by M L Bellante
“I ready to hunt bataro,” he said as he raised his new knife and club above his head. Tzeechoe nodded in agreement with a proud smile.
Coleman was awakened in the darkness by Tzeechoe shaking his shoulder. The men gathered their gear and left the lodge. Tzeecha quietly said something as they left. Coleman couldn’t tell what she said, but there was loving concern in her tone.
As he walked, he scanned the sky. The blue and red moons had dropped behind the tree line in the west, but he could still see them through the branches. The other moon had already dipped below the tree line in the east. He shook his head, still hoping to awaken from a dream.
He could see a small gathering of men assembled in the center of the village. The chief and the tahso were with them. Ten hunters, including Coleman, formed a single line, much like a military formation, with the hunt leader at the left end of the line and Coleman at the far right. The leader left his position and moved down the line, examining each hunter. He stopped in front of Coleman, examined his new club and waist knife, gave him a smile, and returned to his position at the head of the line.
The chief looked up and down the line and then spoke, “Chashutzo, are your hunters ready?”
The hunt leader responded, “Yes, we are ready.”
“Are your men prepared to sacrifice for the village?”
“Yes, they are!” Chashutzo yelled. All the men except Coleman shouted as they raised their weapons.
“Very good,” said the chief. “Tahso, bless our hunters this day with the power and protection of Batru.”
The tahso raised his arms high above his head and began chanting. The words didn’t make any sense to Coleman’s ears. He still had much to learn. The men began to hum and the tahso moved forward and faced Chashutzo. With his left arm raised above his head, the tahso lowered his right arm and placed an open palm on Chashutzo’s chest. Chashutzo took a deep breath and continued humming. The tahso moved down the line and performed the same ritual with each man. After the third man, Coleman thought it best to begin humming, as well. When the tahso reached him, both men looked into the other’s eyes and gave each other a bemused smile. Coleman couldn’t believe he was taking part in this superstitious foolishness, but he thought it best to go along with it; however, when the tahso’s palm touched his bare chest, he felt a tingling warmth radiate from the shaman’s hand. The radiance slowly spread until it engulfed Coleman from head to toe. Coleman’s bemused smile quickly changed to an expression of shock. This was not what he expected. Then they both felt a surge of energy course from Tahso’s body into Coleman’s. Coleman lost his balance and was steadied by the tahso. The shaman’s eyes bolted wide open by this unexpected event. He quickly regained his composure, then asked, “Tondo, are you ready to make your first hunt?”
“Yes, Tahso, I am ready,” Coleman responded as he raised his club, still dizzy from what had just happened. The tahso smiled his grotesque smile and returned to the chief’s side.
“Chashutzo, may your hunt be successful and may your efforts bless the village.” All the men but Coleman raised their weapons, turned, and filed out of the village, leaving Coleman standing alone, dizzy, and somewhat embarrassed by his ignorance of protocol. He gave a sheepish grin and staggered after the other hunters, stepping on a sharp stone and hopping on one foot for several yards.
Not the most graceful exit, he thought. As he hopped along, he was certain he heard muffled laughter coming from behind.
After the hunters left the village, Chashutzo stopped and the men gathered around him. “Today, we will start our hunt at the Sweet Waters.” The men nodded in acknowledgment and started walking to the tree line. Coleman quickened his pace until he was walking next to Tzeechoe.
“What be Sweet Waters?” he asked.
“That’s where the water gushes up out of the ground. Many animals go there to drink.”
“The artesian well!” Coleman said confidently in English.
It took less than an hour for the hunting party to reach the gushing spring. During the trek, Coleman questioned Tzeechoe and learned that each hunting party consisted of a tusk-man as the leader, a tracker, a scent-man capable of smelling prey from a great distance, and at least one excellent spearman. The remaining members of the party assisted the others and were considered students of the primary members. Tzeechoe wanted to become a lead spearman, although his best skill was with a bolo-like device that he and a couple of others carried. Coleman was told that the club bearers were the junior members responsible for finishing off the prey once it was speared or disabled. He felt it was an appropriate assignment considering his lack of any hunting skills in this venue. He was hoping his inexperience wouldn’t cause a problem with the party’s success this day. Several of the men were not happy with his presence, although no one said anything to him. His adversary, the villager named Ayascho, seemed most annoyed.
