On the Hunt 2

Wilkes found himself on the outskirts. Not the shore like his shack, no quite the opposite. He was nearly inland, the sea hidden behind the tall stretch of homes in the town. There was a smell of blood still clinging in the air. It made Wilkes feel nauseated. Unpleasant memories of skin fileted like scales from a fish **** him to scratch at his bandages. He worked his way around back, following the growing sound of a crackling fire.

The image that struck him was nerve wracking and satisfying all the same. Beatrice sat on a stool with a knife. She was washing her clothes after a hunt from what he could tell. Pale green skin with a sheen of sweat in the moonlight. He could hardly call her dressed, and admittedly was not proud of staring. She only had wraps around her chest and a loin cloth on. An axe lay embedded in a tree stump not far from her. She had begun to hum a song as she turned back to working.

The boar hung from a wooden frame, split nearly in half already. Thick ropes held the carcass aloft while salt, knives, and buckets sat scattered around a small table nearby. The smell hit him before anything else. He watched her toned back tense and the muscles in her arms ripple slightly. Toned but not to a bulging degree. She looked powerful without being overwhelming. He stepped fully around her home now and cleared his throat.

Beatrice looked up briefly as he approached. Then she looked back down and continued cutting. For a long moment neither spoke. Wilkes shifted awkwardly. He almost spoke before she cut him off.

"I know why you're here." The answer was immediate. That somehow made it worse. Beatrice drove her knife through a joint and twisted. Bone cracked. She tossed the cut into a nearby bucket. It was labeled "compost" rather than trash.

"You came to apologize."

"Aye."

"Good."

Another cut. Another crack.

"Then apologize."

Wilkes swallowed. The words felt heavier than any fishing net he'd ever hauled.

"Sorry."

"That's it?" The words sounded hollow from the huntress. Beatrice had stopped cutting. Slowly she looked up at him. A second woman stared at him with tired sad eyes in a single night.

Wilkes rubbed the back of his neck.

"I was drunk."

"You were."

"I was angry."

"You were."

"My ma had just died."

The knife stopped moving. Beatrice stared at him for several seconds. Then returned to her work.

"Do you intend to excuse yourself or actually apologize?"

The words landed harder than the slap had. Wilkes opened his mouth. Nothing came out. The scrape of steel against bone filled the silence as she resumed her handiwork. Finally Beatrice sighed.

"You know what makes me so angry?"

"No."

"You weren't wrong."

That got his attention. Beatrice finally turned toward him. He noticed this time that her eyes were red. Not from crying. From exhaustion.

"You were hurting. Everybody knew it."

She jabbed the knife toward his chest.

"But instead of grieving with people, you lashed out at them."

Wilkes looked away.

"I know."

"You think you're the only person that lost somebody?"

"No."

"You think Hannah's doing alright?"

"I know she isn’t."

Beatrice paused and the knife pressed a little harder. A harsh Hmmph came and the knife pulled back slightly.

"You think Rangpar's sleeping easy?"

"I know he isn’t."

Beatrice shook her head.

"Then why act like the world owes you permission to be cruel?" Wilkes had no answer. The silence stretched. Eventually Beatrice snorted. The fire continued to crackle in the background. "Well?"

"I don't know."

That answer at least seemed honest enough. The huntress rested her knife for a moment, stopping to drink water from a vase. Wilkes stood there awkwardly for another minute before rolling up his sleeves.

"Need help?"

Beatrice raised an eyebrow. She tapped a finger to her chin briefly before smirking.

"Can you skin a boar?"

"No."

"Can you butcher one?"

"No."

"Can you identify useful cuts?"

"No."

"I sort fish." Wilkes smiled awkwardly at the admission.

"Truly a master of the wilderness."

"You invited me." He offered with a shrug. Beatrice studied him, not like he was prey for once. She stared like he was a person for the first time. Then tossed him another knife. Despite everything, a tiny smile tugged at his mouth.

"Fine. Don't ruin anything."

The next hour passed mostly in silence. Beatrice worked. Wilkes followed instructions. Cut here. Hold there. Lift that. Don't touch that. Definitely don't touch that. At one point she smacked his hand with the flat of her blade.

"Stop grabbing things."

"I was helpin’."

"You were contaminating food. Didn’t think I’d have to say “Wilkes, don’t touch intestines and then good cuts.” I mean, really?"

The exchange earned the first genuine laugh either of them had managed all day. A small one. But real. Eventually the carcass was reduced to manageable pieces. The moon had begun to dip lower. Orange light filtered through the trees as the sun rose to greet them. Beatrice sat on a stump and wiped blood from her hands. Wilkes sat across from her. For the first time neither seemed eager to leave.

"So."

"So."

The huntress rolled her eyes.

"Gods, you're terrible at this."

"At what?"

"Talking."

"Says the woman who threatened to stab me."

"A valid communication method."

Wilkes broke out in laughter. A deep bellyful fit. The sound surprised both of them. It felt strange. Almost wrong. Like laughing at a funeral. Beatrice's expression softened. Just slightly.

"You really mean the apology?"

"Aye."

"You called me a cunt."

"I did."

"In front of half the village."

“Well a third, but only because Barry and Rangpar weren’t there."

