Matt Latimer
After the Gods made the world, some ascended back into the heavens becoming the lights in the sky and others sought shelter slumbering in mountains and under the oceans.
With the Eye of the Watcher overhead, simmering his tanned skin, Finder-Of-Trails used the best of the light to keep moving across the thick grassland towards the more bountiful valleys. Sometimes the grasslands could be dangerous due to the quick-strike of the whip-fangs whose bite at the ankles was fatal. However, the openness allowed Finder-of-Trails to enjoy the wanning heat. It was his role within the tribe to track herds of animals that could be harvested or to find new sources of food, and even to keep predators away.
The people of his tribe would worship the Watcher in different ways, perceiving Him as the one responsible for the growth of crops, or for the pouring springs, or for visions through searing meditation.
Recently with the water disappearing and the crops faltering the tribe was withering. The only reason Finder-Of-Trails could think of to justify this, was that Watcher was going to join other Gods in slumber! Nevertheless, Finder-Of-Trails had a plan to stop the Watcher from falling asleep; he was going to make the canyons of his land call out to the Watcher and shatter His fatigue.
Finder-Of-Trails first noticed that the canyons would mimic his own sounds, as if to mock him while hunting, amplifying foolish errors – even the rush of the rivers, and sounds of animals was repeated. Cleary some system put in place for the Gods to better hear what was going on in Their world. Therefore, he would shoot an arrow as far through the canyon as he could and strike one of the mighty Paw-Wings – wickedly part bird of prey, part feline. The Paw-Wings had such authority in their cries, as Finder-Of-Trails could attest to, his own hunting strength evaporating upon hearing them. Naturally Finder-Of-Trails’ first thought had been to enter the canyon and howl his loudest. But his cries were the whimper of a rebuked child before the mighty Paw-Wings.
The journey to the canyons wasn’t far and the forests in between were still. Finder-Of-Trails wanted to be clear of them come night, as the Long-Footed men stalked those forests. His people had had fights with these huge hairy creatures, who fell somewhere between his likeness and chest pounding apes – but larger.
On the third day of his journey, he came to the canyon. It stretched forever into the distance. The craggy sides had long ago begun to sprout dark green vegetation, spattered here and there in all states of growth, with the vivid oranges, blues, and reds from wildflowers – though little of any sustenance. The carved scar, both awe striking and yet hideously gaping, in the land fell so far into the world that this canyon was loudest Finder-Of-Trails had ever heard.
The Paw-Wings would be near, Finder-Of-Trails knew. There would be no need to sacrifice any of his provisions as bait, as the interior of the canyon was a prime hunting ground unto itself. Pulling his rounded-limbed bow about, Finder-Of-Trails nocked an arrow on the sinew string and waited. This was the correct bow and the correct arrows for the quest; the wood for both was taken from a tree that the Twin-Fangs would scratch at to mark their territory, and it was believed that those trees absorbed their power. Even the sinew of the string was taken from the remains of one he had hunted.
Come early evening, in the indigo sky, specks formed – the unmistakable silhouettes of the Paw-Wings! They were hungry. Finder-Of-Trails was searing with anticipation, hairs bristling on his arms. The sight of such beasts would normally render him weak, yet this time he welcomed them with a level of energy, ready to boil over. They were the ones he was looking for, some of the largest he’d ever seen. If only he could take one down, the meat would feed his people and keep them from hunger forever! Not to mention the weapons that could be fashioned from their talons, and the number arrows that could be fletched with their feathers seemed infinite.
Three Paw-Wings glided towards the canyon, still a considerable distance away. They often flew into the scar a distance from their prey. The meeker animals had nowhere to run except in one direction and they could never outrun a Paw-Wing.
Moonlight brought out the hues of their bronze and silver feathers and the ebony of their talons. Flashes of the ivory-white came from their rear claws, their secondary striking weapons, used to tear open prey.
Finder-Of-Trails stood by the void, bow already extended and following the Paw-Wings line towards his position. His eyes never left the front animal, the largest of the three. With little thought Finder-Of-Trails drew the bow and held it, his waist tilting upward as if of its own mind, waiting for the right moment to let the string slip away. The Gods always let him know when that was and as the lead Paw-Wing glided by, Finder-Of-Trails was told now by the Gods and without hesitation loosed the arrow.
There was never any doubt that the arrow would strike its quarry. Once it reached its peak height, the Gods could see it was a worthy shot, and They let it fall into the beast. The flint point stabbed into the ribs of the Paw-Wing and the impact threw the animal to one side. Then the Paw-Wing cried out in a shrill and embittered shriek, that one might dare to come against it. The cry was then intensified by the canyon many times over, grander, and louder with each roll through the depths. Finder-Of-Trails staggered back from the edge, hands over his ears to block out the strident nature of it, his chest thumping in exhilaration – he did it! The Watcher would be pulled back from the edges of slumber!
Another roar, as if the land was splitting, stomped out Finder-Of-Trails’ jubilee and he froze. Further down the canyon a fury of debris and clouds rose from the canyon. It was as if the canyon was now angry with Finder-Of-Trails for using it! Then serrated grey claws and scaled fingers long enough to make trees look like blow-darts stretched from the storm, preceding the most prevalent maw Finder-Of-Trails had ever seen. Even before the size of the fangs registered, the webbed wings unfolded from the torrent to fill the horizon.
Scale-Wing! Was it one that cried fire? Or ice? Or let loose with the stinging liquids that dissolved flesh and bone? Either way it was the largest he’d ever had the horror to witness. Certainly, he realised, he has at woken up something alright. With its next roar, the ferocity of which knocked Finder-Of-Trails to the ground, he conceded, that at the very least, the Watcher had to have heard that.
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