The Hunt

“10-9-8-7….”

“Hiding together is a very bad idea,” said Fauntleroy. “We should split up, we’re making it too easy!”

“Far be it from me to agree with the weasel,” chirped Baxter, “but he is right. Once he smells Faunt, he’ll have us all.”

“6-5-4…”

“First of all, I’ve been de-scented, you influenza carrying little turd. And secondly, I’m not a weasel, I’ll have you know! I’m a ferret, and while a part of the weasel fam…”

“Stop it, both of you!” Arya scolded, “he’ll hear you arguing long before he smells anything, you dolts!”

“Quite right,” said Fauntleroy.

“He started it,” retorted Baxter.

“Look here you, little…”

“Let me out of this cage and we’ll see who…”

“3-2-1!”

“SHHHHH! He’s coming!” Arya was past the foolishness of her companions. She knew what was at stake here. The game had begun.

They sat huddled in a silence so loud that their ears hurt under the burden of the pressure of it. Arya set Baxter’s cage on the ground and flipped her hood up over her head, covering her long, brown locks. Fauntleroy squeezed in close to her, sensing her unease and attempting to comfort her. And perhaps looking for some comfort of his own.

Snapping twigs and rustling leaves broke the silence and all three companions held their breath. He was close. Too close. They could hear Toreg sniffing, which wasn’t difficult, he tended to snort when he did. Arya instinctively shielded her friends and closed her eyes, as though she could become invisible by doing so. Incredibly, it seemed to work. After a brief pause and some more sniffing and snorting, Toreg turned and trampled off into the woods behind them.

“We did it!” exclaimed Baxter, albeit very quietly.

“We did nothing,” said Faunt, “but get lucky!”

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Arya broke in, realizing her pun. “Literally or figuratively!”

Arya knew that Toreg was the ogre’s best hunter. Ever since his first hunt he had never lost his prey. Not once. Fifteen years and fifteen hunts and the only flavor he’d ever known was the taste of victory. He brought honor to his people, an already prideful bunch. Arya knew what it would mean to survive the day. If she and her friends could defeat the Great Hunter, they would be heroes. Their names would be known throughout the entire kingdom. They would be carried through the streets in chairs made of plush velvet and there would be a feast in their honor. She smiled at the thought.

“We should move,” whispered Baxter. “While we have the chance!”

“No,” said Arya, “not yet.”

“I’m inclined to agree with Ba….,” Funtleroy was interrupted by the sound of footsteps.

Closer. Closer. Closer still.

And then past their hiding place and off into the woods again.

The three sat in frozen silence for what seemed like forever before Fauntleroy broke it, startling Arya.

“As I was saying, (Oh, sorry dear, didn’t mean to frighten you!) Ahem, as I was saying, I’m inclined to agree with Arya. She clearly has a handle on this and I trust her implicitly!”

“Hmmm, they say a weasel can fit its body anywhere they can fit their head. Exactly how far up Arya’s ass do you intend to climb? You could just kiss it and be done, you know!”

“Baxter!” Arya snapped.

“Yes, of course. Sorry, love…” Baxter hung his head. Sometimes his sarcasm got the best of him.

“Ok, let’s make a move,” Arya instructed.

As she shifted her position and went to stand, back came the footsteps. Faster this time. More desperate. The snorting was louder, almost panicked, and Toreg was mumbling to himself.

“Gotta find. Gotta find. Where could they be? Where could they be?”

Arya froze, half standing in her spot, Baxter’s cage in one hand and Fauntleroy holding close to her leg. But Toreg ran on past, yet again. Arya hunkered back down, deciding to stay put. The animals silently gave their consent.

More rattling through the woods. Just outside their spot.

“Almost time. Almost time! What have I done? What have I done?”

And then a pause.

“What will I do….?” Followed by the sound of Toreg’s bulk slumping to the ground, defeated.

“By the God’s, what will I do?”

Then they heard it. The Great Horn. The hunt was almost over, dusk was upon them. With the end in sight Baxter and Fauntleroy were giddy with excitement. But Arya was uneasy. Toreg sounded desperate. Desperate and sad. Arya knew what was at stake for her if they won, but hadn’t considered the consequences for Toreg if he lost. He wouldn’t just lose the hunt. Toreg would lose his standing in the tribe. His honor. His family’s pride. Toreg would lose everything.

As the horn ceased to blow, they heard what they had been waiting to hear. The anguished cry of Toreg, conceding his defeat. Not knowing how close he was. How many times victory was in his grasp.

“Olly Olly Oxen Fr…..”

“Cough, Cough!” Baxter and Fauntleroy snapped their eyes at Arya, unbelieving of what they had heard.

Arya simply looked at them both and shrugged. They questioned nothing.

They knew what she had done simply because they knew their friend.

“You are all heart, lass,” said Baxter.

“I’m sorry, dear,” echoed Fauntleroy, “I know what this meant to you.”

As she bent to hold her friends close, they heard Toreg, bounding through the brush. They all feigned surprise when he separated the branches that hid them and peered over them.

“Gotcha!” He said. And as he did, his eyes grew soft. He scooped them all up in his strong arms and proceeded to carry them out of the woods to victory. Just before they broke the tree line into the throng of adoring fans waiting to greet their triumphant hunter, Toreg looked Arya in the eyes, and gave her a wink.

She closed her eyes and pretended the cheers were for her. Somehow, that was enough.

Copyright (c) 2021 by Christian E. Hallaway