Authors: D.W. Rigsby
Petro lay on his back, struggling to get up, trying to move. Then he felt the sharp jab of a tusk slicing his calf open. The boar’s hot breath poured out its snout, its head came up with dead eyes staring, and blood dripped down its tusk. Petro groped for the ironshot near his waistband. He fumbled to find the cold blue steel; his finger felt its touch, wrapped around its hilt. He pulled the ironshot free from this sheath and then brought it up, not flinching once, aimed the barrel at the beast, and fired. Nothing. Misfired. He pulled the trigger again, and nothing.
The massive beast’s weight crushed Petro’s leg. He winced from the sudden pressure, feeling his bone crack and hearing a popping sound. He cried out, tried to move, but was caught under the mass of fur and muscle.
Out of the corner of Petro’s eye, he saw a shadow and glanced over to see Kad standing there with his .44 ironshot aimed at the head of the boar. A loud bang was followed by several more loud bangs. Petro’s ears rang out for mercy; he brought his hands up and covered them. He felt the weight shift; the boar wobbled to the right, its massive head swung across Petro’s chest—its tusks just missing his flesh—and then it fell. The boar’s breathing slowed, its chest barely moved at all, and then it went completely still, expelling its last breath.
Kad dropped down next to Petro. “You all right?”
Petro was still looking at the large monster next to him; it made him feel small. “I think it’s my leg. I heard it pop.” He leaned forward to get a better look. There was blood streaming out and onto the ground, pooling under his leg. “That doesn’t look good.”
“Let me take a closer look.” Kad pulled back the shredded pant leg to reveal Petro’s sliced calf. It looked gruesome and was bleeding profusely. Kad went to work, taking out his knife and grabbing hold of his own tunic. “I need to make a tourniquet,” he said.
Petro nodded. Was this really happening? Was he really here? The trees, the moist ground, the wind that passed by, the beast on the ground next to him, and Kad all seemed surreal.
The knife cut away at the fabric. Kad worked quickly and tore off the rest. He searched the ground, found a small, thick branch, swept it up with his hand, and brought it next to Petro. He carefully took the upper part of the wounded leg and wrapped the fabric around it above the knee and tied it off. “Sorry.” He put the branch into the knot and began to twist it. The tourniquet tightened around Petro’s leg, cutting the circulation off. Petro couldn’t feel anything; his adrenaline was still pumping through his body, but that would soon wear off. Kad finished and grabbed Petro by the shoulder. “I need to go and get help. I don’t want to move you, but I don’t want you to put pressure on that leg.”
Petro shook his head and tried to get to his feet, but it was no use. He could not put any weight on his injured leg.
“Petro, listen to me. You are hurt, bad. I need to go.” There was a trickle of fear on the edge of Kad’s voice.
Petro knew it was bad. The calf was sliced like a piece of meat, he couldn’t even move his leg, and the extent of his injury was not fully known. He looked to Kad and nodded.
Kad let out his breath. “Good. I need you to hear me. I’m coming back for you; don’t leave this spot.” He tamped the ground with his hand. “I will get help, and I will come back. We’ll get you out of here. OK?” Petro could see deep concern in those eyes.
“OK,” Petro said.
Kad hopped up and ran like a deerling, leaping over the tops of bushes and jumping over logs. Then he was nowhere to be seen.
—From
The Collections and Sayings of the Desert People
, by unknown author
I
t was still cool out; the sun had not yet shown itself in full, but the heat would soon come. Petro rested his eyes, feeling the throbbing in his leg. He was here with his back on the ground, his leg split open, and a giant dead boar next to him. It felt strange being next to the lifeless creature—the same creature that had tried to take his life. That could be him, and the boar could be the one resting its eyes near Petro’s cold body.
He struggled to sit and tried to scan the forest, but his eyes were blurred from the ordeal. Petro held himself up with one arm and wiped his eyes with his free hand. There was a stabbing pain working its way through his leg; it came and went, off and on. He could see blood trickling out of the wound, and the pool of blood under him. It bothered him, how much blood was on the ground. How much did he lose?
Petro gazed upon the beast. It was so close. He felt compelled to reach out with his hand to touch it, stretching his fingertips toward its tall ridge of hair. Hesitant, he stopped, his fingers only a centimeter away.
What if it is only sleeping?
he thought. And if he touched it, the beast might awaken. He shoved the illogical thought from his mind and touched its fur. It felt rough, yet soft at the same time, and there was an oily feel to it as well.
