Sensitive Content Warning: This story deals with animals fighting and animal death.
Failing Well
2966 Words
Miksa watched Ananda fidgeting with a tangled braid in her long black hair. It could have been any morning but for the scent of her anxiety that made his nose twitch and jostled the usual calmness in their den. For three and a half years, Miksa, descendant of wolves, had been her Todiča, her guardian.
Today was her first over-night solo hunt and while he’d been her protector, this day marked an uncomfortable shift. He could not continue to help her, at least, not in the quiet ways he often did. Her successes and failures on this hunt should belong to her.
She sheathed her knife on her quiver belt and Miksa stood at the shadowy edge of her mind as she talked herself through her packing list: arrows, fire plow, dry kindling. She glanced down at him, and tried smiling to cover her nervousness, before remembering there was little she could hide from him or his nose. She shrugged.
Ananda’s nose was tiny. Miksa had, for a time, expected it to grow into a respectably long muzzle. He also had hoped that her teeth would grow a bit too, but moon to moon, Ananda’s muzzle stayed the same. She thought Miksa was “handsome” with his thick black fur, floppy ears and “strangely beautiful” blue eyes.
Her father, Tundé handed her three long strips of dried caribou meat.
“Tuck it in your coat for a walking breakfast.”
“You’re sure you’re ready?” asked her mother Sajuna, her dark eyes intent.
“I am,” said Ananda, her brow set.
Miksa didn’t smell “ready” on Ananda, but he licked his nose and sat on his tail.
Tundé put his dark hand on her shoulder. “Do not cross Kierniak Creek and be home by midday tomorrow.”
“I won’t, and I will,” said Ananda with a smile. Miksa saw her father’s grip tighten as the grin fell from her face.
“Ana, I mean it,” he said.
“I understand, Dahi,” I won’t cross Kierniak.
Miksa wasn’t concerned about the path they were to take on that chilly morning. His worry lay deeper in a secret he’d kept from Ananda. At first his small incursions into her mind were just to help preserve their secret. They could read each other’s mind, but he hadn’t told her his ability went further. He told himself he wasn’t really changing anything; he was just helping Ananda focus. Or sometimes remember something. He told himself they were just little things.
Her friend Ekassi had lived with the family for two seasons and had helped Ananda with her bow skills. They were as close as sisters, but for Miksa, she had a darkness to her that was the opposite of Ananda’s bright and kindly manner. Ekassi handed Ananda a small bag of aruk.
“That’s for Miksa, he shouldn’t go hungry if you can’t catch dinner.”
Ananda flashed a rude hand gesture at Ekassi and they laughed.
Miksa licked his nose. He could smell the greasy aruk through the pouch. He could also smell the pride on Sajuna and Tundé, the nostalgia from her sister Kinya, and hint of concern from Ekassi.
Ananda was like a fountain of excitement, fear, pride, and so many other smells, wishes, and hopes that Miksa, to keep from running in circles, had to stand and let his bushy tail wag wide and fast. Not that he needed his nose to tell him how she was feeling or thinking. Her mind was often like a lake in a rainstorm, spattered with ripples and jittering noise. Yet there were times when they sat together at night, all the waves of thought subsided, and she became as still as a frozen lake. Those times, when he visited her mind, they passed their thoughts to one another effortlessly until there seemed to be no difference between he and the girl. They were one.
Miksa padded next to Ananda as the family walked with them across the snow patched flats under a star speckled sky. When they reached the chilly dark edge of the Chatsit Woods, Ekassi handed Ananda her bow.
Kinya insisted on carrying her pack for her and now gave her the rolled skin with camping supplies lashed together at one end and helped her slip it over her shoulder.
Each pressed their forehead to Ananda’s and gave her many words, which the hind-legged-walkers always seemed to need more of. Then they knelt and did the same to Miksa. He understood their words easily, but what he most enjoyed was their breath and the scents they left on his muzzle and ears that he could enjoy for half a day as if they were travelling with him.
Miksa and Ananda finally set off on their own together, passing into the darkness of the trees while the noise and bustle of the family drifted away, covered by the sounds of the forest.
They walked side by side, the trail swallowed by small trees and tangled brambles. Eventually, as she always did, Ananda began singing. The buzzing throat songs that she, her sister and mother sang reminded Miksa of the inhabitants of the woods, water and air.
Miksa found a scent running across the trail and he turned from the path, heading into the White Wind.
“Where are you going?” asked Ananda.
“Follow me,” thought Miksa, hoping she wouldn’t need too much convincing.
“But we were going the other way,” she answered, pointing toward Kierniak Creek.
Miksa licked his nose and stopped himself from “helping” her change her mind.
“I smell game this way.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Okay, Miksa. Lead the way.”
Miksa turned back to his path that took them away from Kierniak Creek, back and north of their den and village, beyond Tyna’s Peak toward the foothills of the Talinak Mountains.
