The Birbour Cavern Creatures, Unknown Date

Orange, beady eyes stared back beneath the ripples of a murky puddle. Quizzically, they searched their reflection for any signs of the recent struggle. Those man-things were easy enough prey, but the thunder-sticks that they carried elucidated a kind of fear that predated even the beast. It had been here, in these mountains, long before the man-things first invaded. Before, when they came across the cold expanse with sharp sticks and wild dogs, they were easier and the beast’s kin much more prevalent. It was through some stroke of foolishness that the elder kin were tricked by a deal. In exchange for the man-thing’s youngest daughters each generation, the beasts would leave the man-things alone. It was in that complacent state, for ages, that the beasts grew fat and lazy. The remains of their childish sacrifices picked their teeth and made ornate jewelry out of small, innocent bones. All the while the man-things evolved in hatred.

And then they killed an elder. One who had lived before even the oldest trees were but saplings. The man-things had bided their time, digging holes in the ground to hide in while creating all manners of devilish machinations. And then, riding felled trees across the ocean, they came with thunder-sticks. They hunted and the beasts retreated into the mountains. There was hell, for a time, but through trickery and mysticism the beasts held their ground and the man-things retreated to the coast.

For a time. 

There was a spot that the eyes had missed. A patch of red hair, stuck in between bloodied teeth. Big, gnarly, ape-like fingers plucked it delicately free. The eyes surveyed the tuft of man-fur. Theirs was thin, wiry, and bright. A worthless thing for any hunter and a blessing for any prey. The man-things stood out in a sea of green and brown whilst the beast appeared as nothing more than a patch of abnormal rocks or a cluster of small trees. 

It smiled, gruesome teeth pulled back by menacing lips. 

The four man-things had been easy pickings. The beast had chased a moose to a stream, letting it drink in perceived safety within the sights of the man-thing’s hut. They shot and pursued their quarry, spreading out just enough that the beast could snatch up and desiccate his own prey. Their liquids had been a playful red, dying the ground into a wonderful crimson clay for the beast to mold into bowls for his kin. 

Not now, it thought, that task was for later. Now was a time of family and meditation. More prey would follow those four, the beast assured himself, but patience. The man-thing’s camp, nestled against the ocean, would be his quarry. Their mangled corpses his trophies. For a moment, the lucid dreams of twisted bodies and snapping bones sent shivers down to the beast’s groin.

It was giddy with the thought. 

The beast moved deeper into the cave, content with his cleanliness, and found a secret passage cut between two tall stalagmites. Its entrance would be hidden to any not already knowing of its existence, a forethought by the aforementioned elder. Even in death, he defied the man-things with his ingenuity. 

Down the dark, sharp twists and churning corridors the beast went, descending through the aortas of the earth, finding a larger antechamber. It would appear as another dead end to most, but the beast knew better. To the left from the entrance was another secret opening hidden, once again, by stalagmites. Through it was a small hallway that opened up into the beast’s destination, its sanctuary. 

Cheerily, two smaller beasts hopped to him on all fours. He scooped them up and held them as their father. Their mother, his mate, had perished not long ago to the greed of the man-things. They wanted the mountain’s bounty, selfishly cutting and chopping and digging and booming . . . she had been by the stream when they got her. She made it back to the cave before passing, an extra bite to an already devastating sting. He ruffled his children’s hairy heads, plucking a tick off one and allowing the other to slurp it off his finger. They grew restless quickly, so he set them down to resume their play. 

More beasts wandered the cavern. Some crawled as the children did, some walked as the father did on two legs. Most ignored him, but some honored him with nods and displays of teeth. Not many were brave enough – or foolish enough – to venture beyond the cave. He tossed a lump of meat into a pile at the center of the chamber. All food was shared between the beast's hive and his addition brought him many more approving glances. Some noticed that the clumps were human, some either didn’t notice or didn’t care. All gathered and ate happily. Nothing but bones remained, which the female beasts collected for use in ornaments and jewelry. 

“Aaaahhhh . . .” Something groaned. The father turned toward his children. They were bouncing around on top of something, gnawing at it vigorously. The thing groaned again and a small human hand briefly reached toward the cavern’s ceiling. It fell quickly as the beast’s children tore through the man-child’s bicep and snapped her bones, suckling its savory, sweet marrow. Their mother would be furious at such a waste, but the beast could only smile gruesomely at their fun. No doubt, he’d be too late to join them. The smaller man-things never lasted long with the children, especially his. 

The others returned to their activities, hoarding bones and other items from today’s hunt in their alcoves. In the dark, their eyes glowed like fireflies, dancing up and down as they watched one another. The eyes told all, holding secret conversations that only the beasts could possibly hope to understand, but one thing was clear . . . they wanted more. 

Movement brought the father’s attention back to his children. Beyond them, on a smoothened out portion of the cavern wall, lay the entire history of their hive. The elders carefully documented everything, crafting artistic pictograms out of ash and berries and sap. It showed from the beginning, when the land was red and hot, when giants roamed and scaled monsters hunted the beasts. From there, the figures of men appeared. Red hand marks overlaid across the dead figures of beasts and men alike. There were depictions of battles and skirmishes and then . . . the mountains. The cave. The sanctuary. Safety for creatures vastly outnumbered by the industrious march of mankind. The father would add to this one day. There would be the man-thing’s settlement smeared in the red clay, just as the elder's image now was. 

The others began to call out, their howls reverberated in the chamber and shook small waterfalls of dirt free from their pools. It was as if they knew the father’s call to war. It was as if they supported it. They wanted it as much as he did. All had lost friends, family, land, freedom to the man-things. But lost things are meant to be found, the beast thought, and he’d be the one to find them. For his mate, no, but for himself and for his children and for his people. 

The locals had many names for his kind. Sasquatch. Bigfoot. The Yeti. Nantiinaq. But to the father, there was only one word suitable for the man-thing. 

Prey.