His hideaway was a wide, shallow cave.  One wall and part of the floor were strangely warm, the naked granite radiating heat from within.  The boy neither questioned nor fully appreciated the source of the warmth; he simply sensed that without the shelter, death would come to him with the cold and dark.  The hole in the unyielding rock had been his sanctuary since one terrible night when escape meant running.  Into the darkness he’d fled, screaming, as his tormented brain purged itself of a horrible scene that had played out in the stuttering light of an oil lamp.  He’d plunged blindly into the forest without sense of direction or time.  So long ago.

Fretful, he stirred in the dark, gripped his knife tighter, and shrank deeper into the stained and tattered cloth covering forest debris that was his bed.  Even in the pitch black he was afraid to open his eyes, because he knew another pair could be waiting for him, looking back, unblinking: blank, dead, accusing eyes.  Only daylight could set him free, and darkness would hold sway for many more hours. 

He knew when something stole silently across the face of the night, searching, and felt the shock of fear when it located his hiding place.  And now the threat waited outside.  The trembling boy in the cave had never seen what lurked just beyond the narrow opening, but many times before he had sensed the prowler, and he knew to be deathly afraid of the stalker that came in the dark.

Closer now.  Any second, the rattle of labored breath would come, and then the smell—rotten ripe, oily—would foul the still air.  A whimper formed in the boy’s throat and as it tore free, its sound drove the terror deeper into his heart.  The power of the menace outside seemed to steal the air from the cave, and once more the trembling soul trapped inside lost sight of the last feeble ember of hope, to sink through the final shade of black, into the emptiness of total defeat.

*      *       *       *       *

It was nearly high noon when Salem Greene set the head of his ax on the toe of his brogan and glanced up at the late-August sun.  Lem was not a tall man; and his lack of stature made the width of his enormous shoulders even more impressive.  Stretched taut across his back, his tan flannel shirt was open at the neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.  He leaned on the ax handle, and even though idle under the tanned skin, the muscles in his forearms moved fluidly as though anxious to get back to work.  His free arm swiped across his sweat-beaded brow, and he gazed at the seventy-foot pine he was working on.  A feeling of discomfort chilled his damp torso as the tree hissed in the light breeze: “Nooooooo.  Youuuuuuu.”  He glanced over his shoulder and searched the forest’s dappled depths for—what?  The shadows mocked him as they always did, and he turned back to his work.  “You must fall so I will not,” he muttered.  He set his feet, effortlessly raised the gleaming tool over his shoulder, and swung.

The pale yellow wedges flew from the deepening cut as Lem settled into the rhythm learned from years of cutting trees.  This one, and many like it, would be reduced to four-foot lengths to be hauled to the river’s edge and stacked.  The ricks would sit there until a passing steamboat captain saw his signal flag and pulled to the bank.  There, his crew would load the fuel aboard for the ship’s boilers, leave payment, and lower the flag.

With a shuddering creak, the tall tree lost its hold on the earth and angled to the ground, stripping neighbors of branches, shaking the forest floor as it died.  Lem made another swipe at the sweat on his brow as he moved alongside the trunk to the first branch.  There, with single, precise blows, he lopped off anything smaller than a couple of inches thick.  An hour later, the once stately tree, stripped of its emerald cloak, lay naked and vulnerable.  Lem set his ax in the top of the stump, and spent the rest of the day with a single bucksaw cutting the trunk and thicker limbs into pieces.

The light was failing as he gathered his tools and set off for his dwelling, his steps hurried by the impending gloom.  Half an hour later a small, one-room log cabin, little more than a hut, came into view, and he felt his whole body relax.  He went to the tree at the corner of his place, and stuck his heavy ax in the trunk, the movement natural, almost unconscious.  With one more glance over his shoulder, he went inside.

