Dragon Clan #7: Shell’s Story

CHAPTER FIVE

Shell gathered firewood from beside the banks of the stream and scooped several handfuls of cold water to drink. He looked up and down the stream for a deeper hole where he could use his fishing line. The coil and hook remained in a pouch in his backpack, but Shell didn’t see pools of water more than knee deep. Besides, fishing after a flash-flood didn’t make sense. He had saved the last of the hard crackers his mother placed in the bag, but tomorrow he needed to either gather food or hunt.

Travel would become secondary unless Quester had food he was willing to share. Fortunately, there was more than enough water in the area. Food became the issue. The edges of the stream he searched, held no evidence of animals drinking from it. But hunting, tracking, and living wild were not Shells strong points. However, most animals lived near water. He’d heard edible plants grow on the banks of rivers if you know what to look for, but he didn’t know which ones.

He built a fire and spread his blanket, then settled in to wait. Quester hadn’t provided a timetable, but he’d made it sound as if he wouldn’t return quickly. Shell watched the fire until his eyes closed. He decided to rest them for just a moment.

He awoke with a start as if still lost in a dream. A red dragon wanted him to travel across the world until they met. A convoluted mass of sensory overload kept his mind unsure of his state, sleeping or awake. It was not a nightmare or a vivid dream about his quest. Instead, it was soft, and demanding, a harsh whisper in the forefront of his mind, down deep where emotions are kept and didn’t fade when his eyes opened.

One fact rose above others as he cleared his thinking. He believed the whispers were the same ‘voice’ of a dragon he’d heard at night for almost a year. The calls hadn’t been as forceful or intense before tonight, but they ‘sounded’ similar enough to be the same. The primary difference was that the whispers tonight implied something more, they cried danger. Danger and speed. The calling voice wanted him to hurry.

Before Shell could get his thoughts fully in order, Quester stumbled into camp. Shell turned to him, taken by his sudden appearance and general demeanor. “You look terrible. Did you find it?”

“No. I found where the animal had been several times,” he sat heavily beside the stack of firewood and tossed more on the coals. “It was like it knew where I was and it moved to avoid me, like a game where it stayed one step ahead. I tried sneaking up on it four times, but each time it moved before I could see it. It’s still on the other side of the river.”

“Maybe it heard you? Or smelled wood smoke like I did.”

“No, I’m good at this. Remember how I sneaked up behind you?”

“Okay, I’ll agree with that. What happened?”

“I wish I knew. I never caught a look at it, but there were signs,” he held up his hand, fingers splayed. “Footprints this size.”

Shell refused to allow his eyes to roll, but barely.

“Some kind of wolf, I think. Bigger than any I’ve heard of. Not your dog, for sure, unless your dog’s head reaches my chest.” Quester said, as he settled down and pulled his blanket over himself.

The answers provided relief, of a sort. Shell would not have to make decisions about the old dog, Max, but he would have to worry about what was out there. “Listen, more than half the night has passed. You get some sleep while I stand watch on the river from the bank where I have a good view. If it crosses, I’ll let you know.”

“Wake me early.”

“You’re tired. Sleep until you wake up and then we’ll leave. By the way, I’m out of food.”

“By the way, me too.” Quester tried to smile, but when his eyes closed, they didn’t open again. He breathed the soft, exhausted snores of a man who had gone beyond his normal reserves.

Shell slipped from camp and found a place on a small rise that gave him a full view of the river. Anything the size of a dog swimming would make a wake he would see in the moonlight. Since rising, the stars and quarter moon, let him see almost as well as in daylight, but without the colors. He allowed his eyes to roam up and down the river, not focused on any single thing, but knowing that they would detect movement instantly.

That proved itself later when a small deer slowly emerged and carefully took a drink from the water on the far bank. He mentally marked the spot. In the morning, Quester could perhaps help him track the deer, and they’d have food for days. He watched it slip silently back into the brush.

A coyote pack emerged from somewhere behind him and loped to the water with their curious gait, five of them. While four lapped water, one stood guard. Suddenly, the guard froze and emitted a low growl that raised the hairs on the back of Shell’s neck as well as drawing the attention of the other coyotes.

