Chapter 3: Scavengers

Tarek’s arms were red with gore halfway to the elbow as he probed inside the chest cavity of the dead mist-hart. He knew he ought to feel revulsion at the slick blood and bits of viscera clinging to his skin, but as he thought it through, all he could muster was bafflement that the Catori feared and avoided blood so completely. All those old tales about the evils of blood magic turned their minds. If the magic is bad, the blood must be too! As well avoid hot food because you fear the fire. He shook his head, smiling grimly. But it was the blood magic that made me a man today. I came within a hairsbreadth of losing everything because of old stories. What a fool I was.

With the mist-hart’s heart muscle gripped in one bloody hand, Tarek extricated his other one from the chest cavity and reached down by his feet, picking up the sharp flake of chert stone he’d knapped just for this purpose. The cutting tool was smaller than his thumb and narrow as a blade of grass. Careful not to cut himself, he put his blade hand back inside the mist-hart and swiftly severed the major canals that connected the heart to the rest of the beast. He closed his eyes, imagining how the muscle looked in his mind, and without taking it out of the chest cavity he began to pare away the outer layers of the muscle.

Many times he’d seen other hunters carve up the roasted heart of a mist-hart to reveal what they all called the heart-knuckle. It was a solid mass in the center of the heart as hard as stone. Only mist-harts had it. Supposedly, the heart-knuckle was what let them turn into mist, though how anyone could know the truth of that was beyond Tarek. Some of the Catori hunters used the heart-knuckle to make perfectly round ball-toys for their children, and once Tarek had seen Shad use fine river sand to grind down a heart-knuckle into an conical arrowhead that stayed sharp even after the old hunter shot his arrow into a rockwood trunk.

Tarek had a different idea in mind. Shad said that the heart-knuckle didn’t harden to stone until it was removed from the creature. He was about to discover if that was true, so long as he didn’t sever his own fingers while cutting blindly inside the dead mist-hart. There. As he pruned away the thick walls of the heart’s chambers, his slick, sticky fingers encountered an oblong sphere that felt different than the hard, fibrous flesh around it. It was the right size to be the heart-knuckle, but it was spongy, giving slightly under his fingers as he squeezed it. Shad was right! His heart quickened.

Handling his cutting shard carefully, he cored the sphere, opening an aperture through the center just wide enough for his pinky. Then he trimmed away the excess from the outside of the sphere, leaving a rough ring shape. His fingers traced the outline of the ring, and he made two more cuts to make the thing as close to perfect as he could without the benefit of his eyes. Now, to see if it will work like I think. He felt an urge to mutter a prayer to the Ones Beneath but clamped his lips. If they were watching him, he very much doubted they approved. He’d waste no breath on dead ancestors who had already turned their backs on him.

Holding the ring tight in his gory fist, he slowly pulled it clear of the mist-hart’s chest cavity. His breath caught. Tarek could feel the thing hardening, the slippery give of flesh taking on new weight and firmness in his hand. Opening his fingers, he saw a rough ring of dark red slathered in bright crimson blood. Laughing, he sprang to his feet and danced a formless jig. “I did it!” he announced to the trees.

Realizing suddenly that anyone might happen along and find him caked in blood, he hurried to a nearby stream. His favorite work spot under the huge rockwood was far enough outside the village’s floodwall of dirt and timbers that he usually had all the privacy he wanted, but anyone who happened to be taking a long walk might chance past him. Plus, Yaretzi was coming soon, and she’d be no happier to see him wallowing in blood than any of the others.

When washed clean, the heart-knuckle ring still held the deepest red color he’d ever seen. Most heart-knuckles were gray, but not this one. It was darker than blood, darker than smoked meat, as near to black as it was to red. He could see the strokes of his cutting stone on it, making pleasingly irregular flat planes that corkscrewed around the ring’s surface. It was even better than he’d hoped. Ones Beneath send I didn’t cut it too large. He’d left his bag by the carcass strung from the rockwood’s branches, so he tucked the ring into his loincloth for safekeeping.