Above the tall spruce trees, the stars faded into an azure midday sky though twilight still clung to the deep woods. Between their stalking steps, they heard the scuffling and shuffles of small foraging animals. Ananda pulled an arrow from her quiver, nocking it on the sinew string of her bow.
Each step she took slowed with intention, and Miksa sensed Ananda, seeing the subtle tilt of his nose, move silently to the right keeping herself down wind of their quarry. Thoughts passed between them like breaths.
“Rabbit?”
“Fox,” he said.
Miksa felt splashes of her excitement rise, but she took a breath and her thoughts receded, leaving her calm but focused as she spotted the fox. It was red with a gray back and haunches. Miksa worked his nose, pulling in scents that drifted near the forest floor. It was unbonded, a young male and a third as large as Miksa, well-muscled, hanging on to its winter coat. Its scent told him it was not aware of them as it rooted in a bramble for early berries.
Ananda took two more steps that were no more than the wind rustling leaves, putting her in position to take her shot. She crouched next to a pine with low dry branches with a clear area to her sides and in front, but just behind her, easily missed was a small limb. Miksa thought a single word would be enough, but he stopped himself. She drew her bow, her arm pressing and bending the thin dry twig back. The snap of it breaking was all the warning the fox needed and in a flash of red it disappeared into the shadows of the trees.
“Fek!” said Ananda and relaxed her bow.
“There was a branch,” thought Miksa.
“Yes, I see that now.”
“You’ll need to be more careful.”
Miksa had learned to ignore some of the things Ananda thought of, including her idea just then about cooking him instead of hunting.
“You couldn’t catch me. I’d hear you coming.”
Ananda laughed and pulled him into a hug that stunk of dirt, sweat and frustration.
She gave him some of the aruk and he licked his chops, spreading the oily meat across his nose. After walking a bit, Miksa dropped and rolled in a dark clump of leaves. He righted himself and after flopping his ears, found Ananda looking at him with a grin.
“All I could smell was aruk.”
“Hang on,” she said and flicked something wriggly off the top of his head.
They moved on to find another hunting spot and spread apart, the trees passing between them, each knowing the others position with hardly a glance. Cresting a rise, they saw a narrow creek crossing their path. When he suddenly stopped, she did as well.
The shot was longer than any Ananda had ever made, but the rabbit was large, and the afternoon was going to be long and the evening longer if she didn’t get a kill.
“What do you see?”
“Rabbit,” he said.
She didn’t ask him where; just slowly squatted and set an arrow, scanning the far side of the creek. She drew her bowstring back, focused on her quarry. But before taking the shot, she looked over her shoulder at Miksa. Their eyes locked as she loosed her arrow with a stringy snap. The shaft found its target and he smelled a runnel of anger drifting from Ananda, before her mind shut against him like a hard slap on his nose. He winced and sat, his tail tucked close to his hock.
Her eyes brimmed with tears and fury and Miksa looked down at his paws. Ananda stomped across the creek and trudged up the small incline to the rabbit. The shot was perfectly placed, and she knelt, putting her hand on the rabbit until its legs stopped kicking. Miksa’s keen ears picked out her words as they drifted through the forest.
“Child of Ūveya, thank you for the gift of your life. Return to the Lights, Ever-friend of the Itk’iya.”
She walked back to Miksa and flung the carcass to the ground in front of him.
“He’s your kill, she said, “You carry him,” and walked back down to the creek away from Miksa.
He followed behind her at a distance, keeping the catch in his maw as the afternoon wore on. He didn’t dare reach for her thoughts. He wasn’t afraid of being caught, but of sensing nothing connecting them at all.
Ananda took five more rabbits and after finding a camping spot near a rocky hill side, took the game from Miksa and hung it with the others to be dressed. She built a small lean-to, big enough for them both and a fire in front. She filled a wooden bowl with water for Miksa who waited until she told him, “Drink.” before he did, glad to wash the rabbit fur and blood from his mouth. She gave him four large chunks of aruk and spitted one of the smaller rabbits over the fire.
When the moon was high and the fire crackling and throwing its flickers up the rock wall, she nestled back and held out her arms to him. He waddled over and lay down next to her, resting his head on her leg.
Her mind opened to him again and he stepped in slowly.
“I know why you been “helping” me.
“Ananda,” he began,
“No Miksa, I want to say this.”
Miksa put his head back down on her leg.
“I’m not as good a hunter as Ekassi or even Kinya. I don’t think I’ll ever be that good. But I’ll never get better if you’re always helping. I know you think you’re protecting me; that’s the guardian in you but you can’t always protect me from failing.”
“I understand.” he said and pressed his face against her leg.
“Miksa, did you help me catch any other rabbits today?”
“No.” he said and was grateful he did not have to lie.