But they were not looking in Shell’s direction. Like Shell, they watched across the river, where Shell saw nothing, near where the deer disappeared. The other four coyotes, now as alert as the first, stood ready to react. One sniffed the air for scent, his nose held high into the air, then it cowed and backed away from the water, the others following suit as if terrified.

Shell held still. They were backing in his direction, but long before they reached his position, they turned and ran, their tails between their legs. He didn’t watch the coyotes for long. Shell kept his eyes on the far bank where nothing moved or showed itself.

When the sun rose, Shell held perfectly still. If whatever stalked them was going to follow, it would have to show itself by crossing the river.

Later, when the sun rose high enough to provide heat, Quester slipped to his side. “All quiet?”

“Yes, and no.” He told Quester about the coyotes and their odd behavior. “There was a deer over there getting a drink, and I watched where it went. And there is something else over there I can’t make out. See that large white rock on the hillside? Now, look at that stump on the river bank?”

Quester nodded again.

“That’s where the deer went. Now, look directly between the rock and stump. See that patch of brown that doesn’t match the surroundings?”

“I see it,” Quester said. “What is it?”

“I’ve been watching it, and I think I see blood on the rocks.”

“It’s not your imagination. It might not be blood, but it’s definitely a color that is out of place. Let me grab our bows, and we’ll go take a look.”

Shell said, “Get them, I’ll keep watch,” But Quester had already rushed in a crouch to their campsite. He returned quickly and handed the bow Shell still had never shot to him.

Quester said, “Follow me.”

They moved down the slope to the edge of the river and watched the other shoreline and all behind it. Shell’s eyes went to the bank where the brown and red colors stood out. “It looks like a deer.”

“Go easy. The hunter may still be around. In fact, I’d bet on it.” Quester stepped ahead of Shell. “Me first.”

Shell had his bow strung and an arrow fitted, as did Quester. He also loosened his knife so it would slide out easily and fast. They moved closer.

“It is a deer,” Quester said. “Or part of one. A recent kill.”

Shell leaped onto a boulder for height and made a full turn, letting his eyes sweep the area. He said, “Nothing.”

“Way to make a target of yourself. Get down here and help me. And look at the wolf prints while you’re here.” Quester handed him his bow lifted the rear haunch of a small deer, probably the one Shell watched getting a drink during the night. Quester tossed it over a shoulder and grabbed it with his other hand, so the remains of the deer rode directly behind his neck.

Shell stood transfixed at the dozens of wolf prints. Max was a larger breed of dog, and most people considered his paws large, but these were easily twice the size. A wolf whose head came to Quester’s chest had left the kill and might return at any time.

Quester had turned and ran for the river carrying the deer, not bothering to waste breath in telling Shell to follow. Shell tried to keep up, but at the same time, he kept his attention behind and to the sides. Whatever had killed the deer would not appreciate them stealing its kill.

They splashed across the river like two crazy men stealing meat from a dangerous predator. Once on the other bank, Quester ran to the dying coals of the fire and sat the haunch on his blanket. “Keep a good watch.”

“I’ve never shot this bow.”

“So you keep telling me. Did you ever learn to scream?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then do that if you see the wolf.”

Feeling chastised, Shell rushed to the side of the river and looked both ways, upstream and down. Glancing behind, he saw Quester already skinning the meat. There were slices of venison lying beside him, and more being added as the fire grew. The fire had more wood on it. The flames climbed waist high.

Shell turned back to the river and made sure nothing moved to cross it. Then his mind played a dirty trick on him. It remembered Quester holding out his splayed hand indicating the size of the track the creature following them left. His mind pictured a giant wolf-like creature bounding out of the grass across the river and in four or five giant leaps to reach him before he could run.

Shell backed away from the water and called to Quester, “I’m going up higher where I have a better view.”

Quester nodded while slipping strips of venison onto green sticks to slow-roast over the fire. Dried and smoked, the strips would last for months. But cooked, they would last only long enough to feed the two young men. They might sun-dry part of them later and perhaps even smoke them. But, they would have food for days.

Shell watched the river and the shore across, trying to find where the creature might be. The deer could almost be a gift from another animal, but he didn’t think so. Grasslands only support a few carnivores because there is not enough food for more. He’d already seen the coyotes and the stalker wolf, so how many more could there be in this one location? Besides, mentioning the idea to Quester would invite a lecture on how animals don’t share.