In the failing light, Lem struck a match and lit two candles, putting one on the shelf above the hearth, the other on the small table that sat under the window in the front of the room.  The flickering yellow light reflected off the polished silver of the tiny bell that sat alone in the center of the rough plank top.  Digging around in the warm ashes of the morning’s fire, he found two potatoes and put them on a pewter plate.  After sloshing a tin cup full of water from a nearly empty bucket, he set the plate and the cup on the table.  A large ham, roughly butchered, hung from the ceiling, and yielded a thick slice to his long knife.  He added it to the potatoes, and with a furtive glance at the darkening window, sat down to eat.

After supper, he swung the window shutter down into place, and with his fist drove four wooden wedges onto slots alongside it.  He tugged hard at the bottom and let out a satisfied grunt.  He didn’t know which he disliked most, the false sanctuary of night, or the full exposure of day.  The oppressive thoughts were always with him, hanging over his head like a mystic maul, poised and ready—almost eager it seemed—to exact some retribution for his horrible sins.  Lem glanced at the stout plank door and the solid oak bar that locked everything out—and him in.  The thought brought a rueful smile to his lips; the walls that made him safe also made him a prisoner.  He picked up the candle from the table, blew out the one over the fireplace, and walked over to the slop-bucket in the corner.  After relieving himself, he sat on his bed and pulled off his heavy shoes.  With a resigned sigh, he lay back, took a final look around the small room and pinched out the candle.  Darkness settled over him. 

The dull aches of an overworked body kept him shifting from one side to the other as he tried to keep his mind quiet.  He knew it was fruitless; the story waited just behind his eyes.  Maybe tonight he wouldn’t have to see all of it; maybe tonight he would escape before the full weight of the tale drenched him in sweat and made his heart flop wildly in his chest.  Maybe, he thought, but not likely. 

Lem’s eyes shut as he gave himself up to his conscience’s revenge, and once again sleep took him on the nightly journey he dreaded.

CHAPTER 2

Ax in hand, Lem strode into the clearing in front of his home and looked at the two-room cabin’s wide open door.  Even with the temperature late-April cool, his wife insisted on keeping it that way for the light.  Lem hadn’t liked it much when she’d first done it, but after several weeks of his grumping and her ignoring it, he’d silently made the concession.  He smiled at the memory.

“Solid—and safe,” he thought as he walked across the open to a tree he’d left standing by the northeast corner of the cabin.  Approaching it, he swung the ax in a short arc and stuck it head-high in the trunk, secure for the night.  Looking back, he could see the wide river, two hundred yards away. 

 “Hi, Pa.”  The friendly voice belonged to the man’s twelve-year-old son.  He stood in the cabin door, his alert eyes on the ax. 

“Evenin’, Martin.”  Lem walked over and put his huge hand on the youngster’s shoulder.  “You been working on that wood pile like we talked about?”

“Yup.”  The boy still looked up at the ax.  “Be better if I had yours.”

 “You leave the big one alone, understand?”  As soon as the words passed his lips, Lem knew he’d been too harsh.  The boy’s gaze instantly dropped to his feet and he clasped his hands over his belly.  “You got to get as big as the ax first,” he added gently.  “And you will, I can see it.  But for now,” he nodded at the tree, “we make our living with that ax, and you have to make the best you can with the hatchet.”

The boy looked up with a rueful smile.  “Yeah, I understand, Pa.  I’ll wait.”

“Good.  Now, I want you to go in the house, and if she’s not using it, get Ma’s butcher knife.  Time you learned how to put an edge back on.” 

“Sure, Pa.”  The boy scampered into the cabin and returned a minute later with the blade.  “Ma says supper’s ready when you want it.”

“We won’t be long.”  Lem reached up on a shelf by the door, found a long, pink-streaked gray stone and held it out to his son.  “Take good care of this,” he said brusquely.  “Never leave it on the ground, and make sure ya never drop it.”  He sat down on a long bench

“Okay, Pa.”

“Get me a dipper of water there.”  Lem pointed at a wooden bucket sitting beside a washbasin on low table.  The boy did as he was told, and hurried back.

