minutes until we found the next drop on the root of a spruce up the valley. It was bleeding less than I’d have figured, considering the ferociousness of Charlemagne’s bite and the ragged edges of his teeth. I’d seen the blood on his jaw, and so I knew that the animal must have been bleeding more than the signs were telling me. It had, somehow, slowed its bleeding. This told me that it possessed some sort of healing ability, and the thought intrigued me. This animal was proving to be quite the challenge. It filled me with a bubbling cloud of excitement.

#

I saw it just before dusk that day.

I’d come to a river and let the dogs drink heavily. If not for Charlemagne’s sharp eyes (even sharper than mine at his age) I would not have known to look up. I followed his stare and there it was: across the river and climbing a rockslide towards the ridge of the low mountains that surrounded the valley.

My heart jumped up into my throat. I could barely make it out from our distance. It was almost at the top of the ridge, at the edge of the effective range of my rifle, and in just a moment it would be over and lost again.

I slung my rifle off my back and onto my shoulder. The smaller dogs drank, blissfully unaware. Charlemagne stared at the movement on the rockslide.

I found it in the scope. It was huge, as I’d surmised. I studied the powerful muscles of its forelimbs as it grasped onto ledges and crags, pulling itself ever higher. Black hair fell down its powerful back. The animal kept its grizzled head forward, locked on the goal of the ridge above. It hadn’t seen me yet.

I glanced down to make sure the pups were still ignorant. The last thing I needed was one of them barking and alerting the beast.

I returned my eyes to the rockslide. The animal was nearly at the top. I settled the crosshair on its broad upper back and held my breath.

The pups jumped in fright at the lightning crack of the rifle. Charlemagne perked his ears slightly.

The rocks above the animal’s head exploded. I swore and yanked the bolt back on the rifle, catching a whiff of gunpowder as the empty casing flew from the open breach. I saw the animal falter through the scope. It lost its grip as rocks clattered around it, tumbling down the rockslide five yards. It stopped itself, digging its limbs into the rocks. I dropped the scope a few clicks and fired again.

There was another blast of powdered slate as the bullet passed clean through the animal’s leg. This time it did not catch itself. It crashed down the rocks and fell into the trees bellow.

I lifted the rifle above my head and forded the river. I’d hurt it, no doubt, but it had happened too fast for me to gauge the severity of the wound. Perhaps my shot had shattered its knee and it was lying crippled at the base of the mountain. But it was just as likely that the bullet had pierced only muscle, and even now the animal was healing itself and getting ready to move. I could not allow a moment’s hesitation.

The dogs bounded into the river after me. I entered the trees on the other side and moved to where I’d seen the animal fall, always keeping the tops of the mountains lined up with the sun so as not to lose my direction.

The smaller pups picked up on what was happening and took off into the woods. I whistled, but they paid me no heed. Their hunting instincts were kicking in, and they grew excited for the kill. Charlemagne, having once cornered a wounded stag and having his leg broken because of it, knew to hold back with me. Last night the animal was relatively healthy and looking to flee. But today it was bloodied, with its back to the sheer wall of the valley. There was safety if we stuck together. There was safety near the gun.

The other dogs were not so cautious, and within seconds their barking was a distant echo ahead of me.

It took me seven minutes to reach the base of the mountain, and by that time the pups’ barking had ceased. Charlemagne and I came to a rock filled clearing at the edge of the trees, and found the sight was painted red. A Morse code line of blood ran down the wall of slate, terminating in the clearing where we stood. A small pool of the stuff filled an indent where the animal had come to rest, with more spread out from there. Not all of it belonged to my prey.

One of the pups lay perfectly still, its skull crushed by a large rock. The other was near the edge of the trees. It pawed at me as I entered the clearing. Blood dribbled from its whining lips, and the broken accordion shape of its spine explained its inert hind legs.

The animal was nowhere to be seen.

Charlemagne regarded the crying dog briefly, and then traced his eyes along the tree line. He was only concerned with the hunt. As if on cue, there came a howl of pain from the woods. The animal was not far.

I left the broken pup in the clearing. I would not waste a bullet on it.

