Short Story: "Hunter" (Prequel to "Hook and Net and Twenty Men")

[deemoyza]

Hunter | Fantasy | 2,926 words

(Prequel to “Hook and Net and Twenty Men”)

Reginald learned to hunt out of necessity. He was scarcely older than seven years when his mother passed away for the third, and final, time. His sister Marie had revived her twice, but the illness that had taken her returned each time, ravaging her body more fiercely with each resurrection, until she expressly forbade Marie from seeing her corpse, and instructed the town undertaker to burn her remains. Marie was inconsolable for weeks, even as Reginald’s other sister, Rose, crippled beneath the weight of their mother’s deathbed confessions, hobbled toward the sea and into the waves. When Marie abandoned her grief to tend to that development, Reginald’s welfare fell by the wayside.

Faced with an empty house and an emptier pantry, young Reginald realized it was time he learned to take care of himself. He had no coin of his own to spend in town; Marie kept the family’s finances strictly controlled, under lock and key. He was nowhere crafty enough to steal from the nearest neighbors and get away with it. And he refused to beg for his supper; his family already occupied a precarious position in the town’s esteem, due to his sisters’ powers and his mother’s “reputation” — details of which no one would divulge to him — and a neglected boy leeching the townsfolk’s resources might tip the scale out of their favor.

So, he instead fashioned a slingshot from a tree branch, loaded his pockets with small stones, and headed into the dense forest several miles behind his house. He had never been taught to hunt, but as his crude little weapon warmed in his grasp, a strange sensation flooded his limbs and guided his movements with the efficiency of a hunter three times his age. He slunk through the underbrush, his eyes and ears attuned to any sign of life around him: the twitching of a tail, the ruffling of feathers, the breath of a rabbit, the heartbeat of a squirrel. It was as if Nature herself had split wide open, offering him a look at the inner workings of life, taking a hungry, neglected boy to her bosom and synchronizing his life pulse with her own.

He was quick with his weapon, and true. One shot, one kill. Squirrels dropped from branches, birds fell from the sky. And when his little arms couldn’t hold any more animals, Reginald tucked his slingshot in his belt, and left the forest.

Along the road, he contemplated his new dilemma: just as he’d never learned to hunt, he’d never learned how to prepare an animal for cooking. He debated trying to teach himself, but eventually decided to wander to the edge of town in search of someone who could help.

The blacksmith’s eldest daughter eagerly took up the task, in exchange for two squirrels. Reginald sat at her kitchen table, little legs dangling from a too-high chair, and watched her work. She hummed as she plucked feathers from the birds, explained the process as she cut the meat from the squirrels’ bodies. She even let Reginald try his hand at it, shaking her head and clicking her tongue as he repeatedly failed, and telling him, with a wink, that she would be only too glad to continue to teach him, for the same price as he’d paid that afternoon.

Reginald agreed, and though he quickly learned how to clean and prepare his kills for himself, he continued to visit the blacksmith’s house, exchanging animals for handfuls of coins. News of this arrangement spread through town, and soon, while his sisters dealt with their powers of life and death and sin and forgiveness, Reginald became a celebrated hunter, and quite financially secure in his own right.

As he grew into a young man, he became skilled in the use of a bow, and routinely took down larger game. His reputation grew along with him, and he was delighted to discover that it garnered him the attention of many of the town’s young women — and various corporeal favors from a number of them — as well as the admiration of other hunters. They invited him on hunts, and asked if they could join him on his own, but Reginald, adopting an expression as mysterious as that of the cat that lounged on the bookbinder’s windowsill, shook his head and explained that he hunted best on his own.

It was true, but more a convenient excuse. He refused, in part, out of pure selfishness: he didn’t want to share the credit for the animals he brought in, didn’t want to diffuse his bright-burning glory among a group of lesser men.

But that was not the entire reason. Reginald did not want company on his hunts because he didn’t want anyone to see how he hunted. He was aware that he moved much more swiftly than an average man, that he sensed telltale signs of game’s presence no human should be able to. That he climbed trees with the agility of a squirrel, and that, sometimes, he abandoned his weapons and hunted with his bare hands, stalking his prey through the underbrush, leaping upon it, and breaking its neck with a single sharp motion.

He’d grown accustomed to the smell of blood and sweat and animal hide. He’d come to crave it, drawn toward the forest in the same way that Rose was drawn toward the sea, unthinking, unseeing, led along by something powerful deep within, something that could not be reasoned with.

Perhaps this was his power. Reginald had long believed he had been born without magic, but now he wondered whether his was a magic of a darker streak, trading in death, extending one life at the expense of another.

He didn’t think on it long, for there was nothing he could do about it. Instead, he purged his mind of serious matters, spending the days between hunts enjoying himself in the town, drinking expensive wines and keeping the company of women, the wayward brother of two solemn sisters.