By mid-day nothing had shown itself and Quester called. Shell arrived at the camp to find a dying fire, and two backpacks stuffed with strips of meat. Placing it in Shell’s backpack was an invasion of his personal property, but he realized Quester was simply using what was handy. Not that there was anything to hide or steal inside the pack. Still, he felt a little odd about it.

Quester said, pointing to the bone and other remains, “Enough to draw every meat eater within two days.”

“But enough in our pack to feed us for weeks.”

“Time to move on, my friend.”

They headed out at a fast pace. Shell struggled to keep up but refused to ask Quester to slow. The almost flat lay of the grasslands had given up to small hills and valleys filled with shrubs and even small, green trees along the streambeds. Now the terrain turned to taller hills, most covered with stunted trees and undergrowth, all of it green instead of brown.

At one place, late in the day, a few clouds dispersed and there directly in front stood the peak of a mountain that could only be Bear Mountain. They stood and observed in awe, looking at the height and the solid white top that never melted. The ground trembled, and the top belched a column of dirty-white smoke as if warning them.

“That’s where we’re going?” Quester asked.

“I never knew it would be so big. We could spend the rest of the summer searching the slopes and never find a dragon.”

“Calm down. We’ll find them sooner than you think.”

Quester turned at the cryptic remark and led the way over the next few hills where they found a small lake surrounded by trees. As they stood and watched the lake in appreciation, a sight rare to those of the grasslands, something ahead moved swiftly. A shadow larger than two men flicked from the edge of the lake into the shade of the trees.

“Did you see that?” Shell choked past dry lips.

“I did and I didn’t. Did you get a look?”

“Just a flash and it was gone.”

Quester adjusted the straps on his pack and said, “It might hide, but whatever it was, there are tracks down by the edge of the lake.”

“Are we going to look at them?”

Quester cast him an odd look before saying, “What else?”

“Just asking,” Shell said, reaching for his bow again. A good throw of a rock would almost reach halfway across the lake. It was perhaps twice as long, a small stream feeding it and another leading out at the lower end. From the hillside, they could see it all, but as they descended the trees blocked their view, and they followed game trails until they reached the soggy edges.

There, they fought their way through willows, ash, maple, and countless types of vines and thorn bushes until they reached a small clearing. The black dirt they stood on was soggy and covered with green grasses.

A set of footprints stood out as if they were stars at night. The pattern emerged from the forest and went straight to the edge of the water, and into it, probably where the animal got a drink. Another set showed where the startled animal had leaped, turned, and bounded back into the trees as Shell and Quester came into sight.

Quester knelt beside the nearest track and held out his hand for comparison. “Ever see anything like this? I guess it decided to cross the river, after all. I just hope it is not after the venison.”

The prints were long as Quester’s hand and fingers, and wider. Quester hadn’t exaggerated about them, and to Shell, they looked even larger than those at the river. “No, I’ve never seen a wolf with feet that big! Are they the same as last night?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Our stalker got here before us.”

“It didn’t cross the river,” Shell said. “I made sure.”

Quester shrugged. “Upriver or down, or perhaps after we left. It could have passed right by us, and we didn’t see it.”

Shell looked at the prints again. He looked around the area, into the trees, the shadows, and the nearby hills.

“Trying to find it?” Quester asked.

“I was wondering about caves. Is this the kind of place where there are caves?”

Quester burst out laughing. “Caves? Are you thinking of a small one a big thing like this can’t enter?”

Shell turned to him, hands on hips. “If we find a cave, I’m using it. If it isn’t big enough for two, find your own.”

That sent Quester into gales of laughter. When he finished and looked at Shell again, he laughed more. Then he said, “Listen, I’ll build us a fire. Even wolves don’t like fires. Help me gather wood.”

Using his heavy knife to help, Shell cut dead limbs from a pine and picked up branches. Quester cut several green bushes, and after setting up strips of meat side by side on large rocks, he covered the entire fire with the shrubs. Smoke escaped through a dozen places but mostly stayed inside the makeshift smoker, as Quester continued tending the fire.

