by Candy Rae
The four hunters had reached the edge of the forest. They had arrived at the western edge of the plains in the most roundabout way imaginable, following tracks that went nowhere, others that went round and round in circles and it had taken six days instead of the one foretold by James. Laura was convinced that what they had by now realised were false trails had been put there to put them off the scent. Only the day before these false trails had petered out and the real trail showed up loud and clear again.
“There must be a reason for this,” she muttered as she followed Jim (it was his turn to take lead-point). “These wolves want us to follow the trail now. I wonder why?”
Jim mounted a small rise to their right. Raising his hand over his eyes he squinted into the distance.
“I can see their tracks through the long grasses,” he shouted and pointed excitedly toward it, “they’re as clear as day.”
“And what do we do in the dark?” asked Laura in a disgruntled voice. She was not looking forward to a long wet tramp through the never-ending grasslands.
“Sleep.” The disembodied word came out of the undergrowth behind her. James and Laura turned in that direction.
“Francis, is that a joke?” teased Laura.
Laura was finding that the Francis here on the planet was a far nicer person than the argumentative troublemaker on the ship. She respected and liked this new Francis. His droll sense of humour was certainly refreshing.
He shrugged. A loner all his life, he found it difficult to return the banter his shipmates considered the norm. He was, however, becoming closer to these three people than he had ever been to anyone before. He was actually finding that he liked them and wanted to be liked by them.
They set out across the plains after a meal and a short rest. It was raining hard and it continued to do so over the gruelling days, then weeks, that ensued as they followed numerous tracks and trails which also turned out to be false.
“Doesn’t this planet ever let up?” grumbled Francis as he followed the rest. “Rain, rain and yet more rain. What about a bit of sun?”
“Don’t think it’s the season for it,” was the laconic answer, he did not know from whom.
* * * * *
