Fignments and Fragments
Thom took the hounds back along the thin stream of the creek that ran through the woods. Two hounds were rigged with harnesss and pole contraptions with stretched canvas that acted as a means of carrying the meat and skins from the deer they had taken. With any luck the rest of the pack would be similarly laden by the time they turned home. He would settle for just three more hounds. It would be tight to be sure, but it would see them through the harshest part of the winter. He took a deep breath, enjoying the fine fresh pine laden air and the crispness of the morning. He felt unusually bouyant and optimistic. This group of hounds had a new kind of synergy, he felt remarkably proud of how well they worked together as a team. Smiling to himself, he realized he counted himself as a part of that team. He thought of his hounds as an extension of him and he as an extension of them. It seemed this was the way the world should work and he could not imagine wanting another way of life anymore than he could imagine a live devoid of his Maire.
As they hiked, the hounds randomly left the trail; whether to chase a rabbit down or to wrestle with each other along the way, it was all just a part of the rhythm. Thom planned to get a few hours away from the last hunt site before they started in earnest again. If any of the pack took up the scent earlier he would know. But he doubted it, he wanted a stag. It would bear more meat and the horns would sell well, he knew.
Coll was loping along the embankment enjoying the breeze through his fur, the way it tickled along his flank. He spotted one of the younger hounds, a grey like himself and sped up a bit. The younger grey was standing at the edge of creek. Coll leapt to make a flying tackle and sent them both into the water. They thrashed and wrestled, taking turns dunking each other. They reared up, with their front paws locked around powerful necks, leaning in for leverage and pulling the weaker down under the cool water. Apparently the water frolics were a bit too noisy as Thom came shortly to interrupt their game. Appropriately chastened, they climbed out and immediately shook the water from their coats, sending a thick spray all over Thom and some of the pack who stood nearby. 'Tis a good thing it's a fine day or this bath ye've given me would be most unfortunate," laughed Thom.
They continued on in this leisurely way for roughly another hour, when Conn, apparently scenting something of interest, separated from the pack. Thom let him go, assuming he would be back as soon as he had satisfied his curiousity. He watched as the blond moved out of sight, feeling curiously hesitant to see him go.
Conn smelled something unfamiliar, something that stirred him, but that he could not identify. The scent eluded him. It was there and then it was not. He followed its fleeting traces trying to unlock the puzzle. Soon the gossamer thin traces began to take a heavier form. He still could not place the smell, but it was delicious, more inviting than the doe, solid and enriching. It occurred to him briefly that he should have the others with him. But he shrugged the thought off. He did not even know what he was chasing. He could always backtrack once he knew the prize. The scent grew thicker, he could almost taste the prey. Yet still he could not identify it. At the edge of his peripheral vision he caught the movement of what seemed to be a large animal. Whatever it was that he sought, that had to be it. From the edge of his vision he could make out a glossy white hide that seemed to stand tall, taller than him, He turned his head for a better view and the animal shot forward.
Without a moment's hesitation Conn gave chase. He darted around the trees, over the upraised ancient roots, leapt the rocks strewn here and there in a pathless maze as he maintained a constant eye on the retreating beast he still had yet to identify. The scent had changed somewhat; added to the already heady aroma was the distinct smell of fear. He growled low in his throat and picked up speed. He was closing ground now, perhaps thirty paces away. He could make out hooves on the hind legs, perhaps a stag or a horse of some kind? Shouldn't he have been better able to scent those? His rear paw grazed a raised root, bruising the top a bit. He winced at the unexpected contact but kept his focus and his speed. He was now only twenty paces or so away and the scent of fear had heightened from his quarry. His own blood was pounding loudly in his ears, his excitement filling him with the power to increase his speed. He could amost feel the pulsing rhythm of the animal's exertion to increase its own pace. Just a bit more surge and Conn knew he would be in a position to pounce. He could already feel the power of sailing through the air, savor the feel of his claws sinking into the rear haunches as he pulled the prey down before he moved quickly into a throat attack. As he savored this thought, the saliva pooling in his mouth, he increased his speed for the last forward rush that would jettison him onto the beast's back. His powerful hindquarters pressing hard and driving him forward with massive thrust, his right foreleg hammering to the ground and finding the small indentation, the sickening feel as he twisted hard to the right and fell to the ground. He was overwhelmed by the dual shock of his quarry disappearing from view and the pain that ripped up his leg from the twisted joint, the instant shortness of breath from the hard impact. He lay there stunned at his loss, in pain, out of breath and gave himself leave to whimper.
