Free Ghost Hunter by Michelle Paver, Geoff Taylor Page A
Authors: Michelle Paver, Geoff Taylor
done so. She'd also tied back her red hair and tucked it inside her hood, so the prey wouldn't see. Catching his eye, she touched her clan-creature feathers and gave him her familiar, sharp-toothed grin.
The wind chilled Torak's face. Good. It was blowing his scent away from the prey.
Stealthily, he crawled forward. He crested the ridge. He caught his breath.
Below him the hill fell away to the glittering sweep of the river. Another river flowed across it: a river of reindeer. Clouds of frosty breath hazed golden in the sun from thousands of muzzles. The air rang with the bleating of calves and the grunts of their mothers; the nasal hoots
100
of rutting bucks. And beneath it all, like the beating of a great heart, the steady drumming of thousands of hooves.
Torak had only ever seen small groups of reindeer in the Forest. Awestruck, he watched the herd flowing slowly, purposefully, endlessly across the river. The hill where he lay dropped steeply through a thicket of willows to a flat expanse of gravelly riverbank, then rose again to another hill, also thick with willows. He guessed that the gap in between was one of the reindeer's ancient crossing places. Fin-Kedinn had once told him that the herds have followed the trails of their ancestors for thousands of winters.
He saw how they converged in a dense press of bodies as they passed through the gap. He saw the lifted heads and jostling antlers of swimming reindeer, the quick heave as they climbed the banks and scattered on the other side. He knew that this river of life would be trailed by many hunters: eagles, wolves, ravens, wolverines, people.
But where were the people?
He spotted Rip and Rek flying high, turning their heads from side to side as they searched for carcasses. He saw a buck rise on its hind legs and run a few paces to warn the others of danger, then thud to earth and charge a wolverine, which bounded away. And there in the distance was Wolf, a gray shadow at the edge of the
101
herd, seeking an abandoned calf, or a reindeer too sick or injured to put up a fight.
But no people. Just three more turf men on the hill opposite, standing with antler arms outstretched.
Renn whispered in his ear. "We're out of arrowshot. We've got to get downhill, into the thicket."
She was right. Forget about people. The only thing that mattered now was meat.
And they'd have to get close. Success in a reindeer hunt depends on making a swift kill which fells the prey quietly, without alerting the herd. If you miss, they'll be off, and you'll have lost your chance.
Renn muttered a prayer to her guardian, and Torak asked the Forest to bring him luck. They began to edge down the slope toward the willows.
Torak glimpsed Wolf weaving among the reindeer. In his head, he wished him good hunting.
Wolf ran through the rich, swirling scent that made his pelt tighten with hunger.
He smelled the bloody tatters that swung from the reindeers' head-branches, and snuffed the delicious scent of calves. To his relief, he smelled no other wolves: no stranger pack which would attack a lone wolf who dared enter its range.
To make the prey run, he let them see him.
A big bull put down his head and thundered toward
102
him: Get away from my females! Wolf dodged the lunging head-branches and bounded away.
In the din, he caught an anguished bleating. He loped toward it.
The calf stood shivering on a small, pebbly island in the middle of the Fast Wet. Wolf smelled its fear. It was unprotected. Its mother lay dead, her carcass already picked clean.
Wolf lowered his head and moved down the bank and into the Wet. He swam with the reindeer, and they ignored him, sensing that he wasn't after them.
The calf smelled him. Its bleating turned shrill. Wolf saw it move behind its mother's rib cage, ducking its head so that it couldn't see him, but sticking out its pale, fluffy rump.
Wolf's paws touched pebbles. He'd reached the island.
But as he emerged, a big
The wind chilled Torak's face. Good. It was blowing his scent away from the prey.
Stealthily, he crawled forward. He crested the ridge. He caught his breath.
Below him the hill fell away to the glittering sweep of the river. Another river flowed across it: a river of reindeer. Clouds of frosty breath hazed golden in the sun from thousands of muzzles. The air rang with the bleating of calves and the grunts of their mothers; the nasal hoots
100
of rutting bucks. And beneath it all, like the beating of a great heart, the steady drumming of thousands of hooves.
Torak had only ever seen small groups of reindeer in the Forest. Awestruck, he watched the herd flowing slowly, purposefully, endlessly across the river. The hill where he lay dropped steeply through a thicket of willows to a flat expanse of gravelly riverbank, then rose again to another hill, also thick with willows. He guessed that the gap in between was one of the reindeer's ancient crossing places. Fin-Kedinn had once told him that the herds have followed the trails of their ancestors for thousands of winters.
He saw how they converged in a dense press of bodies as they passed through the gap. He saw the lifted heads and jostling antlers of swimming reindeer, the quick heave as they climbed the banks and scattered on the other side. He knew that this river of life would be trailed by many hunters: eagles, wolves, ravens, wolverines, people.
But where were the people?
He spotted Rip and Rek flying high, turning their heads from side to side as they searched for carcasses. He saw a buck rise on its hind legs and run a few paces to warn the others of danger, then thud to earth and charge a wolverine, which bounded away. And there in the distance was Wolf, a gray shadow at the edge of the
101
herd, seeking an abandoned calf, or a reindeer too sick or injured to put up a fight.
But no people. Just three more turf men on the hill opposite, standing with antler arms outstretched.
Renn whispered in his ear. "We're out of arrowshot. We've got to get downhill, into the thicket."
She was right. Forget about people. The only thing that mattered now was meat.
And they'd have to get close. Success in a reindeer hunt depends on making a swift kill which fells the prey quietly, without alerting the herd. If you miss, they'll be off, and you'll have lost your chance.
Renn muttered a prayer to her guardian, and Torak asked the Forest to bring him luck. They began to edge down the slope toward the willows.
Torak glimpsed Wolf weaving among the reindeer. In his head, he wished him good hunting.
Wolf ran through the rich, swirling scent that made his pelt tighten with hunger.
He smelled the bloody tatters that swung from the reindeers' head-branches, and snuffed the delicious scent of calves. To his relief, he smelled no other wolves: no stranger pack which would attack a lone wolf who dared enter its range.
To make the prey run, he let them see him.
A big bull put down his head and thundered toward
102
him: Get away from my females! Wolf dodged the lunging head-branches and bounded away.
In the din, he caught an anguished bleating. He loped toward it.
The calf stood shivering on a small, pebbly island in the middle of the Fast Wet. Wolf smelled its fear. It was unprotected. Its mother lay dead, her carcass already picked clean.
Wolf lowered his head and moved down the bank and into the Wet. He swam with the reindeer, and they ignored him, sensing that he wasn't after them.
The calf smelled him. Its bleating turned shrill. Wolf saw it move behind its mother's rib cage, ducking its head so that it couldn't see him, but sticking out its pale, fluffy rump.
Wolf's paws touched pebbles. He'd reached the island.
But as he emerged, a big
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