When the party reached the Sweet Waters, Ayascho gave Coleman a shoulder shove as he passed by. Coleman glowered at him. An inner voice growled, Hit him! Take him down! Show the others you’re not to be dissed! Coleman’s anger grew, but he reluctantly let the matter pass. He thought the young man to be either exceptionally brazen or foolish. Ayascho was a much smaller man than himself. Before the day is through, that little punk and I better have this matter worked out one way or the other, he grumbled silently to himself.
Namad, the tracker, began looking around the stream flowing from the spring and, after a few seconds, stopped and stood bolt upright. “The gorga has been here. We must be careful,” he whispered. A shudder ran down Coleman’s spine at the thought of another encounter with one of those monsters.
“Tzeechoe, will gorga attack hunting party like ours?” he asked.
“The gorga does whatever it wants. If it is hungry, he will take one of us and drive the others away.”
“How many gorgas around here?” Coleman asked.
“Only one, thank the gods,” Tzeechoe replied.
Only one seemed odd to Coleman. How do they breed? he wondered to himself. He rubbed his upper arm, remembering the crushing pressure of the creature’s bite. If attacked again, he wouldn’t have the protection of his environmental suit. Suddenly, every sound in the forest caused him to start and peer into the underbrush.
“Get a grip, you’re starting to jump at shadows,” he mumbled in English.
After Namad had sounded the alert, he got back to business and found some interesting tracks. As he was homing in on them, Coleman scanned the trees and found the one where he sought refuge that first night. He noticed a monkey sitting in the crook, watching the hunters below. Coleman walked over to the tree and began climbing, wondering if there was anything left of the equipment he had stored there. The monkey departed as soon as Coleman started climbing. When he reached the nest, he found nothing there except for one piece of fabric from his suit. All the metal objects were gone, undoubtedly carried away by forest creatures. He collected the fabric piece and climbed down. The other hunters watched and wondered what he was doing. When he reached the ground, he showed them the material he’d retrieved. He was surprised and amused by their reactions. Although the piece was only about a foot square, the men collected together and took turns touching and pulling at the strange material. It had become such a distraction to their primary purpose that, in short order, Chashutzo grabbed it, scolded the other hunters, and handed the piece back to Coleman, giving him a stare worthy of an angry drill sergeant.
Coleman tucked it into his waist belt and meekly said, “I sorry.”
The men refocused, then waited attentively, their eyes following Namad as he wandered around the creek flowing from the spring. He then headed off into the undergrowth at a slow jog, eyes fixed on the ground. The other men followed and scanned the surrounding area, watching for danger. Coleman stayed at Tzeechoe’s side and asked awkwardly, “What he find?”
“It’s a ghee; a large bird animal that runs and has fur. It tastes very good.”
“How
large?” Coleman questioned.
“As tall as a man,” was his reply.
“They dangerous?”
“They can be. Ghees have powerful beaks and they kick with feet that have claws.”
“So, how we kill it?”
“A spearman will spear it first, or someone will bolo its legs. Then the club men will kill it.”
“That my job, right?”
Tzeechoe smiled broadly and shook his head up and down, “Yes, maybe today you will become a p´oez.”
“What p´oez?” Coleman asked.
“A p´oez is the one who makes the killing blow and is honored. All the hunters want this honor.” Coleman’s competitive juices began to flow and he gave Tzeechoe a broad smile. Then he assumed his game face, one which startled Tzeechoe, and slackened his pace.