“Keep the stone wet, otherwise you can ruin it.”  Lem trickled water the length of the ten-inch stone, and then laid it on his leg.  “Turn the edge toward you, and draw it across the stone like you was cuttin’ shavings off it.”  Lem drew the knife the length of the stone, pulling the knife away from it to contact the full length of the blade.  “Do that about six or seven times, then turn the steel over and do the same to the other side.  Ya watching?”

“Yes, Pa.  Like cuttin’ slivers off.  And don’t drop it.”

“And one other thing—see how the back of the blade stays the same distance away from the stone every time I stroke it?”  Lem tilted the back of the knife up and down.  “Ya have to keep that space the same, else you’ll never get it sharp.”  Lem made another pass with the blade.  “Think you could do that?”

“I think so, Pa.  Want me to try?”

“Not this time.  I’ll finish, and then show you once more later, maybe next week.  Then you can try.”

Lem finished the task, and then, as the boy watched intently, drew the knife several times over a square piece of leather.  “There.  Now watch.”  He splashed the last of the water on his forearm, and drew the knife razor-fashion along his skin for about an inch.  It left perfectly bare flesh, every hair cut clean.

“That’s sharp, Pa,” the boy said, his mouth hanging open.

“That’s the best way to keep ‘em.  Dull knife will cut ya quicker than a sharp one.”  Lem gave Martin a serious look.  “I’m going to Booneville tomorrow.  You know I trust you to be the man when I’m not here.”

The boy grinned in appreciation.  “Yup.”

“We’ll tell Ma later.  Now, wash up and let’s go see what she’s got for supper.”  Minutes later, Lem followed his son into the cabin.  A craftsman’s attention to detail was apparent in the furniture, the rock fireplace, and the peeled, uniform logs of the exposed rafters.  To the left was a plank wall with a door that had a real doorknob; on the right a square table and four chairs.  Seated there, a beautiful young girl with brown hair and soft eyes to match looked up and smiled.  “Me and Mom found mushrooms today,” she said, picked a plump one out of a bowl, and brought it over to Lem.

Lem looked at his wife who knelt at the hearth.  “Did you take the shotgun along?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Of course.”  She nodded at the boy.  “Martin carried it while Mercy and I picked.”

Martin proudly squared his youthful shoulders, and then studied the floor at his feet.

“Still makes me nervous,” Lem said.  “But I truly do love them mushrooms.”

“And venison roast with wild onions and clay-baked potatoes?”

“Now you’re talkin’ like the woman I love.”  Lem crossed to the open fireplace as she stood up and faced him.  She was several inches shorter than he, her light brown hair tied back to show a round, open face with alert gray eyes.  He took her in his powerful arms and hugged her hard until she breathed a satisfied sigh.  “I finished that second big oak.  I get them floated to town, they should be worth six or seven dollars.”

“You mean that’s what they’ll give you.  You’ve been sawing on those things for almost a week.”

“They’re bigger than usual—besides, it’s what I do.  I know several up river who work just as hard and get less.”  He gave her another quick squeeze and let go.  “Reckon I’ll go tomorrow.  Be gone a couple of days.”  He went to the door and looked out.

“I know.  We’ll be just fine.  We’ve done it before.”  She knelt back down on the hearth and swung the black pot with the venison into the back of the fireplace.  In its place she settled a heavy skillet on the glowing coals, scooped a dollop of bacon-fat out of a crock, and put it in the pan.  It quickly melted as she spread it around with a long-handled wooden spoon.  “Bring me the mushrooms, Mercy.”

A few minutes later, the woman used a poker to shift five lumps of hardened clay from around the edges of the fireplace and out onto the hearth.  She struck each sharply with the iron rod to reveal a steaming spud inside.  The mushrooms and potatoes went onto a wooden platter, followed by the dark brown chunk of meat from the kettle.  She put the meal on the table.  “Sit down now,” she told Lem, and then looked at the boy.  “Run out to the spring house and get the butter crock.”  He was out the door before she could take her seat.