Once gutted and skinned, it was trivially easy to slice the mist-hart’s meat into skinny fillets, and sweetgrass was plentiful in this area. Finding a rock hard enough to make his chert spark was harder, but soon enough he had a merry little blaze going under the carcass, and the smell of roasting meat filled the air.

He had just started scraping the skin clean to make a new raincover for his mamah when he heard rustling in the underbrush. Thinking it was Yaretzi, he turned with a smile. It dropped off his face when he saw an enormous otter with its paws in the pile of mist-hart viscera he’d left nearby on a banyan leaf. “Hsst,” he said, pitching a pebble at it. The creature bobbed sinuously out of the way, its front paws still digging in the discarded guts.

“Stop that!” he said, getting to his knees. The great beast bared its teeth in a rictus grin and hooted at him. It was the biggest of its kind he had ever seen, fully as long from snout to tail as Tarek was tall, its fur a rich red-brown. Two long streaks of cream-colored fur ran from its nose to the top of its breast, making the thing look like it had ridiculously long mustaches.

Tarek got to his feet, nettled by the otter’s playful thievery. “That’s not for you!” he yelled, raising his arms to make himself look as large as possible. The otter shrieked and gabbled, grabbed a bit of intestines between its teeth, and dashed away. A long line of bloody tube trailed after it.

“I was going to use that,” Tarek sighed, dropping his hands. When cleaned, the intestines made useful casings for packed meat scraps too small to eat on their own, and the bladder could be inflated for a child’s toy. He wasn’t about to wrestle a huge otter for it, though. The beast dove into the underbrush, dirt-caked intestines snaking through the leaves behind it. “I hope it tastes good,” he called after it sourly.

He gathered up the remaining innards and placed them close at hand as he settled down to scrape the deerskin clean. The liver would go into the coals when the fire died down. He lost himself in his work, imagining his coming tryst with Yaretzi.

His thoughts wandered in a pleasantly randy haze until he heard a twig snap nearby. Looking up, he saw the same mustachioed river otter nearly at his elbow, creeping with its belly in the dirt, eyes watching him intently, the mist-hart liver in its jaws.

“No!” he cried, leaping for it. The otter shrieked with what sounded suspiciously like laughter as it darted away. Tarek got a hand on its back leg, and he caught the barest sense of the thing’s mind. It was playing! He scrabbled after it, trying to gain purchase with his other hand, but its mighty tail thwacked into his head, and he lost his grip. Back it ran to the underbrush, but instead of disappearing again, it peeked its head out of the bushes, liver still clamped in its jaws, watching him as it gabbled formlessly around its stolen meal.

“That’s for the tribe!” Tarek growled, snatching up a larger stone and hurling it at the otter. It disappeared for a moment only to reappear on the other side of the great rockwood trunk. This time it put the meat down, covering it possessively with its front paws while it bared its teeth and hooted at him. He threw another stone, and it ducked away, reaching back after a moment to retrieve the liver. Then it trotted to the opening in the underbrush it had made on the near side of the rockwood, peeking out, waiting. Playing.

Tarek ground his teeth and reached for more rocks. “I don’t have time for this,” he said reasonably as he hurled one at the grinning otter’s face. The beast scampered back into the underbrush and popped out exactly where it had before on the far side of the rockwood. Another rock, another dodge. Back and forth around the tree without a care in the world the idiot thing gamboled.

Tarek took a deep breath and looked down at his clenched hands, willing away his frustration. I just need to finish roasting the meat and get back to the village. If I hurt it a little, it’ll go away. He liked otters, for the most part, and he didn’t want to kill the thing, but neither would he allow it to steal any more meat. Another deep breath and he was able to uncurl his fists. There were a few dark hairs stuck between his fingers where he’d grabbed the otter. That might work. Maybe.

He reached down casually and picked up the little chert blade he’d used to carve the heart-knuckle in one hand and a smooth rock in the other. He specifically did not look at the otter, who was making impatient trills and lip smacks, waiting for the next rock. Tarek licked the cleft between the fingers of his rock-bearing hand, feeling the prickle of hair in his mouth. He suddenly had a faint sense of the creature. It was a weaker connection than the dung had been, but hopefully it would serve.