***
He stumbled home one morning, after a night of revelry, just as a ferryman ascended the stairs in his home, Rose’s limp body in his arms. Ahead of the ferryman, Marie paused and turned around, and cast a withering glare at Reginald. She opened her mouth to speak, but glanced back at Rose and decided against it, instead leading the ferryman to Rose’s room upstairs.

She must have aired her concerns to the ferryman there, for when he descended, he walked straight into the parlor, where Reginald lounged on a small couch, grinning and glowing from strong drink and sated lust, and sighed loudly.

Reginald acknowledged him with a nod, but did not speak. The ferryman made no move to leave; rather, he fished his pipe from his jacket pocket and struck a match against the mantle. He sat in the chair opposite Reginald and took a long draw from the pipe, breathing out a cloud of smoke in Reginald’s direction.

Reginald frowned. "Marie doesn’t like the smell of tobacco,“ he said. "Take yourself and your pipe outside.”

“She also don’t like you stayin’ out all night,” the ferryman replied, “‘specially when yer sis is out to sea.”

“There’s nothing I can do to help either of them, so I don’t see why that matters. I figure she’s better off without me underfoot.”

“Every time Rose’s gone, Marie’s work doubles. She’s got to clean, got to cook for yer sorry face, got to defend this place against the dark.”

“Defend? No one’s attacked us.”

The ferryman chuckled. "Boy, for such a good hunter, you can’t see much. Your sisses are light, life an’ forgiveness, in the flesh. And light always attracts the dark.“

Reginal scoffed and waved the ferryman away. The ferryman didn’t move.

"Why d'you think you can hunt so well?” he asked, jabbing his pipe toward Reginald.

“I suppose that’s my power. My sisters bring life and salvation, I bring death. I’m a man; that’s the natural order of things.”

“I’ve half a mind to whip yer head clean off. There ain’t nothing natural 'bout that at all. You don’t hunt to bring death; you hunt to provide, to protect.” The ferryman groaned in disgust. "You don’t see, do you? Yer power ain’t random; it works with yer sisses’.“

Reginald frowned. The ferryman made a compelling argument, one that made a lot of sense. But the ferryman had also scolded him and threatened him and filled the parlor with smoke; he didn’t deserve the satisfaction of being right. The boldness of drink still in his veins, Reginald sat up, swift as a cat, and directed an offensive gesture toward the ferryman.

"You talk nonsense, old man,” he said. “My power is mine to use as I please. And if it keeps me in coin and company, then all the better. My sisters might not object to withering away inside this house, but I can’t abide by that. I need action; I need freedom.”

The ferryman’s jaw was set, and his fingers twitched, as if desperate to clench into fists and pummel Reginald’s face. Secure in his own home, however, and with his sisters just upstairs, Reginald smirked at the ferryman and waved him away again. This time the ferryman left.

But he stopped in the doorway, and half-turned toward Reginald. "I was wrong,“ he said, quietly, his voice deeper than Reginald had ever heard it, "yer no hunter. A good hunter never admits his weakness.”

Then, adjusting his cap, he walked out, the smell of the sea wafting in through the front door.

***
“I came to 'pologize,” the ferryman said to Marie. Reginald, dozing on the couch in the morning sun, stirred and turned toward the doorway to see the ferryman enter the parlor, Marie and Rose at his heels, smiling.

“I spoke out o’ turn yesterday,” the ferryman said. "Yer sis jus’ wanted me to set you straight, but you can’t trust a salty ol’ ferryman with matters o’ delicacy. I’m sorry.“

Reginald yawned and stretched, slowly, luxuriously, taking his time, enjoying making the ferryman wait. "It’s fine, I suppose,” he said at last, sitting up.

“Glad to hear it.” The ferryman reached behind him and pulled out a parcel wrapped in paper. "A token of apology. Fresh from the sea this mornin’.“

Reginald accepted the package and unwrapped it to find two fish filets, pink and glistening, giving off faint scents of sea and blood and struggle. Saliva flooded his mouth, and his opinion of the ferryman improved considerably. "Thank you, old man,” he said.

“Nothin’ to it. These are 'specially for you. I gave yer sisses some others, 'cause it’s bad luck to eat someone else’s gift.”

Reginald thanked him again, then, as the ferryman stayed to chat with Rose and Marie, he slunk off to the kitchen to prepare his fish. He had already finished eating it by the time the ferryman took his leave.

“Tasty, eh?” the ferryman asked on his way past.

“Yes, very much so.” Reginald licked his lips, and wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Glad to hear it. Best fish in this part o’ the sea. People say, once you taste it, yer never the same.” He winked and continued to the door.

After his meal, while his sisters tended to housework and sewing, Reginald resumed his spot on the couch, shifting with the sunlight, drifting in and out of dreams. When he next opened his eyes, the parlor was dark. A shaft of light streamed in from the kitchen, along with the smell of cooking fish and the amicable tones of his sisters’ conversation.