When Martin returned, the woman reached into the center of the table, picked up a small silver bell and gently rang it, the tone true and clear.  As she set it back down, the four bowed their heads, and Lem prayed. 

“We thank you God for the bounty of this land and ask that you bless it.  Thank you for our health and your hand when the devil gets in the way.  We ask that you deliver to us the animals we need, and shield us from those that would do us harm.  And Lord, guard my womenfolk from the heathens while I’m away.  Amen.”

Lem cut the meat into pieces and his heart swelled with pride as the children eagerly filled their plates and started to eat.  Mercy, delicate and proper, ate slowly, while Martin attacked his food like he was starving.  Lem’s eyes met those of his wife and they traded love across the table.  Contentment settled on him and he speared a large chunk of venison, his mouth watering.  Tomorrow, he would go to town.

Lem awoke with a start, looked at the shuttered window, the barred door, and reality returned: cold and hard as the morning.  Dim light shone through the many cracks, and he heaved a sigh as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up.  It was always clear whether his dreams had revealed the complete story or not; his dry clothes told him all he needed to know. 

Standing up, he shuffled across the dirt floor to the door, lifted the bar, and set it against the wall.  Pulling the door open, he stepped into the cool morning air to find shallow fog shrouded the small clearing, the bushes along the edge ghostly humps of gray-green.  He surveyed the surrounding forest for a few seconds, and then went back inside to put his shoes on. 

Shortly he went back out with his slop bucket in one hand, water bucket in the other, and headed toward the misty forest.  On reaching the trees, he dumped the foul one in a shallow trench, set it by the trail and continued on.  The stream he used was about seventy-five yards south.  The two seeps that fed it came from under a rock outcrop.  When he’d first seen it, he was hard-pressed to believe his luck: the water on one side of the rock face was warm, while the other side was as cold as you’d expect a spring to be, and sweet.  He dipped his bucket into the pool that had formed behind a dam that someone had carefully built, and started back. 

Twenty feet down the trail a chill suddenly danced over his body, and he turned so quickly he spilled half the water.  A figure, obscured by the mist, was standing by a tree.  Lem, the hair on his neck bristling, stared wide-eyed as the form seemed to sink into the damp ground; he shook his head vigorously.  For a few seconds, he concentrated on the spot, and then frantically searched elsewhere for what he’d seen.  His gaze flicked from the low bushes to the tall trees, then along his back trail to the rocks: nothing.  Gradually his breathing slowed, as did his heart, and he glanced at his half-empty bucket.  “Leave me in peace!” he shouted.  “Leave me alone.”  The misty green around him silently swallowed his protest, and with another glance at his bucket, he turned and hurried back to his cabin, grabbing the slop bucket as he passed.

Breakfast was alternating mouthfuls of ham and cornmeal mush.  His skin still crawled as he sipped from his tin cup and tried to imagine what stalked him.  Several times since he’d come to the hut, he’d charged with his ax into the undergrowth, his fear that he’d find something as strong as his fear that he would not.  Swallowing the last of his meal, he gathered his gear and stalked out of the cabin.

A few minutes later he entered a wide meadow and his hobbled mule greeted him raucously, hopping awkwardly towards him.  Once he had a pair, but now he needed only one.  He’d chosen this animal because it was so friendly.  “Good morning, Mr. Mule,” Lem said as the animal stopped in front of him and extended his muzzle.  “Got nothing good, old friend.”  He rubbed the soft upper lip, and then slipped the halter over the long ears.  “We got lots of work to do today,” he said quietly as he buckled the straps.  With the lead firmly in hand, he stooped to undo the leather figure-eight that bound the mule’s front ankles.  “Let’s get going,” he muttered, and together they headed into the forest for the timber he’d cut the previous week.