He lobbed the rock toward the otter with his weak hand, and as expected, it bounded around the back of the rockwood tree to the other side. Tarek hurled the tiny blade as hard and as true as he could toward where he knew it would emerge even before its face appeared. The blade was still in mid-air when the blunt, tapered mustache face appeared. “Hold!” Tarek cried, focusing the thought toward the otter with all the mental strength he possessed. The otter jerked and stood stock-still, seeming surprised.

His command held the beast for less than a heartbeat, but it was enough. The chert blade flashed past its face and buried itself in its shoulder. The otter’s gabbling turned to a shriek of pain, and it snapped at the wound, which only wrenched at the sharp rock, opening the flesh further. Maddened, it turned in circles, the cream of its mustaches turning red with blood as it worried at the chert blade.

“Got you, little man,” Tarek said sadly, raising his arms threateningly and advancing. “Now run off and leave me be.”

The otter had other ideas. It bit through the thin shard of chert, leaving a bloody stump protruding, and turned its beady eyes on him. Its lips peeled back in a snarl, revealing short, sharp fangs. It tamped its legs down and hissed.

“Oops,” was all he had time to say, and then it sprang. It leapt high and barreled right into his chest, tearing at him with tooth and claw. He felt lines of fire rake across his skin and cried out. He’d once seen a pack of big otters kill an adult caiman. He had no doubt this one could kill him if it wanted.

He managed to jam his hands under its jaws to hold its mouth away from his throat, but still its claws scraped and tore at him. They were blunted from digging and who-knew-what-else, so it wasn’t as if a panther were sitting on his chest… but close enough to make very little difference.

It growled and tried to draw back from his long arms, but Tarek pushed desperately at it, making sure to keep contact with its neck. The otter was too heavily muscled to strangle, but if its mouth was at arm’s length then it couldn’t tear out his throat. It huffed and shuddered, and bright scarlet drops of life flung from its wounded pelt to land on Tarek’s face. One went into his mouth.

He tasted a hard, bitter tang hidden inside salty sweetness. The feel of the oily fluid pulsed on his tongue in time with his heartbeat. He could smell the otter’s musk and fear and rage, and it felt like his own. Convulsing with sudden strength, he threw the beast clear of him. His heart was pounding and his head reeling, but all he could think about was that taste. It was strong and biting and perfect, better than a haunch of the tenderest kinkajou meat, better than bringing home a kill, better than kissing Yaretzi. His blood sang in his ears. This was life, and he wanted more.

The otter was hissing and sputtering as he turned on it. It skittered back and forth as if it couldn’t decide whether to attack or flee. “Stupid slick-skin, bite me and I bite back,” it snarled at him.

Tarek froze. It spoke. This wasn’t emotion or intent or any of the other vague sensations he’d felt when he used his curse to track the mist-hart. It wasn’t even the semi-understood thoughts he got from animals if he touched them. This was speech – audible, understandable speech that rang in his ears alongside his own harsh breathing and the gentle babble of the stream beside them.

“What did you say?” he asked, incredulous.

The otter leapt into the air at his words, spun in a circle, and scampered into the underbrush. “Shit shit shit shit,” it muttered as it ran away.

“Wait!” he cried as its tail followed it out of sight. He felt a surge within him as he spoke, a concussive force in the tiniest pieces of himself that resonated from his chest and echoed in his mouth. Immediately the rustling in the ferns stopped.

He could feel where the otter was. He could have pointed to it with his eyes closed. It – no, he – was crouched at the base of a gum tree, his muscles locked and straining as he tried to run away. He could feel the beast straining to move, but it did not.

“Come back,” he called.

“Don’t want to,” the otter muttered even as it turned about and trotted out into the open. “Don’t want to, don’t want to, shit, what’s going on? Don’t want to!” There it was, out in the open, bleeding from its shoulder, its eyes darting and scared as it paced back and forth.

Tarek sat down heavily in the dirt. “Ones Beneath,” he whispered. This was it. This was real blood magic. He’d tasted the otter’s blood, and now he could understand it… and command it.