Shell went to his pack and found his braided fishing line and hooks. At the edge of the lake, he managed to catch a small grasshopper and placed it on the hook. A careful cast allowed the insect to wriggle and float. In the space of a few breaths, a trout attacked it, nearly snatching the grasshopper, hook, and line away from Shell.

He pulled it close to the edge of the water, then when it tired of fighting, onto the bank where he cut a green switch and ran it into the fish’s mouth and out the gill, into the soft ground so it couldn’t flop back into the water. Shell had a harder time catching the second grasshopper for bait than catching the next fish.

Back at the clearing, Quester looked up and said, “I get us venison to eat for a month, and you go fishing?”

“I take what I can get. The smoked meat won’t last forever, and we need variety.” Shell cleaned the fish without looking at Quester. Quester could have responded differently, but he had a nasty habit of making sour jokes turning it into poor humor.

Shell said, “We haven’t talked about some things.”

“Such as?” Quester asked while placing more leaf-filled branches on the small fire to contain the smoke.

Shell took a seat and peeled the bark off two sticks used for smoking meat, then changed his mind and threw them in the fire. He’d cook the fish by placing it on one of the rocks surrounding the fire when they were ready to eat.

As he idly sat, he said, “Unknown mountains to the west, raiders killing your family, and then two years in the grasslands alone, always moving west. Those things must provide a hundred stories for you to tell, but you say nothing about them, or your past.”

“I survived. We can leave it at that.”

“I shared my reasons for being here.”

“What do you want to hear from me?”

Shell met his gaze. “Your new family didn’t like you. That’s what you said. So, you left. Those mountains to the east you spoke of held deer, goats, birds, lakes, and rivers I think. A good place to live and easy to find food with your skills. But you left and headed west into the grasslands where water is scarce and food even harder to find. It doesn’t make sense to me why you’d do that.”

“Maybe I didn’t know what it would be like in the grasslands.”

“When you found out, you could have gone back to your mountains. You’re not telling me everything. I think you were chased away.”

Quester snorted, but without humor. “Why would anyone do that, or care to do it?”

Shell passed him more green sticks for smoking and watched as Quester slid several strips of venison onto each, positioning them over the fire, not close to heat or flame. “I don’t know, why. I also don’t know how you survived for two years on your own, or why you continued moving west.”

“Out there you use up the food resources quickly, and the animals move on after you kill one or two. I had to keep moving.”

“But not west?”

“Maybe I heard there were more mountains that way.”

“But two whole years?”

“I didn’t know how far they were. It was easier to move on than turn back.”

While the words sounded reasonable, they lacked conviction or the ring of truth. He was holding something back; maybe many somethings. As part of the Dragon Clan, Shell held more than a few secrets of his own, but while he enjoyed traveling with another, a companion who was not trustworthy was not worth it.

Quester said, “What about you? After being a herdsman for ten years, you suddenly decided to leave your home and family to go see a mountain?”

“And search for a wife.”

“We both know there are women living closer than that mountain.” Quester settled back and waited.

An uneasy silence filled the clearing as each reconsidered the partnership. Shell realized Quester had a knowledge of hunting and living in the wild to share, but at what cost? Maybe the right question was, what did Quester gain from them traveling together?

Quester stood and said, “If you watch the fire and smoke, I’m going to follow those tracks for the wolf. I am uneasy that it is either stalking us or traveling with us.”

“Be careful.” Shell watched him take his bow and head into the thick underbrush. On impulse, and to work out some kinks, Shell lifted his staff and went through eight or ten repetitions of familiar sets of moves involving defense, strikes, misdirection, and attacks. As always, he paid as much attention to his footwork as his hand placement, twisting his body and snapping his wrists to maximize his power and speed.

Sweating, he returned to the fire and carefully placed more green wood on it for smoke, and dry sticks for flames. He turned some of the meat and returned to his workout. As he forced his body to work harder, his mind relaxed and sorted out part of his confused thoughts. For now, he wanted Quester to travel with him. Quester knew how to live off the land in ways Shell didn’t, but he also realized Quester was a luxury and not a necessity.

Shell rotated the meat again. As it dried, the smoke cured it. Quester didn’t return until shortly before dark. He entered the clearing and said, “I think we have a problem.”