The Hunt

(Domas & Eliaron pt. 1)

The sun was still below the bluffs, but the sky was already bright blue on a crisp, chilly, cloudless morning. Young Domas made his way through the forest on a carpet of yellow leaves, but none of the traps he’d so far checked had any animals waiting for him. His new rifle was heavy in his hand, a feeling both novel and reassuring; he was proud to have it, yet he had to admit his arm was getting a little tired.

He reached a meadow right up against the bluff; his last trap was set somewhere along the southern edge, but when he got to it, it too was empty. Well, salted meat it would have to be for that day’s dinner.

There was a rustle of leaves, and he jerked his head toward the source of the sound. A man came toward him, by his clothing a trapper from Galee. Domas rechecked his rifle, to make sure again that it was loaded — the trappers were mostly decent men, but not all.

Soon enough, the man was close enough to recognize. Wiyome? Was that his name? “Bundur,” Domas said in Galian, hoping he’d said it right.

“Bundur, Domaso,” the trapper replied. His beard had grown back in full since he’d visited, when he’d taken the opportunity to shave it off with a sharpened blade and fresh well water. “Kam etee?”

It took a moment for Domas to remember what that meant, and another to remember how to reply. “Dareen, gras.”

Wiyome smiled broadly. “You remember my lesson! Well done. Your family, well, I hope?”

Domas wasn’t sure how to answer that, and rather didn’t want to. “Mm- eh… hm. My baby sister….”

“Little Abby? Oh, ye su nezoll,” was the trapper’s reply, dropping his head and making the sign of the sun around his heart. After a pause, he continued. “I hunt with a young friend. You want to meet?”

Domas considered for a moment, tried to check the sun’s position in the sky, and mentally kicked himself because this close to the bluff it would be near noon before the sun would shine through the nearly bare branches. “I think I would like that. Dad will only expect me home for dinner.”

With a smile and a small nod, the trapper said, “Come, then,” and led the way, across the meadow. They walked in silence, though Domas felt he should make conversation; but the quiet of the morning and the dew rising from the grass made talking seem like it would be an intrusion. Eventually, they reached the forest again, and walking was noisy again, or at least it seemed like it after the silence before. Domas noticed that the trapper had changed his gait to make less noise, and he did the same, but dry leaves crackle no matter how you step on them. Then, Wiyome whistled like a redfinch, and somewhere ahead of them came the call of a greenjay. “Ah, we find him,” noted the trapper unnecessarily. Soon enough, Domas could hear crackling leaves ahead of them in addition to their own, and then he saw the person through the trees.

Jet black hair; thin, bright blue clothing; skin the color of an old syruptree leaf; and ear points.

Domas stopped, alarmed. “Dwinn?!”

“Duyñ,” Wiyome corrected, putting a little y sound on the n.

“But –”

“You are afraid of a 12-year-old boy?”

“Well, no, but… the Duyn — Duyn –” Domas tried to make the right sound at the end –“don’t like us much. And how can we talk?”

“He knows some Galian. And you know some.”

“Exactly, some! But not enough to talk! And what would we talk about?!”

“Shh, now, you’re scaring him. Listen, I had to learn some Duyñ, and I not had a teacher. You have to only jump in and try.”

Domas looked at the other youngster, and swallowed. “Uh, bundur.”

“Bundur,” said the other uncertainly. “Ih, ye me aple Eliaron.”

“Elee, Eliar…on?” Domas said uncertainly. When Eliaron nodded, he responded, “Edh ye me aple Domas.”

“Wonderful!” Wiyome burst out in Galian. “You see, you can talk to each other,” he continued, slowly. “Now, because we are three, I say we hunt some feldriz.”

Domas grinned. “I agree!” he said in Galian, at almost the same time that Eliaron did.

“Right. Domas, take the feldriz stick. Eliaron, the bag.”

Domas bit his lip to keep from whining. He always got the stick and not the bag when hunting with Wiyome! And then, he noticed a somewhat crestfallen look on Eliaron’s face, too. Did he want the stick?!