The leaves hissed as a breeze passed through and then slowly halted. He looked at his leg again. The blood bothered him, and he wanted the bleeding to stop completely. Petro grabbed the branch and twisted it. It turned some but not enough to get a full revolution. He thought that if he backed off, he might be able to get a full turn. Taking the branch, he twisted it counterclockwise, and blood squirted out of his leg. Petro panicked; instead of tightening it, he had loosened it too much. He felt warmth flow down his leg, and blood gushed out and pooled once more. He quickly turned the branch clockwise, working to shut off the flow, and it slowed again but was still a trickle. Pain soon followed; it was sudden and sent Petro onto his back. He writhed in pain, squirming around and grimacing. His breathing sped up, and he took in short, shallow breaths, trying to make the pain go away, and it did—some. His lips were dry, and he licked them, but it didn’t help any. His stomach had turned sour somewhere in between trying to loosen and then tighten the tourniquet. He looked straight up at the forest canopy above and it went dark.
What had happened? He sat up and wondered how long he had been out. It frightened him that he passed out. Petro gathered up dirt and cupped it in his hands. He leaned all the way forward, and the searing pain threatened to force him onto his back once more. Taking the dirt, he dropped it into the open wound. Using his fingers, he packed it into the crevice of his open calf. It burned. Then he noticed he was not alone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw not one, not two, but three wolves. They stared at him and at the boar.
Petro searched whit his eyes but did not move his body. He explored the ground for his shotgun. There is was, not too far, but far enough. The three wolves were circling him, sniffing the air, eyeing him and the dead boar. He knew he was a threat to them, as long as they believed it and didn’t know he was disabled, but these were cautious creatures and would test the situation before making a decision to attack; so he had some time, but not much. What could he do? If he tried to move now, would they attack? Maybe, most likely not; but if he cried out in pain, they most likely would. He’d need to make sure he did not sound like a wounded animal. He would yell and try to scare them off to give him time to get to his shotgun; and if the pain was too much and he cried out further, they might be confused by the sounds he made. Did it make sense? He wasn’t so sure. Petro only knew that there three wolves who had come upon a perfect meal, and he was the only thing standing in their way.
The alpha came close, sniffed the air, and gave off a low growl. The other two circled in opposite directions. Were they about to attack? Petro wondered. Maybe he should move, if for nothing else but to see what they would do. He reached up and scratched his nose, watching the alpha. The wolf halted, sniffed the air again, and then backed up. It was trying to decide what to do. Yes, it wasn’t sure if Petro was a real threat or not, but it was in no hurry to take a chance. As the alpha backed away, so did the other wolves. A crow cawed from high above as it passed overhead.
It didn’t take long for the alpha to reconsider its position, for it now came even closer to Petro. He didn’t know what to do, his heart raced, and sweat rolled down the sides of his face. The shotgun was there, just below his feet, but it would hurt to get to it, and would he even be able to make it? What if he tried and failed—but there was no more time to think of what to do. The wolf had come in and snapped at Petro’s arm.
Petro pulled back his arm, and with his other hand he slapped the wolf on the nose and then screamed at it. The alpha growled and withdrew, its hair standing up. The other wolves were poised to pounce at any moment. Petro had to act, and act now. He hollered out loud and flung his body forward with as much force as he could. The pain was unbearable, and his scream went from one of warning to one of wounded. The wolves moved in quickly, and at the same moment, Petro grabbed the shotgun, hoping the sound alone would run them off, and fired it. The wolves darted into the bushes, and Petro let out a sigh of relief. They were gone for now, but they would come back, that was certain. He felt dizzy and collapsed back down on the ground.
Moments passed, and he wondered when Kad would arrive. Would he get back before the wolves came around? The pain in his leg got worse, and there was an itching feeling that now accompanied the pain. Petro starched his leg, but it did no good; the itching was inside the leg, not outside. The wind passed through the leaves, and the air felt warm and moist. Sweat beaded up on his forehead, pooled, and then ran down the sides, wetting the neckline of his tunic. He licked his lips, dry from the lack of water—he groped for his canteen but did not find it. It must have fallen off somewhere, and he didn’t have the strength to search for it. The sun was higher now above him, and the rays beamed down through leaves, touching his face.
There was a rustling sound in the woods, not far from him—something approached. He could hear it—footsteps. Was it Kad? It might be, or was it the wolves? His heart raced. Petro arched his head backward and then to the side, trying to see who or what was making the sound. He stretched out his fingertips and touched the cool metal of the shotgun, but it was no use to him. He’d already fired off two shots, and it was empty now. Petro then thought maybe he could find a shell and load it, but as he thought it, a man came into view and stood over him.