“Come here,” he said, holding out a hand.

“Are you crazy? Just walk right over to the slick-skin who bit me? That’s a great idea,” the otter drawled even as it padded toward him. “I don’t… I… what? What are you doing to me?” His voice sounded like a man’s, clear and smooth.

The long, narrow beast stopped right in front of him. Tarek reached out a hand gingerly.

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“I’ll bite,” the otter snarled.

“Don’t,” Tarek told him, and laid his fingers on the otter’s fur just behind its nub of an ear. The creature shuddered and twitched but did not bite him. With his hand on its fur, the connection was even stronger. He could feel its terror and confusion.

“Why aren’t I biting you?” it asked, voice shaking. “What did you do to me? Why can you speak?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Tarek admitted. “But I think I swallowed a little of your blood, and it… it… bound you to me.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” the otter said. It cocked its head. “Does that make sense?”

“I don’t know,” Tarek whispered.

“Your tooth hurts,” the animal whimpered. “I want to bite you, and I can’t. This is no fun.”

“I’m sorry,” Tarek said. “I was working, and you stole the liver, and… I didn’t know…” he trailed off in wonder, looking at the giant beast. I’m apologizing to an otter. This was not how he had imagined this afternoon going. “I can pull the tooth out,” he offered.

“No,” the creature blurted. “It’ll hurt!”

“It hurts now, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, but –”

“Will you die if I pull it out?”

“No, stupid. Lick lick lick. Have you never had a wound?”

“My kind does it a little differently,” Tarek admitted. “Let me pull it out.”

“No!”

“Hold still.”

The otter froze where it stood, and Tarek marveled at the power his magic held. Why do the old stories say the blood magic is so terrible? Incredible! He considered the wet nub of stone jutting from its shoulder, wondering how to grab it without touching the blood. When he realized what he was thinking, he gave a little snort. A little late for that.

Grasping the slick chert as firmly as he could between his fingertips, he wrenched the blade free from the otter’s flesh. The animal howled and bayed in its liquid voice, but now the sound was peppered with cursing and the fragments of threats. Fresh blood dribbled from the wound, and Tarek couldn’t help himself. He put a finger in the flow and licked it. It tasted better than the sweetest honey mead Zuma had ever brewed.

The otter immediately turned his head and began cleaning the wound with his tongue. “Ahhhhh that hurts that hurts that hurts,” he hissed, the words garbled with his face against his fur. “Why did you do that?”

“So you can get better.”

The otter paused in his licking and stared at Tarek. “You tried to kill me. Aren’t you going to kill me?”

“I can’t kill you now,” Tarek sighed. “You can talk!”

The otter considered this as it licked again at his split flesh. “All the water people talk. Never stopped a slick-skin before.”

“Yes. Well. This is different. Usually we can’t understand.”

“How does that make it different?” the creature asked.

“I don’t know. But it does.”

“Your answers are stupid.”

“I…!” Tarek stopped himself short, realizing the absurdity of trying to justify his position to a jungle animal. He might understand its speech like a human, but it was not human. “Maybe so. But I’m not going to kill you, regardless.”

The otter bared its teeth at him and wriggled on the ground, leaving its wound alone. “Want to play, then?”

Tarek laughed. He couldn’t help it. Fight, eat, play: those were the only things this creature cared about. “I can’t,” he said. “I have to go be with my people.”

“Boring,” sighed the otter. “No slick-skins. Play!”

“I don’t know how to play with otters.”

“You already were, stupid slick-skin. The rock game was fun. I liked it when I took your meat.” Then the otter cocked its head. “Another slick-skin comes. We can play with three.”

Tarek jumped to his feet, grabbing dirt to scour the blood from his hands. “Go hide!”

The otter trundled off to the underbrush, unable to resist his command. “Wait, why?”

“Hide from other slick-skins!” Tarek said urgently. “Always!”

“This is stupid,” the beast complained, and then it was gone. Tarek whirled around at the sound of a footsteps coming up fast behind him, painting a smile on his face to welcome his beloved.

It was Kanga crossing the space at a run, and he led with his fist.

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