But something was different. The doorway looked far higher than it had been that morning, and the darkness was not nearly as dense as it usually was. Reginald rose and stretched, noticing the couch seemed to have grown to accommodate him. Puzzled, he opened his eyes again, and saw two dainty cat’s feet, black with white toes, spread before him.

Horrified, he looked at his body, and found it covered in sleek black hair. His nose twitched, and long whiskers caught the light in his peripheral vision. He sprang to his feet and off the couch, tore through the house screaming at the top of his lungs, crying for help, desperate to wake from this nightmare.

He ran into the kitchen and jumped onto the table, awkwardly, his hind legs dangling and scrabbling for something to cling to. Rose cried out in alarm, and Marie swooped in to pluck him off of the furniture.

“Goodness,” she said, a laugh rippling through her voice, “the ferryman wasn’t lying. This fish smells so good, it attracted this poor cat from out of nowhere.” She carried Reginald toward the door, murmuring soft apologies along the way, and set him on the doorstep. She reappeared a moment later with a sliver of fish on an old chipped plate, and wished him luck finding a home.

Reginald arched his back and bared his teeth at the fish, sending it flying into the darkness with a swipe of his paw. He scratched at the door, crying loudly, but when no one answered, he headed toward town.

He was dreaming, he told himself along the way, poking his leg with a claw, trotting through a puddle of cold water outside the laundress’ house, trying numerous methods to wake himself up. He walked up to his favorite pub, and snuck inside between the ankles of an exiting patron. Within, he was greeted with a mixture of glares and coos, and almost immediately ushered outside again with a heavy broom.

It was no use. He couldn’t wake up. He couldn’t even communicate anymore. He walked the town streets until dawn, dodging feet and hooves and wheels, wracking his brain to understand how he came to such a state.

The fish.

Eating the ferryman’s fish the morning before was the only thing out of the ordinary that he had done.

A token of apology, my left paw! Reginald thought, his heart sinking when he realized his expressions were already adapting to his new body. He wished to seek out the town healer, the apothecary, the herbalist, even the self-proclaimed clairvoyant, for some method by which to regain his normal appearance, but, unable to speak their language, he had but one recourse. He returned home and scratched upon the door again, hoping that he might be able to convince one of his sisters of his true identity, hoping they might be able to help him.

Rose opened the door, and with a smile as soft as the first rays that poked over the mountains, she scooped him into her arms with a dozen pitying statements.

“Look, Marie,” she said, wandering into the parlor, “the cat from last night has returned. I suppose he doesn’t have a home to go back to, poor thing. Perhaps we can keep him?”

Marie looked up from her book, then rose and walked over. She placed her finger under Reginald’s chin and lifted it, then lifted his upper lip and examined his teeth and gums. She stroked his head, and Reginald could not hold back a purr, melting into Rose’s arms at the lovely sensation.

“I suppose so,” Marie said at last. “It will be nice to have a hunter around the house, small as he is. At least he’ll be more reliable than Reginald.” She laughed. "Speaking of the scoundrel, pussycat, did you happen to see our wayward brother during your travels in the night? He’s usually home by now.“

"Unless he’s snoring away at a brothel,” Rose said, chuckling.

“That only happened once!” Reginald protested. “And I paid good money to make up for that harlot’s lost business!”

All that came from his mouth, however, was a series of sharp meows. His sisters laughed.

“No, I don’t suppose you did,” Marie said, sighing. "Well, in his absence, let’s get you settled. It’ll be a laugh to tell him he’s lost his place to a cat!“

***
Reginald adjusted to his new life surprisingly quickly, once he found it entailed no more than eating, sleeping, and hunting. From time to time, however, he did miss the pleasures of human flesh, the scorch of drink down his throat, the softness of a willing woman’s curves. He missed his freedom, and, some days, he truly resented being bound to this house of magic. But these longings and resentments never persisted, driven from his mind by the rippling of shadows in his peripheral vision, the desire to hunt the tendrils of darkness that encroached upon the house, never stronger than in the days before Rose’s departures to sea.

One day, Marie would find out, courtesy of the ferryman’s confession to Rose. But the ferryman would neither apologize for his action nor direct her to a cure, so she learned to see her brother anew: skillful, smug, and trapped. A hunter and protector finally living up to his responsibilities, though he had little choice in the matter.

A hunter and protector who loved the sunlight that streamed through the parlor windows, a hunter and protector who loved the taste of raw meat, a hunter and protector who meowed and hissed and purred, but couldn’t argue anymore.

"Perhaps it was for the best,” Marie said one evening, settling into her chair with a book. "This really is an ideal arrangement.“

Reginald opened one green eye and gave her a halfhearted glare; then, yawning and stretching, he curled up to sleep once more, sunlight warming his face.