For the rest of the day, Lem and the mule dragged the short logs from the forest to the riverbank.  It was hot, tedious work, but at least it was in the sunlight where he felt safer.  Back and forth he led the mule until he laid one last piece of wood in place, and then slumped to the ground with his back against a tree that braced one end of the three-cord stack of wood.  He surveyed five others just like it, built over the past month.  Digging a folded paper out of his shirt pocket, he put it in an oilskin pouch, then with a length of string, he tied the bag and a piece of white cloth to a short flag pole.  The list was a few extra things he’d need to get through the winter; and he relied on a steamer to see the load and stop. 

The sun was sinking behind him, and it cast a peculiar light across the slow moving river; the surface had taken on an oily sheen and looked solid enough to walk on.  He’d seen the occasional scow drift past, and once watched a steamer pounding laboriously upriver, black smoke and sparks belching from twin stacks, stern wheel thrashing the water to foam.  It might have been the skipper who’d bought his last load; he’d never know.  The transactions were made anonymously, on trust. 

He flexed his back muscles hard against the rough wood, and stood up.  Selecting the end of one of the more slender logs, he expertly split it part way, wedged the short flagpole in the gap, and removed his ax.  The white flag hung limply in the still air.  “Guess we’ll have to trust in a little breeze when we need it, eh Mr. Mule?”  The sturdy beast looked at him for a moment, both ears cocked in his direction, then lowered his head again.  “I’m tired, too,” Lem murmured.  “Let’s go home.”

His cabin was half a mile from the river, about as far as the riverside variety of trees went, and far enough away to screen any smoky message his fireplace might send into the air.  He moved into the forest of cottonwood and sycamore, the mule following placidly at the end of his eight-foot lead.  The path wound through the some open sections, but for the most part the trees closed in on him, the thick canopy shutting out the sun.  His eyes soon became as weary as his nerves as he searched the pools of shadowy darkness on either side of the trail.  He was about halfway to the cabin when the mule snorted, and a second later Lem heard a noise to his left.  He stopped, his heart thumping wildly.  Frozen in place, muscles pulled tight and ready, he strained to hear what had alarmed his mule.  Then, his breath was torn from him when he felt a hand on his back.  Lem’s sense of time and space vanished.

He’d wanted this, waited for it; which was why he didn’t carry his rifle.  God had taken everything he had except his life, and now it was up to God to take that too, whenever He wanted it.  That was what he’d decided in the darkness of his cabin, brooding in the long night hours, safe behind his heavy wooden door and shutters.  But now, the powerful will to live would not be denied.  Heart pounding in his ears, he spun around: barely an arm’s length away, the placid brown eyes of his mule looked back at him.

“Thunderation, Mule, you’d like to give me a fit!”  Lem’s legs threatened to fail him, and his heart still beat wildly.  “But you heard it, too—don’t stand there and say ya didn’t.”  Twin ears bent toward him.  “Well, ya did.  I can tell by the way you’re lookin’.”  Lem scowled at the animal.  “And quit sneaking up on me like that.  I wanted ya that close, I’d take a short hold on this lead.”  One of the mule’s ears rotated backward for a second, then joined its mate at attention again.  “C’mon, then.”  Lem walked to the end of the lead and gave it a gentle tug.

The rush of panic had left his legs weak, but his eyes and ears even more alert.  He hurried the mule as fast as he could, the light failing quickly, and was nearly to the cabin when the animal snorted again and balked.  Once more, the flush of fear gripped Lem as he peered through the thick trees toward his cabin.  “What’d ya hear, Mule?” he whispered.  The animal’s ears were trained on the trail ahead, twitching slightly side to side.  Lem stood silent for a few seconds, and then encouraged the mule forward.  He’d taken only a few steps when the mule jerked back on the lead, and this time Lem saw the reason. 

Dark against the forest shadows, a short, stocky man stood in the middle of the trail, his long rifle held harmlessly across his chest.  Lem released his pent-up breath.  “Dammit, friend, can’t ya make a little noise or something, instead of standing there like some devil’s fetch?”

