Solo A day in the life (part 1)

[Shem]

Winter 10, 513 The crack and pop of dry limbs burning merrily in the hearth provided a pleasant backdrop to the humming of his mother, as she stirred a morning breakfast of oat porridge in her big iron kettle. It was such a familiar sensation, waking to those homey sounds, smelling the tang of wood smoke in his keen nostrils, seeing that same silhouette against the light of the dancing flames. Shem smiled, lips pulling back from sharp teeth, as he threw off the woolen covers of the low lying trundle bed. Sitting up, he caught his mother’s eye as she turned to look at him, smiling warmly in return. She had the obliquely set eyes and strangely unhuman mottled hair of red and black and white that distinctly put one in mind of her feline self. A domestic calico cat, she was of course of good use about the farm, helping to keep the mice and rats at bay in the barns, and the house. Shem’s father would be outside, having spent the night patrolling in his canine form – that of a large, grey hound. The two served their master and mistress well, each bound to one, and thrown together now in a semblance of man and wife – though in their animal forms they were somewhat natural enemies. But Kelvic folk could usually put such differences aside fairly easily. Shem was not their only offspring. A younger sister, who had recently begun to shift to an animal form of a squirrel, was asleep in the bigger bed that she shared with her mother. Though he had been birthed only two years ago, Shem was already an adult grown, just as his sister, born two scant seasons ago, would soon enough be – and both of them out and on their own. Shem was just visiting. He’d come from the city proper and spent the evening before enjoying the company of his family. There were two older siblings who had already moved on too. The farmer wasn’t able to support so many servants, and they were all of them raised knowing they’d be expected to make their own way in the world as soon as they were mature enough. Shem had begun to wander off when he was only a little more than two seasons old, and he was well able to see to his own needs. His visit had been a purely social one, and with the dawn that was peeking through the cracks around the window of the one room quarters his parents had been allotted, he’d be off and away, setting about the main reason for his sojourn – hunting. Reaching for a wooden bowl, his mother apportioned a good serving of the steaming oatmeal to her son, and then went to rouse the sleeping girl. Shem and his dam engaged in a brief colloquy about what game might be had, in this early part of winter. Soon enough, with his breakfast finished and a fond kiss and hug for his mother, Shem was pulling on his coat and boots and bidding her farewell. Outside, the brisk air of very early morning accosted his flesh, and he sucked it in, gleaning the thousand and one farm smells from any that might bear more import to the would be hunter. He easily detected his father, and sought him out, finding him sat near one of the barns, looking in his direction, awaiting his approach. The dog Kelvic shifted briefly, his state of undress of no concern to either of them. Embracing, they made an affectionate good-bye, his father wishing him luck on the hunt. Shifting back to a huge, grey wolfhound like canine, he trotted beside his son – an odd pair indeed – as much so as when he went in company with his cat-mate. Escorting Shem to the farm gate, he barked a final word of encouragement and returned to his own duties. With his pack slung over his shoulder, Shem stepped out onto the track that wound in and out between the various farmsteads. Heading in the opposite direction from the city, which rested above him further up the shoulder of the mountains, the Kelvic walked along, sniffing the air with his keen nose. In human form, the smells that assailed him were much muted, but still more intensely detectable than if he had been a true human. He would check the snares he’d set the day before first, and then, after assuming his wolf form, he would set out to see what bigger game might be in the area. It wasn’t so easy to bring down game by himself. Wolves of course usually hunted cooperatively in packs. But it wasn’t impossible. Being able to shift to human form often helped, if he could improvise some way to trap the game first, before moving in for the kill with his teeth. He could still hunt with the pack that he’d learned from. But it would hardly be possible to enlist their help, only to steal the prize from under their noses and take it into the city to sell in the market. That just wouldn’t be right, and he’d be thrown out from ever hunting with them again if he tried it. The Kelvic had been with the pack on and off for long enough that he’d come to regard the other members as brothers and sisters, and he had no desire to try to wrest food from their mouths, even if that could have been accomplished, which was certainly not a given. He trudged along, covering ground as familiar to him as the back of his own hand, enjoying the increasing warmth of the morning rays that Syna saw fit to bless the land with. His nostrils twitched, and he drew in the scent of hare and stoat, fox and pheasant. Nothing right in his immediate range, of course. In his human form, he was also basically unable to bring down any game. Shem had been thinking recently that he should really pick up learning the bow. The farmer had one and his sons liked to fool around with it. But none of them were very proficient with the weapon. To date, Shem had relied on his long legs, running speed, sharp claws and even sharper teeth to catch whatever fast moving game he wanted to make a try for. For the most part, he used snares to trap smaller animals and birds, which made up the bulk of what he sold at the market. But if he had a bow, and knew how to use it, he could add to his repertoire of hunting techniques. It was a thought, anyway, and he’d been saving to purchase one. Then all he’d need was someone to teach him its ways. After walking a good hour or so, having left the dirt road long before and making his way out into the low lying scrub and moss hillocks of the mountainy terrain, he reached the first of the snares he’d set the day before. Over the past six seasons, he’d come to memorize much of the land about Lhavit, and with his canid sense of direction, he was well able to navigate the valleys and slopes and rifts. Approaching the wire and stick contraption, he grinned to see a hare dangling a foot or so above the ground. He was happy no other predators or scavengers had found it yet, for its body was intact. Kneeling, he carefully loosened the wire noose and pulled the stiffening form free. Shoving it into his game pack, he reset the snare. It was a good little trail here – one well traveled by the little cottony tailed critters, and others. Their warren was right over the crest of this hillock and this was their route to a nearby stream from which they drank. Propping the repositioned noose up with the same notched stick, he released both slowly, and stood. He’d know once the hares had caught on, and became too wary to come this way anymore. Then he’d find a new spot, but for now he’d try his luck again here. Moving on in a path that might have seemed erratic but which lay etched in his memory, he hummed a bit, making a circuit of a total of ten snares he’d set out. Three rabbits, another hare, two partridge, and a marmot – it was not a disappointing morning. Once he’d reset the snares, moving some to a fresh location, he made his way to a familiar outcropping of rock. Here he disrobed and shoved both his clothes and his pack into a crevice between two boulders, rolling a largish stone to wedge in the opening. There all would be safe and unmolested until his return. With a brief flash of light, he shifted easily to canine form, now taking on the body of a large, black wolf. Head at a level with his shoulders, he sniffed the air deeply, now pulling in a hundred times more powerful scents. Shifting and sorting them, he let his tongue loll for a moment, the mid-morning sun warming the thick undercoat of his pelt. Taking off at a steady trot, he headed down the mountain side, wondering if his little ploy had worked. Unerringly, he made for the natural cul-de-sac, some quarter of a mile away from the last vestige of his human scent. He’d even brought the lump of salty clay here in his jaws, two days ago, and a disgusting flavor it had had too, and deposited it where two shallow ravines came together to form a blind dead end. As he drew closer, he slowed, his advance now wary, sniffing and pausing and almost inching forward. Of course, he came at from downwind, but that interrupted the flow of scent, as he was lower down than the upper reaches of the rock walls. As far as he could tell, his trap had so far not lured any unsuspecting prey within its confining perimeter. He came to the very lip of the little ravine, and peered down. Yep – empty. So far. Easing himself down onto his belly, he lay, and waited. Head resting on outstretched paws, he made no sound, ready to wait all day and on into the night if necessary. It was a good location. The hooved creatures that made their way up to the alpine meadows to feast on summer grass would be migrating back down to the shelter of the valleys, to prepare to weather the wintery cold and snow. They’d still have a nice layer of fat, and his mouth watered at the thought of the taste of fresh flesh in his maws. As the hours passed, it was very tempting to stretch out and nap on his side, but he forced himself to remain awake, and alert. Slowly, Syna crept up in the sky, and he wished he could have a drink, but still he lay, near motionless, and ever on the ready. Finally, it came and when he first heard the approach, he almost whined. He could have hoped for an animal worthy of the waiting. He thought he was about to get more than he hoped for. Within a few minutes of first smelling and then hearing his prey, he spotted its outline – a huge male elk. Good gods – would he really be able to take down such a creature by himself? It stood five feet at the shoulder if it stood an inch, and probably weighed close to 800 pounds. Maybe he should let this one pass. But his wolfish instincts were kicking in. He had to at least give it a try, though he wasn’t even sure how he’d pack the meat out if he was successful in bringing this monster down. If only he had a bow, and knew how to use it, he would have such an advantage. He waited, every muscle tense, ready. The smell of the salty earth which he had crumbled over the end of the alcove drew the elk forward, and when it bent its majestic head to nibble and lick at the coveted mineral, Shem coiled his body into one tight spring – and launched himself into the air. Over the edge of the rock he flew, to land squarely on the elk’s withers. His jaws clamped down, as his claws scrambled to dig in. What a ride ensued! The startled creature bucked like a demon, and then its surprise and alarm turned to a deadly rage. Eighty pounds of still not totally experienced wolf, accompanied by a mouthful of sharp teeth and four sets of claws, versus a seasoned veteran who had survived eight winters already, possessed of a magnificent set of pointed tines, and large, hard hooves fully capable of splitting open Shem’s skull. Up and down the elk jumped and leaped, trying to dislodge his would be killer, as Shem hung on grimly. He needed to get a hold of the elk’s throat, he now realized. The thick muscles of its back were doing far too good a job of protecting the vulnerable spinal chord. This was a task for a pack, not a lone canine with only his teeth to try to chomp down upon some vital part of his quarry. With each leap and buck. Shem was losing his grip, and it took no more than five or six to send him flying through the air. He hit the rocky bottom of the tiny gorge hard, the air being knocked out of his lungs, as the bull elk twisted like a tornado, bearing down on him with an unbelievable speed. It’s unlikely the elk really had murder in its heart – it probably just wanted to get the hell out and away from its attacker. But unfortunately, Shem lay right in its path. At the last second, he managed to roll to the side and missed being trampled by a bare six inches. The elk, having successfully done the fight thing, now opted for flight and hightailed it down the gorge, heading for the opening, and freedom, at maximum speed. Still winded, Shem rolled to his belly and shook his head a bit, slowly taking a mental inventory of possible injuries. All in all, he’d fared pretty well, and been quite lucky. Ok, so maybe that hadn’t been the best idea after all. Licking the blood he had managed to draw from the elk’s tough hide from off his maws, he sighed inwardly, savoring the fleeting taste of what could have been a might good meal. He wasn’t sure if this confrontation would have spoiled the cul-de-sac as a still viable place to try to lure in some big game. He’d have to give that some thought. Finally, feeling pretty sure that he was largely still intact, he rose to his paws and shook himself vigorously. Well, he felt like he’d had enough for one day. It was now mid-afternoon and by the time he reached the gates of the city it would be evening. Not that he minded traveling in the dark – it was all pretty much one and the same to him, when in wolf form. Settling into that same steady, ground eating trot, he set off in the direction of the cache, to retrieve his clothes and game and to shift back to his human form, before returning to the city for the night.