“You’re in some bad shape, fellow,” the man said.
The man was of medium build with short hair, close to the scalp, muscular, and his eyes were dark, yet wide. He wore a sword on one side, a dagger on the other, and an ironshot. A sense of relief came over Petro.
“I’ve been injured,” Petro tried to muster. His voice broke when he tried to speak again, and the man gave a sign with his hand to be quiet.
“No need to talk. I saw it all—that boar nearly killed you; massive beast he is, but you survived, got to give you that. Then I waited to see how bad your injury was—and it was bad, but that tourniquet your friend put on you has slowed your bleeding. I thought to come out of hiding, but then the wolves showed, and I was certain they’d tear into you, but you managed to scare them off. I wish they had finished the job, I do. It’s better that way, not for anyone to suspect your death was of some wrongdoing. That sort of rumor could spark a war or two, who knows. People are strange, you know, when it comes to prophecies and all. What’s with the dirt, anyway?”
Petro tried to move, but all he could do was cry out in pain; his voice cracked and gave out.
“Hush now, no need for that—it will be over soon. The pain is here because you are still here, but if you let yourself go, it will go. See what I mean?”
The man’s eyes were empty; it was like looking into a dark pool void of life.
“I could wait for the wolves; they will come back, but will they come back before your friend? That’s the risk I cannot take, so here I am.” The man knelt down. “Let me help you with that.” He loosened the tourniquet. “Your red of life flows—can you feel it? Of course you can—it’s a strange sensation. There’s the feeling of warmth, but then it’s replaced by a cool feeling and a numbing, until the end, of course; it will be a little more painful, but it won’t last. I’ll stay right here until it’s done, and then I’ll tighten your tourniquet back up and leave. If your friends show up before the wolves, they’ll think the tourniquet didn’t quite do its job, and you passed out and couldn’t help yourself. Easy, right?”
Petro could smell a strange odor on his mouth, but not a foul odor like one might suspect from a man like this; he thought it was a refreshing odor, mint.
“Yes, yes. I know you are wondering who I am, but I’m not here to tell you that. I do know you, and you are worth a price indeed. Oh, I’ll be paid quite well for this—that is certain, though I sometimes wonder if I should keep you alive and then bargain for additional dulles before I kill you. No, that’s not a good idea, is it? No, it’s better for me to keep this quiet, no need to go and spark a war—it’s bad business for the likes of me. I make more money in peacetime—you know, making things look natural, accidental. Like out here. But this, all this—I couldn’t have planned it this well; this is like getting a present, and not any ol’ present. It’s like getting what you really wanted.”
The man just kept going on with this talking. Petro tried to move again, and the man put his hand on his arm.
“Not to worry, you won’t have to listen to me long. Maybe if you were the one to fulfill a prophecy, you could change all of this, couldn’t you? No? Doesn’t work that way? What are you supposed to be?”
Petro wondered that himself—what was he supposed to be? He focused his mind, trying to see if he was maybe seeing the future, to come up out of it, but nothing happened. Dread filled his stomach. He wasn’t anything, and he wasn’t here to fulfill some prophecy or to help protect Dugual. Those were only lies, ones told to him by others and ones he told himself.
“Now where was I? Oh, I had thought to shoot you first and then shoot your friend. Though it was going to be hard to make it look like an accident. So I waited and watched, kept my distance. I decided I could shoot your friend in the head, same model of weapon as you have there.” He held up a .44 ironshot. “Then once your friend was dead, I’d shoot you in the head and then take your ironshot and fire it twice, and place it into your hand. It would have looked like you killed your friend and then shot yourself. It’s a good idea, right?”
What was he to say—yes, it was a good idea? Oh, you should have done that?
“But then that boar showed up; I nearly wet myself when it came into the open. I held my piss, and I waited to see what the boar would do, and my waiting paid off. It always does.”
There was a shot from the distance, and the buzz of the bullet could be heard as it passed by the man and Petro. The man jumped up, and an arrow pierced his hand before he could pull his ironshot. The man turned and ran into the woods from where he came.
Kad rushed to Petro’s side.
“My tourniquet,” Petro said.
“Oh, dango, he undid it.” Kad tightened up the tourniquet.
Petro could no longer hold his eyes open, but he saw Vetus Sepher standing there with his nickel-plated ironshot smoldering at the end of its barrel. Then everything went black.