“About 50 ells over there is a good place for a nest. Count to 20 while I circle around, then move that way. You know what to do.”

The two boys nodded, and watched him go. Wiyome’s flushing-out tactic was not strictly necessary, but three were usually more likely to catch a feldriz than two. They looked at each other when Wiyome was out of sight, and Domas held out the stick. “Ta nezeirz…” he started, unsure how to phrase his question.

Eliaron grinned, and held out the burlap bag. “Auk. Ye ahm.”

They completed the trade, and then Domas realized he hadn’t been counting. “Benda?”

“Auk, allome,” was Eliaron’s answer, and he made an odd waving motion that Domas figured went along with ‘allome’ — let’s go. Eliaron strode off at about a right angle to the direction Wiyome had gone, and Domas let the bag hang open near the ground. He really wasn’t expecting anything to happen any time soon; sometimes it could take hours to catch a single bird, especially in winter. Eliaron moved fluidly, lightly across the leaves and around low-hanging branches, and Domas turned his attention back to the forest floor, keeping leaf-crunching to a minimum as he followed some ten paces behind Eliaron’s right.

Then a small crash sounded to Domas’ right; Eliaron whirled just as a dingy-yellow blur darted toward him. The flightless bird abruptly turned left, and Domas froze. Eliaron had to step quickly to tap the stick on the ground and guide the feldriz toward the bag, the nearest dark hole it would find for ‘safety;’ but after just three taps the bird ran right in. Somewhat clumsily, Domas tied up the bag as the bird inside panicked. And then he looked up, to see Eliaron there, offering his hand for a handshake, and beaming. “Nuz le fet!”

“Auk!” replied Domas as he took the hand.

Eliaron’s grip was a bit weak, and short; then, he held his palm vertically, pointing at it with his left hand. Domas guessed he was supposed to put his palm against Eliaron’s, and apparently, he was right.

And then, another crash…

They caught two more feldriz; each trickier for Domas than the last one with the added complication of the previous bird(s) already in the bag. Soon after he had the third one tied up, Wiyome reappeared. “Eh? Kam etes-s?”

“Bun,” the boys said, more or less together, and Domas held up the jumping, squirming bag.

The Gali laughed heartily, and said something in his language which Domas couldn’t understand for all the laughing. Wiyome apparently noticed, and did his best to calm down. “You not hit the birds. You hit, make them sleep. Easier.”

Of course! That would make sense. Domas’ cheeks burned — how Eliaron must be laughing inside his head! He looked at the Duyna boy, who was grinning from ear to ear, but not laughing. “Ta mul bun. Mul niviss,” he said, pointing at the bag. Domas wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or sarcasm — ‘very good, it was very difficult.’ Eliaron then said something to Wiyome in his own language.

Wiyome translated. “He likes you. He says he is… prude? of you?”

“Proud?” Prude didn’t make sense, but the Duyna boy was proud of him? He had no idea what to say to that.

But then he realized it was getting late; he checked where the sun was, easier in this season than in the summer — though blocked by tree trunks he could see how low it was. “Wiyome! I’m late getting home!”

“Auk, pli tard.” He held out his hand for the bag, grabbed a feldriz with both hands from the outside, and gave a quick twist. Then, he reached in, his face jerking with pain a couple times, and pulled out the dead bird. “Neyun.”

“Gras,” said Domas, though of course he was entitled to a bird. “Bun, u reví.”

“U reví, Domaso,” intoned Eliaron formally just as Domas started off.

So Domas stopped, and thought hard for the right thing to say. “Ynshantis-s, Eliaron!” That seemed to satisfy the other two, and so he started off again, even faster. The rifle seemed even heavier now, after so many hours of carrying it, but his mind was on the limp, still warm body of the feldriz.

Read more about these characters in “Eliaron.”

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Kevin Marston once taught German and Spanish, but has been teaching mostly EFL in Poland at various levels for the past 15 years. Connect with him on LinkedIn.