"You deserved the slap."

"... and a bit more punishment if we’re honest."

She nodded.

"Definitely."

A moment passed. Then another. Finally she stood. She soaked a rag and cleaned her hands before passing another to him. She began to stretch her long legs and cracked her neck.

"Alright."

Wilkes blinked.

"Alright what?"

"I accept your apology," Relief washed over him as she spoke. Then immediately vanished when she continued. "But."

There was always a but.

"But according to Testero, words aren't enough."

Wilkes groaned.

"Oh no."

"Oh yes."

Beatrice's grin returned for the first time since the raid. Sharp, and dangerous he finally got a good look at the tusks she usually kept filed down. She noticed him stealing the glance and smiled even wider. Entirely too pleased with herself.

"You offended me."

"I did."

"You acknowledge wrongdoing."

"I do."

"Then I invoke a Right of Testero."

Wilkes stared blankly.

"Oh come on."

"No."

"Beatrice."

"No."

"Please."

"No."

She crossed her arms.

"The right is mine."

Wilkes sighed dramatically.

"Rangpar is a bad influence."

"Rangpar is a wonderful influence."

"Rangpar punched a shark!"

"It was being rude."

Wilkes buried his face in his hands. When he looked back up, Beatrice was openly laughing. The first time he'd seen it since the attack. Something loosened in his chest. Good. The laugh deserved to survive.

"Fine," he muttered. "What's the challenge?"

Beatrice immediately straightened. The amusement vanished. Now she looked serious. Almost ceremonial. The same look Rangpar had when he threw some poor bastard over his shoulder and trotted off.

"Hunting." Of course it was. Wilkes should have known. "You can choose your role."

She stepped closer. He could see her clearer now. Eyes still red from exhaustion but a clarity had returned. His eyes struggled to see everything but a catlike reflection of the fire in hers answered all the questions he had. She was not only serious, she was ready.

"Hunter or hunted."

Wilkes frowned.

"Hunter means?"

"You track me." She gestured toward the jungle. "You find me then maybe complete your hunt."

"And if I do?"

"You defeat me."

Wilkes immediately shook his head.

"Not interested in fighting you."

"You don't have to kill me, idiot."

"Good."

"I'd kill you first."

"Comforting."

Beatrice ignored him.

"If you win, you rekindle our standing. Then our bond can deepen if we wish or remain as it was with a new meaning."

Wilkes blinked.

"What?"

"It's an orc tradition."

"I'm not an orc."

"Close enough."

"How?"

"You spend too much time around them. Not to mention Rangpar taught you to fight. By all accounts you are merely a clanness, pale orc."

Wilkes pinched the bridge of his nose.

"This sounds suspiciously like marriage."

"It occasionally becomes marriage."

"It is absolutely a marriage."

She shrugged.

"Only if the people involved want that part."

Wilkes pointed accusingly.

"That wasn't a denial."

Beatrice ignored him entirely.

"The second option is hunted."

His expression became more serious.

"And that means?"

"You survive."

The grin returned.

"Dawn to dawn."

Wilkes looked toward the jungle. Dense greenery stretched beyond the village. Roots. Mud. Vines. Places to hide. Places to get lost. Places Beatrice knew far better than he ever would.

"And you're trying to catch me?"

"With traps."

"Lovely."

"Arrows."

"Wonderful."

"My dogs."

"You have dogs?"

"I have cousins."

"No way I can survive you and Rangpar on a duel offensive. Remember the festival?"

Beatrice laughed again. Then her expression softened.

"You make it until sunrise." The joking disappeared. "We're equals again."

Wilkes looked down at his hands. Still somewhere between scarred and healing. Still stained by everything that had happened. The hunter route sounded easier. Cleaner. Go after the problem. Beat it. Move on. That was what everybody expected. What he expected. Instead his mind drifted elsewhere.

To his mother's grave. To Barry's lecture. To Hannah's exhaustion. To Erik sitting beside him through the night without saying a word. Maybe charging headfirst at things wasn't the answer every time. Maybe he had done enough attacking lately. He looked back up.

"I'll be the hunted." Beatrice blinked. Clearly surprised.

"You sure?"

"No."

"Good answer."

"But I'm choosing “hunted” anyway."

The huntress stared at him for several seconds. Evaluating. Measuring. Looking for something. Eventually she nodded.

"Dawn is coming, you’ve left yourself little time to prepare."

"Aye."

"Don't leave the island."

Wilkes snorted.

"Wasn't planning on it."

"You will be after."

That sobered him immediately. The Tide Reapers. The graves. The letter. The future. Everything waiting beyond the horizon. Beatrice extended a hand. After a moment Wilkes took it. She pulled him to his feet. Neither let go immediately.

"Don't make me regret forgiving you."

"I'll try."

"Try harder."

"I'll try harder."

"Good."

For the first time since his mother died, Wilkes felt like tomorrow might actually arrive. Not because the pain was gone. Not because the grief had shrunk. But because somebody had finally given him something to do besides hurt. And for now, that was enough.

Wilkes walked towards the rising sun, he heard Beatrice's bow creak. A sound like the knots he was used to tying pulling just shy of their capacity. As the warning shot clipped his hair, he had one realization