After about a half-hour, Namad slowed his stride, then stopped and raised his arm. All the other hunters stopped in unison. Everything became quiet except for the creatures in the trees. A slight breeze rustled the leaves and branches, which helped to cover the men’s heavy breathing. Coleman felt invigorated and was a little surprised. He was not a bit out of breath. But the men who lived like this were tired. Namad then held his spear in both hands and raised it high above his head.
“Danger,” Tzeechoe quietly warned.
“Why?” Coleman wondered.
“Quiet!” Tzeechoe whispered sternly.
The men scanned the surrounding area while Namad stared intently forward. Chashutzo slowly moved to Namad’s side and the two men exchanged a few whispered words. Chashutzo began moving warily forward as Namad placed his spear in its lever and brought it into a cocked position over his right shoulder. The remaining men slowly and cautiously moved forward, weapons at the ready. Coleman wanted to rush ahead so he would have a better chance of becoming the p´oez, but he restrained himself. He didn’t want to be the one who caused the prey to escape. His feet gently felt the ground as he attempted to take each step as quietly as possible. His feet were still tender and sore from the abuse they had already taken, but he just gritted his teeth and endured the pain. Chashutzo continued moving forward for another fifty yards or so. Then he stopped. He looked down and scanned the area all around. Namad quickly moved to his side as the other men drew closer. When Coleman reached the gathered hunters, he found a large carcass laying in the center of the group. It resembled an eviscerated, furry ostrich.
Namad stooped over it and carefully examined the ground. “Gorga,” he finally said, evoking a noticeable shudder from the other hunters.
Shadi, the scent-man, began sniffing the air. He then looked at Chashutzo and said, “He is very close. He may be stalking us.” All the hunters turned and faced outward, their weapons at the ready.
Tzeechoe whispered to Coleman, “Tondo, this is very bad. Be careful. If you have any influence with Munnari, call upon it to protect us this day.”
Coleman swallowed deeply and asked, “Chashutzo, do we wait, or do we hunt it?” The men looked at him as if he were crazy. With a touch of bravado to bolster the hunters’ flagging spirits, Coleman told them, “I have fought gorga, and it not kill me. I think we kill it.” He could see a positive effect on some of the men, yet others stood motionless, paralyzed by the rising fear in their hearts.
Chashutzo finally said, “Follow me. Tzeechoe and Tondo protect our backs.” The men filed past Coleman and Tzeechoe, two-by-two, and when all the others had left, they took up the rear and scanned the area behind the party.
A slight breeze brushed the men’s faces, and Shadi sounded a warning, “He is near. He comes for us, now!” As the words left his mouth, they heard a loud noise to the right front of the line of men. Brush and tall grass parted as muffled grunts were heard. Chashutzo suddenly flew into the air as if in slow motion and collapsed several yards away. One after the other, men in the line were tossed in the same manner until the beast reached Coleman and Tzeechoe. Coleman managed to dodge the onrushing bulk, but Tzeechoe was too slow and was knocked into a tree, slumping to the ground, unmoving.
Coleman looked at the prone Ayascho and yelled, “Help Tzeechoe! I fight gorga.” Ayascho’s eyes widened and Coleman could see he was contemplating his next action. Would he run or help? In an instant, his mind was made up, and the young man jumped to his feet and darted into the forest, climbing the nearest tree. Coleman shook his head in frustration.
He could tell by the monster’s grunts that it was circling to the head of the party. Coleman dashed in that direction and found Chashutzo lying on the ground with the bone of his left thigh protruding through the skin. Coleman slipped his hand through his club’s wrist loop and grabbed Chashutzo spear, holding it at the ready as his club dangled from his wrist. The gorga came into view, stopped, pawed the ground like an angry bull, and then charged straight for Coleman.
For a split second, Coleman felt panic flood his body. He wanted to run for his life, but just as quickly his mental discipline, honed by years of military training, forced him to charge forward growling like a wild beast, his spear at the level. Just before the two collided, Coleman dropped to one knee, planted the spear’s heel in the ground and held it at an angle. The spear caught the gorga in the chest and lifted the animal’s front quarter off the ground, its claws slashing at Coleman’s face. Before he could pull back, a claw gouged him above the hairline.
