found a
couple of mouse nests with litters of young. Once the ache
in his belly let up he started listening for squeaks from the
nests instead of the rustling of adult animals scurrying under
the brush. He never caught enough to fill him up and make
him sleepy. The constant hunger in his belly drove him on
through lacerated terrain where the smell of diesel overpowered
the scent trails he tried to follow.
The sun burned down on the cleared area during the day.
He tried to find shade by the piles of brush. At first there had
been water in the tractor ruts but it had dried up. Thirst
drove him out into the heat. At midday the only sound was
the monotonous buzzing of the horseflies, a dull song from
no apparent source in the scorching air. The buzzard didn't
appear at midday and the dog could roam without its
screeching surveillance.
One night he walked a long way in the dim light, driven
by thirst. Nose to the ground, he searched for moist patches
but found only dryness and debris. Often he felt apprehensive,
as if something were after him.
There was no wind to pick up a scent. He walked in
loops, frequently twisting round to detect a pursuer. Hunger
and thirst made his muscles tire easily. Sometimes he wanted
to curl up by a boulder and let weariness overpower him, but
the nagging sensation of having something on his trail drove
him on.
When the darkness over the cleared area lifted at dawn and
the piles of grey brush shifted to red again, he heard running
water. He started off at a trot but remained on guard. Water
in a brook rippled among stones. The air was different. Dawn
had brought the sound of birds.
He reached the murmuring water, running across stones
and the trunks of small, felled spruces, but he didn't dare
stand in the open and drink. Pushing on to a place where
the brook ran in a crevice between some rocks, he found a
sheltered spot where he could lap the cold, sparkling water
until the burning in his throat subsided. Then he listened.
The wind had awakened, bringing bird calls and the fragrance
of pine needles. The forest was close by. But the one
whose presence he sensed was not discernible and there was
no rustling.
He crept along the brook to find better protection before
drinking his fill. He was now going upstream towards the
smell of forest. Then the wind changed, bringing back his
early-morning apprehension. It blew from the opposite
direction through the brushwood by the brook and there
was a loud crackling in the leaves. The dog caught the scent
of predator. It stung in his nose.
He never saw her. She was resting on the boulder where
he'd first stopped to drink. Eyes wide, she watched him
crashing forward. The tufts in her ears quivered. Then she
glided down and crossed the brook in the opposite direction.
Her large cat pads left their marks in the damp sand of the
brook.
When he got to the forest it didn't engulf him, just forced
him on. He took the first hill in leaps and bounds. Large
stands of blue sowthistle snapped. He heard birds flying up,
shrieking. For a long time he ran along a ridge, hearing only
the surge of blood in his ears.
Now the wind picked up, singing high above in the
spruces. Surging wind, surging blood. No quiet. He was
frantic. Forgetting was remote and the memory of the unfamiliar
scent was near. It was the scent of a creature that
attacked; his body knew that instinctively. Now he was running,
but he wasn't following a trail. He ran to escape the
memory, to forget.
The loon called out from above a distant lake. Up here the
waters were cold. The loon's cry lingered in the air, a quivering
ribbon of sound.
He sometimes returned there, to the steep, straight banks,
but the intervals in between were long. He'd become a rambler,
a rover.
There were no abandoned pastures this far up, no dense
coverings of grass where voles rustled. Hunger drove him
on. He covered long stretches each day. At first he had
couple of mouse nests with litters of young. Once the ache
in his belly let up he started listening for squeaks from the
nests instead of the rustling of adult animals scurrying under
the brush. He never caught enough to fill him up and make
him sleepy. The constant hunger in his belly drove him on
through lacerated terrain where the smell of diesel overpowered
the scent trails he tried to follow.
The sun burned down on the cleared area during the day.
He tried to find shade by the piles of brush. At first there had
been water in the tractor ruts but it had dried up. Thirst
drove him out into the heat. At midday the only sound was
the monotonous buzzing of the horseflies, a dull song from
no apparent source in the scorching air. The buzzard didn't
appear at midday and the dog could roam without its
screeching surveillance.
One night he walked a long way in the dim light, driven
by thirst. Nose to the ground, he searched for moist patches
but found only dryness and debris. Often he felt apprehensive,
as if something were after him.
There was no wind to pick up a scent. He walked in
loops, frequently twisting round to detect a pursuer. Hunger
and thirst made his muscles tire easily. Sometimes he wanted
to curl up by a boulder and let weariness overpower him, but
the nagging sensation of having something on his trail drove
him on.
When the darkness over the cleared area lifted at dawn and
the piles of grey brush shifted to red again, he heard running
water. He started off at a trot but remained on guard. Water
in a brook rippled among stones. The air was different. Dawn
had brought the sound of birds.
He reached the murmuring water, running across stones
and the trunks of small, felled spruces, but he didn't dare
stand in the open and drink. Pushing on to a place where
the brook ran in a crevice between some rocks, he found a
sheltered spot where he could lap the cold, sparkling water
until the burning in his throat subsided. Then he listened.
The wind had awakened, bringing bird calls and the fragrance
of pine needles. The forest was close by. But the one
whose presence he sensed was not discernible and there was
no rustling.
He crept along the brook to find better protection before
drinking his fill. He was now going upstream towards the
smell of forest. Then the wind changed, bringing back his
early-morning apprehension. It blew from the opposite
direction through the brushwood by the brook and there
was a loud crackling in the leaves. The dog caught the scent
of predator. It stung in his nose.
He never saw her. She was resting on the boulder where
he'd first stopped to drink. Eyes wide, she watched him
crashing forward. The tufts in her ears quivered. Then she
glided down and crossed the brook in the opposite direction.
Her large cat pads left their marks in the damp sand of the
brook.
When he got to the forest it didn't engulf him, just forced
him on. He took the first hill in leaps and bounds. Large
stands of blue sowthistle snapped. He heard birds flying up,
shrieking. For a long time he ran along a ridge, hearing only
the surge of blood in his ears.
Now the wind picked up, singing high above in the
spruces. Surging wind, surging blood. No quiet. He was
frantic. Forgetting was remote and the memory of the unfamiliar
scent was near. It was the scent of a creature that
attacked; his body knew that instinctively. Now he was running,
but he wasn't following a trail. He ran to escape the
memory, to forget.
The loon called out from above a distant lake. Up here the
waters were cold. The loon's cry lingered in the air, a quivering
ribbon of sound.
He sometimes returned there, to the steep, straight banks,
but the intervals in between were long. He'd become a rambler,
a rover.
There were no abandoned pastures this far up, no dense
coverings of grass where voles rustled. Hunger drove him
on. He covered long stretches each day. At first he had
Similar Books