Thom and the pack had moved on along the creek's edge. It had gone on over an hour's time and still the blond had not returned. He was beginning to get uneasy. Maire would have his head if he dinna return with Conn in fine form. He whistled to Coll and the grey came to him. "Go and find yon Conn fer me, we'll rest here awhile," he gestured to the rest of the pack. He was pleased when the grey started immediately back down the bank. It seemed clear that the hound knew what he had asked. He would wait a bit and if the two hounds dinna return he would take the pack to find them. 'Twas a shame to waste an entire day, but he dinna seem to have much choice, not while there was a chance that his Maire's Conn might be returned.
Conn gradually shifted so that he was lying on his barrel chest. He licked his twisted paw, cleaning the blood from it. A sharp edge had cut the area above his claws, not deep, but enough to make it well up crimson. After inspecting the still throbbing area he shifted, using his left leg, to a sitting position, then slowly eased weight onto his right. At about three-quarters pressure he gasped out with pain and pulled back. Then he simply lay back down and licked his sore paw, hoping somehow that this comforting motion would erase the injury. This was how Coll found him after following the oddly scented trail that smelled uniquely of Conn but also of something else, something he could not define. He pressed his muzzle into Conn's neck to get his attention. The two hounds gazed at each other intently. Coll licked Conn's injured paw and then nudged him in the belly as if urging him to stand. Finally, after much effort, the grey succeeded in getting the blond to rise. Conn stood there on three legs, his right foreleg curled protectively up. Coll circled him with interest three times, then paused and gently pressed on the raised foreleg trying to push it to the ground. Conn growled a warning from deep in the back of his throat and Coll stepped back.
It was Coll that sensed the approach of the hunter. He and the pack were still a good distance, but he could feel Thom as he turned the pack to begin their own search. What Coll sensed was not what he expected, what he sensed was danger. It did not make sense, but somehow it seemed that more than anything he needed to make sure that he and Conn were not found by Thom and the pack. This thing that was wrong with Conn, it made things wrong with everything. Why there was danger he did not know. All he knew was that his every instinct told him that they need to hide and hide well. Their scent trail was too easy to follow. Conn had left one that was thick with the chase and his too would be easy to track. He managed to convey a sense of the urgent danger to Conn and the two hounds moved, as quicky as they could, further into the dense woods. Coll was looking for a foil against the scent. He wasn't sure what they would be able to use. Conn was in no condition at all to roll in anything useful even if they found it. His thoughts bounced around turbulently. Finally he led them back in a wide arc to the water where they had last stood as a group before Conn's disappearance. He led them into the area where the hounds had milled about and then down into the creek where they proceeded to rinse themselves in the slow running water and then to walk down stream.
They followed the creek until they found an opening in the dense cover along the bank and here Coll led them out. Conn would have lain down right there, but Coll pressed him onward. He was merciless, pushing the blond hound another two hours before he found what he thought was a relatively safe and secluded (if uncomfortable) thicket where Conn could rest. The great blond hound crawled in, wincing as his right paw turned uncomfortably, then settled and let sleep take him from the pain. Coll, for his part, could not rest. He was too worried about being found. He almost absentmindedly caught two squirrels, consuming one and leaving the other for Conn. When at last his attempt to maintain a constant vigil fell into slumber, he was trapped in a repeated vision, a movie of only two scenes. In the vision Thom was lifting a lifeless grey hound, one leg dangling at an odd angle and putting him into a wide deep grave. The visions shifted then to a vision of Thom's gun, its barrel hot in the night air, a constant circle of a vision, ever repeating the broken hound and Thom's killing stick, leaving its impression on the young grey as it slept.
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