The canopy opened as I walked, and the groundcover took advantage of the light to grow dense with shrubbery. Each bush tried to outdo its neighbors, and I made my way carefully, mindful of anything with thorns or needles.

I also looked for any fruits or vegetables and found a patch of thick-stalked plants. Clusters of bean pods as long as my hands hung from them, and they didn’t react when I used my spear to cut one of the pods free.

The beans inside were mottled green and maroon. They were small too, not done growing, and smelled nutty. When I sniffed them, I felt a faint warmth in my belly. My mouth watered, and I smelled… sustenance.

The warmth originated from my lower dantian and felt like the glow after practicing qigong. Interestingly, it also reminded me of my grandfather. He was the one who taught me to hunt. The two of us used to go into the woods every weekend. When I was little, we’d hunt squirrels, but when I got older, we’d bring home ducks and deer for the freezer.

I loved mi abuelo. He was patient and kind. He had this way of walking through the woods, like every tree and every bush was his acquaintance. Maybe that was because he was more comfortable there than anywhere else.

He was aware of the sights and sounds and smells of the forest without seeming to be. It took me until I was forty-three to learn the trick of it. By then, he was already gone. We celebrated anyway, he and I. I brought a bottle of tequila on my next hunt and poured us each a glass. Just the one. He was strict about not drinking while hunting.

I looked around and saw the forest around me with new eyes. Or, more accurately, my old eyes. The ones I’d trained over fifty years of backwoods hiking, camping, fishing, and hunting. I saw some thin stalks poking from the ground and recognized them as wild onions. Digging them up with the butt of my spear proved me right. And another five yards further, I found deer sign, a pile of pellets.

“I’m still waking up,” I said to no one in particular. I’d been running and running just to survive and hadn’t taken the time to get my bearings. I took a deep breath and unhunched my shoulders. They were so tight, they felt like they were riding just under my ears. “Yeah, just like that. Keep breathing, Ollie. Keep breathing.”

I wrapped a handful of bean pods and onions in a frond to bring them back to the cave for testing later.

###

I felt exposed moving beyond Ikfael Glen’s borders, but my curiosity kept me going. At least the walking was easier. The forest canopy was thicker where the vultures circled, and the groundcover thinned.

Ahead, coming down from one of the hillsides, a moose calf stumbled between the trees. Even from forty yards away, I could see the flesh of her hindquarters exposed, the meat red against her brown fur.

A flock of turkeys leisurely followed, led by a giant, easily four times the size of the others. He had deep orange feathers mixed in with the usual dark brown and white. The other turkeys included three or four with orange feathers. They were also bigger than average, just not quite as big as their leader.

He must’ve gotten impatient. A haze, like the shimmer you’d see on hot pavement, shot from his beak. Steam rose where it struck the calf. Her fur smoked and sloughed away to expose the meat bubbling beneath it.

I gulped and tightened my grip on the spear.

The monster turkey jumped at the calf to use his talons on her injured flesh. The calf buckled under his weight and called plaintively for help. The monster seemed to enjoy the sound, preening his feathers and strutting his talons across the calf’s back.

He used his beak to tear the flesh from the calf’s face and gulped it down. The other orange-feathered turkeys circled the dying calf and tore open its belly. The monster didn’t like that and batted them away with his wings. He hopped down to drive his head into the calf’s belly and enjoy the innards.

Only when he was done, could the other orange feathers take their turn. The rest of the turkeys, the ones with just brown feathers, kept their distance and pecked at the groundcover.

I stayed still, not wanting to draw the turkeys’ attention, especially that monster. Sweat poured down my back, but I kept control of my breathing, not letting it rush. Its steady pace helped to keep me steady.

My eyes were mild. It was one of my grandfather’s lessons. He said that it was best not to be too interested in prey and predators, because they could sense a hunter’s gaze.

“To be wise in the woods,” he said, “was to blend your heart with the land.”

I put his words into practice, quieting my thoughts and feelings, my breathing and actions. My heart still pounded, and I was ready to move and move quickly, but all that lay under a still pool’s surface.

The feeling was similar to Meliune’s Blessing. Except I was in control. It wasn’t forced upon me.

The turkeys stayed for an hour, the monster going back for seconds and thirds. He shredded the fur and made a game of tossing the bones at the regular turkeys. They’d flap away to avoid being hit, but never strayed too far. Eventually, the monster got bored and wandered back up the hillside. The rest of the flock followed after.

The vultures settled around the area, their heads swiveling to check for danger. Only once they were sure it was clear, did they hop towards the calf’s remains. I waited until I was sure none of them shot heat beams from their beaks.

There wasn’t much cover in between, so they saw me coming and hopped away from the carcass. Some stayed on the ground, while a few flapped up to perch in the nearby trees. My spear was ready, just in case.

There wasn’t much left of the calf. The fur was tattered, unsalvageable. Most of the meat and viscera were gone. The sinew would come in handy though, so I cut two of the calf’s lower legs free. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll use these to make tools, and my life will be bettered because of your sacrifice.”

I would’ve taken more, but carrying the two legs was awkward enough.

The vultures eyed me, but kept their distance when I also walked around to pick up stray turkey feathers. I found five dark brown feathers with white stripes and three orange feathers.

There was something about the orange feathers that made my hands itch to hold them. It was like my hands knew what to do without me. They played with the feathers, testing them. The shafts were sturdy, and the vanes flexible but resilient. The dark brown feathers would make for fine fletching for my arrows, but my hands knew (knew!) that the orange ones would be better.

I stuffed all the feathers in my shirt and walked back to the glen, the damn things tickling me all the way home.