Tonight, I hide

I am an apex predator but, tonight, I hide. Moonlight bleeds through the fractured canopy of trees overhead. At night, the forest mischievously blurs earthly realities and fey otherworldliness. I remain motionless, crisp leaves underfoot, searching the surroundings. Unnatural dangers lie beneath nature's sounds and sights.

An uneasy darkness enshrouds these woods. Shadows appear suddenly, then eclipsed by the trees. Woodland creatures scurry under brush and thickets. Within the blackest pockets, reflective orbs watch my every move. Persistent spying, following unyieldingly. The air is oppressive, unnaturally thick and bone-chilling. A stench of rot and fear lingers. Life coming from death, and back again. 

Winds whisper songs of despair through leaves clinging to their twisted branches. Nearby, a creek cuts through the woods. The water's soft flow interrupted by sudden, unexplained splashes.

I am but one among the unnatural and dangerous within these woods. Baobhan Sith, the fey vampire hunts victims by the smell of blood, the sadistic Red Caps guard forgotten ruins, and Brollachan conceals his man-shaped visage searching for souls to suffocate in swirls of dark smoke. Remain here too long, and your doom will be known only through tales told beside nighttime campfires.

Yet, I too am acquainted with death. With an upper-hand and on any given night, there is nothing here that ought not fear me. But tonight, the odds are even. I have become the hunted.

I snort, detecting the first signs of disturbance. There is an amalgamation of oil, tallow and lye… and warmth. In the distance, perhaps 50 yards due North, an unwelcome visitor reveals himself. Those are steps, I fear, encroaching beyond the cluster of pines. A deliberate, methodical procession. Too heavy for a deer, too slow for a squirrel. The wind softens and the wildlife stills itself, clearing the board for the evening's wanted deadly encounter.

I peer from behind a tree, steadying myself with black claws driven into dying bark. Like a black hole, a darkness creeps between the trees. I did not ask for this, and how I wish we could keep our distance. Any closer, and death will come this very night.

My pale-yellow eyes narrow. For any other, these eyes would dominate the soul, bringing terror to the unexpected pilgrim. But I face no stranger. A sheaf of feathers bob slowly behind its head. At the point, a silver arrow-head glistens in the moonlight. Like an unmoored light tower, warning those to keep their distance. The hunter (or is he the hunted) wears a dark green cloak over earth-toned garments. The arrows jutting from his quiver and the irregular-shaped hat deepens the camouflage. Whereas my unnatural shape and thick fur blends naturally among the trees, and foliage, and tall grass. Yet, nothing remains hidden when you are designed to kill. Like me now, he has become death. 

There is a moment when instinct calls for fight or flight. In any other form, I would calculate paths for escape. But here, now, like this, I find myself impelled to entertain the alternative. My long, arched toes shift atop a pile of dried leaves that, otherwise, would have caused no alarm to an unprimed ear. But he is particularly trained. He hears me. The game has started and the forest will have its blood.

***

Such an unfortunate misunderstanding. In the Barn, twelve nights earlier, the elders gathered for convocation. During the previous three full moons, our livestock disappeared, leaving nothing more than signs of violence and death.

Brother Simon silences the assembly's murmuring as he enters the Circle, grabbing the Sacred Pitchfork. "We must act now!" He shouts. "This unholy terror tests our faith, toys with our livelihood, and threatens our families!" Simon extends his arms, turning in circle while pointing the sharp prongs at us all. "Who among you brought death through sin?" "Or," Simon softens, "does Satan challenge our faith?"

Brother Zane breaks from the circle, grabbing the Pitchfork. His eyes, black, scan the congregation. "I am no sinner! But there is sin in this village!"

Brother Siler charges forward, wrestling the Pitchfork from Zane. "I will NOT be judged by Man! I pray each morning and each night. I raised my children to be proper and polite. Of course," he continues "they have used uncharitable words," Zane demurs. "But who amongst us is without failings?"

Father David shuffles to center. Zane surrenders the Pitchfork without protest. David begins, "It matters not who delivered evil to our doors. No. God will punish the guilty in this life or next. But we must deal with this monster directly. This has happened once before. Before many of you were even born. I remember those days. The carnage. The toll paid for indecisiveness."

David pauses, continues with resignation, "There is one who can provide us shield and sword." A voice interrupts, "No, we cannot!" The chatter grows. David raises the Pitchfork, quieting the discontent. "Yes. We must."

Brother Siler protests, "The Hunter is ungodly! He mocks our faith and shows disdain for God! His price is everything. No matter the people's wealth. He demands it all!"

Father David examines the Pitchfork's spikes and says softly, "Then all we shall give. If we must be humbled, then so shall we be."

I, still in human form, enter the Circle and stand by Father David. Our hands meet, sharing the Pitchfork.

I beg, "Could we not recognize our blessing? Perhaps this beast feasts upon our sheep to satisfy its hunger for human life. Is this not a preferable trade-off? The puddles of blood could have been of our children, the torn flesh could have been of our wives, and the bones, crushed under powerful jaws, could have been our own. Yet this 'creature' chose the lesser of two evils."

"The lesser of two evils?" Father David questions. "The lesser of two evils is evil still. How can we rely upon a demon's restraint?"

I resigned without further argument. It matters not that I can not reveal the source of my authority or whether I could even know if I am the master of my own dominion. We each and all had every reason for fear. The game between cat-and-mouse would, after that night, be a battle between two predators.

That night, word was sent to the Hunter. As expected, the price was high. Each house was searched for every piece of silver; plates, utensils, and jewelry. We knew very well that the Hunter had no need for this. His price was humility.

***

Now, tonight in these evil woods, I find myself alone with the Hunter. I do not wish for death this night. "Leave me be!" I beg softly. Yet, rage overtakes fear; hate overcomes compassion. Blood-lust surges through my veins. 

"Stay. Stay!" I order myself. But I am a beast. A monster. As I feared, self-control is fading. I am teeth and claw and hatred. I crouch lower, readying to spring. In the distance, the Hunter knocks back an arrow, then remains still. His breathing slow and even. Growling softly, saliva building within my jowls.

The Hunter stands motionless. Only a single eye shifts. I am caught. At that moment I thrust forward, lunging from my hind legs. "Run!" I had hoped to scream but, rather, a fearsome roar escapes my throat.

I lift my arms high, extending these deadly claws mid-air. In an instance, his reflexes match my own. The Hunter swivels at the hip, pointing the silver arrowhead at my chest. I swipe downwards, slicing at his neck.

My claw tears at his flesh as the hunter releases his arrow. His skin pierced just as the arrow plunges into my chest. The Hunter spins away as the arrow's force pushes me to the ground. 

The silver arrowhead burns my flesh, lodges under skin, tearing my organs. I frantically rip at the shaft, breaking it away from the point buried deep within.

The Hunter curls on the ground, holding his neck as blood escapes between his fingers. I am writhing on back.

My body begins transforming to prevent the arrow eating through my organs. Growls turn to screams and then to cries. Bones crack under muscle, and the coat of fur rescinding under skin. These almond-shaped eyes now rounding. The crisp visage of the hunter blurring. I gaze upwards through the canopy towards the moonlight. The leaves, their veins and their vibrant colors become dull and hazy.

The world slows. The Hunter approaches, holding his neck, standing above me. His eyes full of terror. On the ground he sees a blue-eyed man, laying upon a pile of blood-soaked leaves. Life pouring from my pink, naked body. In my final moments, my last vision is the moon's glow, and my last words, "The light. The end. Oh joy!"