“Is that why the other four got away?”
“You failed very well all afternoon.”
Ananda gently ruffled his ears and Miksa found a thought in her that was difficult to make sense of—You are my heart. Even though he didn’t understand, his flews pulled back in a smile. The night passed quietly, and both awoke well rested to a star filled morning sky and a low burning fire.
After breakfast, which was the little and mostly charred remains of the small rabbit, they broke camp and began their trek back home.
“I’d like to catch a few more rabbits or maybe a fox if I can,” said Ananda and Miksa wagged his tail.
“On my own,” she added, smiling.
“Yes, practice failing,” said Miksa and padded ahead.
“Would you rather be boiled or roasted?” she asked.
“Your bow,” he said.
“What is it?”
Miksa slowed his pace and Ananda did the same, each taking steps as if on thin ice, eyes scanning the shadows between the trees. His nose scribbled in the air, his blue eyes seeking out Ananda.
“Wolf,” he said.
In its youth it would have been unbeatable –bright yellow eyes, huge shoulders and long powerful limbs. While it was still massive, it had a dull grey coat marked with shaggy hackles and years of hard winters. It stepped out from behind bushes at the top of a small hill. Its face told a hundred tales of fights fought and won. Now, one eye looked like it was filled with ice and Miksa could smell while the wolf was old and did not have many fights left in him, he could make each of them count well. A voice deep in Miksa’s blood, wanted to hunt with him, not fight him.
The wolf’s ragged black flews pulled back, revealing long, stained teeth. Its yellow eye found Ananda and it gave a low rumbling growl. Ananda’s fear rose like a tidal wave overtaking her mind and she was lost to Miksa. She ran, the scent of her fear streaming behind even as the wolf lunged after her.
Though he was smaller, Miksa trusted his speed and used his low stance to his advantage. He dove in front of the old wolf and put a full bite on his front leg at the elbow. The wolf fell forward, his progress toward Ananda ending, but he collapsed on top of Miksa. He knew the bite would come next and released the wolf’s leg, rolling. He almost made it but felt the large maw of the wolf grab the fur above his flank. Its strength surprised him, and he was dragged backward with a vicious shake.
Miksa turned and launched himself at the spot just behind the old wolf’s ear. He heard the cartilage crunch, and the taste of blood was on his tongue and nose turning his world crimson. The wolf spun and gave a glancing snap at his withers. Miksa sprang forward, diving low and caught the wolf’s large paw. He felt the small bones snap under his bite. With a low growl and a tug, it pulled away.
Blood dripped from the old wolf’s ear and across its muzzle, but it showed no sign of weakening as again, it charged Miksa. This time the attack landed on the side of his neck, the catch teeth, dull but still effective, tore through his thick fur, finding the muscle beneath. Miksa let out a high-pitched cry.
Like a sudden violent storm, he felt Ananda, rising through the woods.
“Let him go!” she screamed.
Her bow was drawn but she held her fire afraid to miss or worse hit Miksa. But she strode closer until the wolf released its bite and turned its gaze on her. They stared at each other, neither moving, barely ten feet apart. In that moment, her mind opened wide, pleading.
“Please, don’t make me…”
The wolf shifted its weight to attack. The arrow struck with a thud, sliding between ribs, piercing its heart. It gave no cry but dropped to its belly, blood oozing from its scarred nose. Its breath slowed, yellow eye watching Miksa then returning to Ananda.
She let her bow fall to the snow and knelt next to the old wolf, brushing the fur on his large head with a trembling hand. He blinked once and let out a long shuttering breath into the silence of the woods.
“Are you okay,” asked Ananda in a whisper.
“I am,” said Miksa and slipped down on his paws, sphinx-like.
Rain fell on Ananda’s thoughts, and she crawled to him, pressing her face into the thick fur on his neck and wept.
Ananda was silent on the walk home and Miksa padded beside her.
Full spring brought longer brighter days, and life slipped easily into its routines. After dinner as the family sat around their fire under the stars, Ekassi or Kinya would ask Ananda to tell the story of her hunt again. She usually declined, saying it was an old story and would rather hear them sing.
Miksa now stayed at the very edges of Ananda’s mind. He no longer stalked quietly to help her but rather made sure she knew he was listening. He didn’t protect her from the reproachful thoughts about running from the wolf. He didn’t shield her from the guilt she felt for every wound the wolf gave him. Nor did he emphasize her bravery in returning to the fight or push away a towering sadness at taking the life of such a magnificent creature as the wolf.
Some days, she hated herself and others she was proud. There were days she couldn’t make any sense of it and didn’t think she ever would. He let her feel all of it.
But Miksa stayed with her, resting his head on her leg, listening to her heart and only when it was very late and she stirred against some shadow in her dreams, did he quietly and very softly whisper to her, “Sleep.”
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