#

The forest was quiet, but to my ears it was a deafening cacophony. Hungry insects filled the air, birds threw their mating calls at each other from treetops, and above all my bones felt the heavy drum of my heart. It filled me, surrounded me, made up everything that I was. Under the darkness of the canopy and the thickness of the underbrush, I wished for nothing more than for the chorus of bugs and birds and my anxious heart to quiet. I could only imagine how Charlemagne must be feeling, with his hyper-attuned ears.

Charlemagne came to a sudden halt.

His ears perked and he stared straight forward. If I were any other hunter, anyone else alongside him, then I would have followed his gaze ahead. But I knew Charlemagne, and I knew that that stare was unfocused. He released sight from his active senses and channeled all of his attention into listening. I stopped alongside him, and I waited.

I watched his ears twitch ever so slightly. Seeking. Searching. Finding.

With the calmness and grace of a hawk, Charlemagne turned his head upwards. I followed him.

The animal was directly above us. One of its muscular forearms wrapped around the trunk of the tree. Its long feet- built for crossing large expanses of land- awkwardly tried to grasp the branch upon which it stood. Blood streaked down its thick calves, staining its clumsy right foot a deep crimson. The hole that my bullet had made in its leg continued to spew forth a deep black.

For a moment none of us moved. Charlemagne locked his gold eyes with the blue ones of the animal, and I felt the life saving burden of the rifle in my hands. The animal had nowhere to go; it was not made for climbing. It had made a gamble going into the trees. Its next move would determine whether the gamble had paid off.

It crouched slightly, and Charlemagne barked.

Then it dropped. Not towards me, but on to Charlemagne. It must have seen him as the larger threat, likely not understanding the lethality of my rifle. Charlemagne tried to avoid it, but gravity brought down the animal quicker than he could avoid. He collapsed under the creature’s weight.

I fired too soon.

Charlemagne did not yelp as the animal rolled him over and crushed its forelimbs into his throat. He did not cry as it cut him off from air and pressed his neck into the mud. Charlemagne only growled and snapped, not even bothering to fight for oxygen. He spent every last reserve of strength trying to kill the animal on top of him.

Everything moved in slow motion. My hands fumbled on the bolt of the rifle, sweat sliding against steel as I desperately chambered another round. Charlemagne barked and clawed, biting in vain at the face of the creature that held him. The animal wrapped its hand around Charlemagne’s snout, closing his teeth hard on his tongue. Charlemagne did not yelp even as blood gushed from between his jaws. The animal jammed its finger into Charlemagne’s eye up to the knuckle.

I shouted and fired the rifle without even aiming. Blood exploded from the animal’s shoulder and it screamed. I racked the bolt again and stepped forward, kicking the animal in the chest and knocking it off Charlemagne. I stepped a foot on its throat and then brought the rifle up to my face, looking down the sites at the animal under my boot.

It struck at my boots with sweaty, hairless hands. But strong as it was, I was stronger. It had had three weeks to adapt to the valley; I had had a lifetime.

Tears streamed from its eyes even as it continued to beat and claw at my legs.

“Please,” the animal said. “Please… I—I don’t… please…”

I looked over at Charlemagne. Thick blood oozed out of his ruptured eye and stuck to his gray fur. His legs no longer kicked. His jaw no longer snapped.

No whimper had ever escaped his lips.

I looked back at the animal. The hair along its jaw line was scraggly and matted with dried saliva. The features of its face were shallow and poorly shaped. Its nose was too small, its brow too heavy. What a poor trophy it would make. I scowled. Martin had sold me yet another subpar specimen.

Its lips trembled. Its blue eyes looked up at me with that faint self-awareness that all prey seems to have at that moment that it realizes that its life is at an end.

“P—please…” It grabbed my leg now. It was no longer fighting. “Why would you… please don’t—why would you do this?”

I closed my left eye. The sights of the rifle and the face of the animal were all I saw.

It sobbed. “I have a famil—“

I fired.

#

I left the animal there in the forest along with the broken pups. I called for the helicopter and had Charlemagne’s body airlifted out. I arranged for him to be stuffed, so that he might stand in my parlor alongside all of the mighty beasts that he’d helped me defeat.

But I did not go with. Instead I gave specific orders to my manservant.

I made camp by the river, happy in the knowledge that my helicopter would be dropping off Martin the following morning. He was fat and inexperienced. I figured I’d have him bagged before the following sunset.