“Whatcha want—a lullaby?” the man said in a strange accent, and then his swarthy face broke into a toothy grin.  The gun remained angled in his crossed arms, the muzzle threatening only the treetops. 

“C’mon, Mule.”  Lem started along the trail again.

“Might skittish”—the man said—“the mule I mean,” he added quickly when Lem’s eyebrows shot up.

Lem walked up to stranger.  “Don’t see many folks out here.”

“Good reason for that.”—the smile flashed alive again:—“There ain’t many.  My name’s Dufrey Comeaux.”  He lowered the muzzle of the rifle, slung it under his left arm and extended his hand.  “I see you’re living in Mariner’s old cabin.”

“I didn’t know it belonged to anyone.  Looked abandoned.”

“Percy won’t mind.  He went to a better place.”

Lem took the offered hand.  “Dead?”

“Hope so.  I buried ‘im.”

Lem couldn’t suppress a smile as he studied the stranger.  Apparently, the man had been here before and if he meant any harm, he’d have had his way already.  Better to have him close than to wonder where he was.  “Well, come on to the cabin then.  You’re welcome to supper and a place to bed down.  My name’s Salem Greene.  I’m called ‘Lem’.”

Dufrey nodded, then picked up the pack at his feet and slung it over one shoulder.  “Hopin’ you was gonna invite me.  Hate sleepin’ outside.”

Together they walked the short distance to the clearing where Lem pointed to a bench set against the front wall of the cabin.  “Take yourself a seat while I go tend to the mule.”  Without looking further at his visitor, he turned and walked into the forest.

Minutes later, Lem arrived back at his cabin to find his guest sitting on the bench.  A floppy felt hat covered most of Dufrey’s face, and his legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles.  He was dressed entirely in soft-looking leather including supple boots that rose nearly to his knees.  He pushed his hat back as Lem walked up, and watched with alert brown eyes set deep under bushy eyebrows.  Lem nodded as he stuck his ax in the tree.  “Live around here?”

“Been upriver a piece makin’ Indian talk fer the Army, and doin’ some huntin’ fer ‘em.”

“I didn’t know the Army was around.”  Lem took a seat beside him on the bench.

“Walk in a straight line long enough and you’ll run into the U.S. Army.”  Dufrey chuckled.  “Usually find ‘em in the shade, restin’.”

“Hunt what?  I’ve been here for months and haven’t seen more than a few rabbits.”

“Ya ain’t lookin’.  Three deer walked right past me while I listened to you snortin’ up the trail—a doe and two fawns.”

“You should’ve shot one.”  Lem got off the bench and started for the door.  “Hope you don’t mind fried corn mush and ham.”

“Don’ mean to stir in yer skillet, but I kin make that mush talk back at ya.”

“How so?”

“Got some things in my kit that’d make oak bark taste good—least to a Cajun.”

“I was wonderin’ about your lingo.”

The leather-garbed man smiled.  “Sometime I don’ understand my own self.”

“You’re welcome to do with it what ya can—I hate cookin’.  Come on in.”  Lem pushed the door open and went inside.

*      *       *       *       *

As soon as the cave was dimly lit, the boy stirred from his fetal curl and fully opened his eyes.  Then, alert, he moved to the front of the cave where he paused.  The raucous sound of crows arguing in the distance came to him; then, the music of smaller birds, much closer—and nothing else.  This didn’t surprise him, his demon visited only in the night.

