Junkyard

22/10/2020

Continues from yesterday...

Siren from the Skies

-three-

Aklan's face did not greet him at the edge of the kilijec next morning. Pleased, Finch parted the thick bushes with his black spear. It did not smell so much now since he had rubbed it with mint leaves.

He hadn't gotten far when something blunt poked between his shoulder blades on his back and Aklan appeared. Patches of ochre, red and green were in vertical swathes on his face and rimmed the swells of his body. Finch easily recognised the painting style. It was used in hunting festivals as their tribal signature, and on the rare times, to represent war.

Hunched over, Aklan looked like a were-wolf with his leering face. He jabbed at Finch some more before breaking out into a laugh. "A true hunter listens to the forest, kid. You're dead now."

Finch squinted. "A true hunter doesn't open his mouth on the hunt either." The bully did not deign to reply to that. Finch looked him up and down and thought of a way to get him out of his hair. "Will you be shadowing me? Did you not want to show me something?"

The careless smile settled back on Aklan's face. "No, no. Just checking up on you. I bid you good hunt, kid." He waved as he quickly blended into the shrubbery.

Finch grinned at his victory. Now, he could retrace yesterday's steps at his leisure. With luck, they would never cross paths.

He followed markings he left from the previous day until he reached the small clearing where the pig had fallen.

It was not there.

The earth was turned over – scratched over. When he dipped the spear into the moist soil, its tip came up purple-black. Its smell still lingered heavily but there were no prints. Finch paced around and noticed a large line of turned earth leading into the foliage.

He glanced around. The kilijec was a rush of light greens and dappled yellows. It was still light enough, still morning. He parted the foliage and followed, hoping the trail was not long.

Deeper and deeper he went. The turned earth zigzagged through the kilijec in a constant pattern. Whenever Finch got distracted by the sounds of an animal or he had to detour around poisonous vines, he could easily identify the wavy bump in the earth and resume his tracking. Light was disappearing with each step forward, the tree trunks broadening, their roots strangling every possible walkable space. A mist settled around him even though the air was still humid. Trees bended, their broad leaves bowing down to block the boy's passing. The hairs on the back of his neck were stood on end but unwary of it all, he kept going.

Hu-wheee!

A shrill whistle cut through the night air. Finch startled and cursed when he checked his surroundings. He froze when the shrill call resounded again.

It was the call of a silba bird. No one in the village had ever encountered one but they heard the tales. Exotic but carnivorous by nature. They fly in an arrow of three, paralyses their victims and feed on their innards.

Hu-hu-hu--- A set of spines thudded into a tree beside him. ---Wheee! A flash of silver feathers darted by. Their long, barbed tails flickered past, scraping away a few strands of his front hairs.

They circled around. Finch knew this by the loud rustling of bushes. The flapping of wings as they rapidly changed directions. One three beats earlier, the leader of the group. The mist had deepened, enshrouding everything, and Finch wondered how the silba detected his presence. If they could hear as well as he does.

Hu-wheeee! they called again, straight ahead from where he stood.

Finch pulled out his spear and set it horizontally against two trees. He clapped his hands, hoping to draw their attention to the noise. Hu-hu-hu--- three silver dots weaved towards him. They came at him like darts. ­---Uwha! The leading silba hit the spear head on, but the other two swerved upwards at the last minute. Finch barely had time to duck behind the tree as they released a fresh row of spines.

He went around the tree and quickly fetched his spear. The silba turned as one just as he raised his spear and swatted their bodies into the large tree.

They landed as a twitching heap alongside the first.

Silbas were a great catch and he was proud to be the first in his tribe to have seen and incapacitated all three. Yet according to tales, they were day hunters, when more animals were out and about. They were elusive not because of their deadliness to hunters, but because these birds dwelled around parts of the kilijec unreachable to landwalkers. Finch picked up one by its pink feet with great care of its barbed tail and watched its frame twirl. The silba was not marked by sickness or hunger; both eyes were clear, feathers prim and fine, its tails ending at gleaming points.

It was near full darkness now and the hunter considered his options. He could kill the silba birds and return. Or nap in the canopies till morning to continue his tracking. 

His stomach grumbled as he thought. 

Not willing to give up his search, he chose a bit of both. 

T.B.C

...Next chapter tomorrow