FFF #2: Hunters

“Flying Eagle!” cried Fanged Wolf. “Eagle, where are you? The ceremony is about to begin!”

Flying Eagle sighed silently from his hiding place in the woods. Why wouldn’t his brother just leave him alone? But he knew that Wolf would soon track him down. He decided to let him do that rather than replying. His brother was the great hunter, after all—let him work to find his prey.

“Eagle, why didn’t you answer me?” asked Fanged Wolf as he ducked under some brush to reach his older brother’s refuge. “Hey, this is a nice spot,” he said, looking around at the mossy clearing.

Flying Eagle sighed again, this time aloud, and said, “Well, it’s not my secret spot any longer, is it? Guess I’ll have to find a new one.” “Sorry,” said Wolf, hanging his head. But then he spied some whittlings on the ground and asked, “What are you making now?”

“None of your business,” his brother told him, hiding the carving. Wolf was easily deterred this time, because he had another mission. “Please, you have to come be there with me—they’re going to start any minute now! We’ve got to hurry or we’ll be late!”

Eagle couldn’t help but smile at his younger brother. He loved him, and didn’t want to hurt him. He started to get up but grimaced at a cramp in his leg. “All right then, help me up,” he said, reaching out his hand. Fanged Wolf grinned and yanked him up, then headed back to their tribe’s gathering place at a pace his brother could not match. Eagle picked up the carving and put it in a pouch he carried on his belt. He winced as he limped along, envious of Wolf’s effortless trot. He was lame, and would never be able to participate in his first hunt as his brother was about to do. He did not understand his name, Flying Eagle—he was not even a walking man. He felt that the elders were cruel to give him a name that he could never live up to.

Tonight was the ceremony to invoke the aid of the gods on the morrow’s hunt, and he had hoped to miss it, or at least to observe unseen from the outskirts after night had fallen. He’d hoped that Wolf would be caught up in the excitement of the moment and forget about him, but he should have known better. His little brother idolized him, and he couldn’t understand why. Flying Eagle’s greatest dream was to be a mighty hunter, something that he could never be, and it seemed that all the skills of hunting came to Wolf as easily as breathing. He showed great promise, and Eagle was proud of him—but it still stung.

Later that night, after the songs and dancing were over and all had gone to sleep, Flying Eagle suddenly opened his eyes. He rolled over, caressing the carving he’d been working on earlier that afternoon. The dream had come again, but it was only a dream.

He was soaring above the trees and plains, beating strong wings, floating on updrafts, diving downwards at will, floating and circling. He could see everything for miles around, his vision sharper and clearer than it had ever been, but always he kept the running wolf in sight, his circles centered on the predator trotting through the vegetation. The wolf was not alone—others were hunting with him—but it was only with the wolf that he was bonded and connected.

He spotted something in the dense brush, upwind of the wolf and his companions. They did not see or smell it. It was an elk, alone, a great prize. He cried out and dove, down, down, but not at any prey. He dove at the wolf, who veered off from his companions, startled. As the wolf’s gaze followed him, he then rose up and began flying towards the prize. When the wolf returned to follow his companions, he again flew back and cut off the wolf’s path, then flew back towards the elk. This time, the wolf followed. When he dove at the elk with a scream and flushed him out of his hiding place, the wolf was ready, and between them they were able to chase the elk towards the wolf’s companions. Together, the group took the animal down, and claimed their prize.

He blinked rapidly to dissipate the tears that burned at the corners of his eyes, threatening to roll down his cheeks. Only a dream. He was a lame boy who could never fly. But he could carve. His fingers felt the edges of the screaming eagle on the shoulders of the fanged wolf.

********

Two days later, the hunters returned in great excitement. Fanged Wolf was given a place of honor among them—his first hunt, and he had proven himself worthy. He had flushed out the prey the others had not seen, and helped the tribe to capture a great elk that would feed many of them. He looked about him in wonderment, his eyes seeking his brother. When he found them and their eyes locked, he shouted, “My brother . . . there was an eagle . . .” Flying Eagle again blinked back tears, and when they were alone he pressed the carving into his brother’s hands.

Many years later, when the story of Flying Eagle the powerful shaman and his brother the mighty hunter had been told and retold, the carving was recreated as a giant totem to keep the Eagle and the Wolf alive in the memory of the people.