He slipped through the narrow opening and hurried away from the cave as fast as a slightly lame right leg would allow.  Thirst was uppermost in his mind, and not far away a small stream trickled from under a rock overhang into a natural pool.  The edge of the basin nearest the rock was coated with a delicate crust of crystalline white.  Many creatures knew of the pool, and he approached stealthily, listening and watching.  On the far side was a barely visible path that other forest dwellers used.  The boy froze in mid-step as he saw a small rabbit moving warily towards the water.  His licked his lips at the sight and stood stock still until the animal reached the edge of the pool and started to drink.  Slowly, the boy dropped to his belly and watched.  After a short time the rabbit rose from its crouch, shook its head, and quickly departed along the trail.  The boy waited until the animal was gone; then hurried to the pool, and lying on his belly, drank deeply of the sweet, tepid water.  His thirst satisfied, he moved a short distance up the trail the rabbit had used and slipped off of it into the undergrowth.  Sitting, he scooped debris over his legs and hips, then lay down and covered the rest of his body with still more.  Eyes trained on the uphill path, he slowed his breathing and waited, his knife ready.

All day the boy lay hidden; and had nearly given up when he saw movement a few feet up the trail: lively black eyes glinted above a shiny nose testing the air, nostrils twitching.  For a full minute the animal looked out from the bush before it stepped onto the path.  With broad, rounded ears set forward on a fox-like head, it was about two feet long and set low to the ground.  Soft-looking fur shading from a light tan on its head to a black-tipped tail covered the sleek body.  The boy recognized the Pine Marten, and thought about the puncture wounds on his forearm.  This time he knew to get a good grip on the animal’s head, even if the slender body seemed the easier place to grab.

The weasel crept forward, head turning side to side, nose to the ground.  Seemingly more confident as it neared the water, its head came up as it passed abreast of the waiting boy: quick as a snake strike, his hand shot out of the leaves and seized the animal by the throat.  Just as fast, the weasel’s back feet raked claws the length of the boy’s forearm.  Gritting his teeth against the pain, the boy rolled and grabbed the hindquarters of the writhing critter and pressed it to the ground.  A high-pitched squeal of rage came from the animal’s gaping mouth as it twisted its head around to bite him.  The boy slipped his thumb under the beast’s chin and snapped his wrist forward; he heard a soft pop, and the weasel went limp.  Heart pounding, the boy stood and looked down at his prize: for the first time in many days he’d eat meat.

With a furtive look around, he picked up his knife and started back to the cave, lengthening shadows hurrying his steps.  Once he had his sanctuary in sight, he stopped and knelt down.  Deftly, he cut the weasel’s head and feet off, then stripped the soft fur from the carcass, turning the skin inside out as he did so.  A powerful stink made him turn his head for a moment, the odor so strong it made his eyes water.  Careful not to cut a gut, he opened the belly of the animal from the bottom of its ribcage to its tail, and gently removed the innards, including the offending scent glands.  With the naked body of the butchered creature flopping, he hurried the rest of the way to the cave and ducked into the safety of the rock.

The meat was stringy and tough, but the copper taste of blood and the warmth he felt in his hands made him close his eyes with pleasure as he ate.  By the time he’d chewed the last bits of meat off the backbone, the light at the mouth of the cave had faded to a dim hint.  He threw the ravaged carcass into the blackness at the rear of the cave and stood.  His lips were sticky and the back of his throat felt tight.  He studied the cave’s entrance for a moment, then stooped and hurried outside.  It was lighter than he’d expected, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he took off at a half-run toward the water, favoring his right leg. 

The air felt warm on his naked body, but he sensed that this would not last.  He dimly remembered cold—numb fingers, ears almost brittle—and tried to recall what he’d done before to stay warm.  What was before the cave?  The question swirled in his head for the short time it took for him to get to the spring.  After a cautious look around, he got down on his belly and drank, then got up and hurried back.

Inside again, he kicked scattered leaves, moss and grass on the cave floor into a pile, arranged a filthy rag over the top, and knelt down in the middle of it.  His knees had no sooner hit the ground than the image of a similar nest flashed through his mind—similar, but somehow much different—the vision gone before he could grasp any details.  He fought to bring it back, to remember, but his full belly drew him irresistibly down, and he curled up on the warm floor and wiggled into the debris.