The spear shaft suddenly snapped. Coleman rolled to his side just as the beast crashed to the ground where he had been kneeling. He gripped his club and struck the gorga as hard as he could in the head. The monster howled and stood up, shaking the pain from its head, quickly turning to face its antagonist. Coleman looked the beast in the eye and noticed the scar etched across its snout.
“You’re just as ugly as the last time!” he yelled in English. His club crashed down upon the gorga’s nose, causing the creature to yelp, step back, and attempt to shake away the pain. About two feet of the spear shaft was protruding from its chest. Coleman could somehow feel the resolve building in the beast’s mind and he knew what it was about to do. The beast rushed forward again. Coleman deftly stepped aside as if he were a bullfighter, and watched the monster pass.
The gorga stopped its charge about twenty feet away and turned to face Coleman again. As it prepared to charge once more, Coleman saw the futility of his situation and took off running in the opposite direction, a plan forming in his thoughts. The creature bolted after him, blood oozing from its wound. Just as it was about to catch him, Coleman stepped aside and darted in the opposite direction. The creature made a full turn and continued chasing him.
This time the gorga did not charge but settled into a steady gallop. Coleman kept running, leading the beast away from the others. After a mile or so, he entered a large open meadow with the gorga about twenty yards behind him. He could sense the creature’s weariness, so he slowed, taunting the monster by his proximity. The gorga picked up its pace, thinking it was about to overtake him. Ten to fifteen minutes later, the beast was completely winded and stopped, its chest heaving as blood continued to spill from its wound.
“Now, I’ve got you!” Coleman yelled as he wheeled about and approached the gorga from the flank. He could tell the monster was completely spent, so he approached with his club held high. He jumped up and crashed it down upon the beast’s skull with all the force he could muster. When his club hit the monster’s head, the rock dislodged from the club’s handle and bounced off, disappearing into the grass. The blow knocked the creature to its front knees, and in a flash, Coleman was on it, driving his obsidian knife into the side of the beast’s neck and shoving it downward, ripping open its neck. Blood gushed from the wound as the creature fell onto its side and began kicking in the throes of death. Coleman looked to the heavens, raised his bloody arm and knife above his head, and gave a yell of victory so loud that creatures in the nearby forest fell silent and birds took flight.
Three of the hunters led by Namad raced through the jungle and found Coleman and his kill. They gree
ted him like a conquering hero and patted his back. They called him the Sutro P´oez—the greatest slayer of beasts—for no one had ever taken down a gorga before. A rivulet of dried blood ran down the left side of Coleman’s face.
“You’re hurt,” Namad noted.
“I okay, only scratch.”
The men began preparing the carcass.
“How is Tzeechoe?” Coleman worriedly asked.
“He was only knocked out. He will be better soon.”
“Chashutzo?”
“His wound is great. He will soon die,” Namad told him with sadness.
“Take me to him. I need to see his wound.”
The two men headed back to the forest while the other two continued working on the gorga carcass. Two more hunters approached Coleman and Namad when they reached the tree line. Namad told them to help the other two, then he and Coleman were on their way again. When they reached Chashutzo, Ayascho was squatting beside him crying.
“Tondo, when they told me the gorga was chasing you, I feared you were a dead man,” Chashutzo said in a strained voice. It was obvious he was in great pain.
“The gorga is dead,” Coleman replied, “and village have measha like never before. Food brought to People by great hunt leader Chashutzo.”
Chashutzo smiled and said, “I fear my time is short. My wound is great, and I will die. Then, my family will follow.”
“What are you talking about?” Coleman asked.
Tzeechoe walked up to Coleman. A trickle of blood had run down the side of his face and dried. “Chashutzo is the keeper of his family,” Tzeechoe said. “His sons are young and cannot hunt. They will have to leave the village after he dies.”
