The Hunted -- Part 6
by Martin H Slusser

The sun was tilting deeply to the west by the time the insanity of remorse ebbed and dulled from its knife-edged pain.

Voices.

Benny lowered his hands and stared dully at the burned-out shag in his hands. There was a stiffness, wet and annoying, on his left side. He touched it. His hand came back red. Unable to comprehend what it was, he was so deeply immersed in the Long's death, Benny stared at it.

He pulled up the stained tee shirt and looked with dispassionate eyes. Josh managed to get in one good shot. A red line of raw flesh streaked the heavy muscles over the ribs

"Good thing that freekin ogana turd wasn't shooting to kill. Hain'a, Oldest-Woman." He winked at the sun.

The Eagle-Woman glared at her erring beloved-son. Turning to his Guardian, she snapped, "Sick 'im."

Ever eager to please Mom-Eagle, Two Swords leaped forward. She shouted, "No. Let him go, ayotli."

Two Swords gave her a look of pure frustration.

Benny went to Smith's corpse and spat in the now flyblown eyes. Bloodworms were already at work. Better dead, man, than red. Or a Nazi. No difference between them, anyway. Jack-booted thugs.

"Socialist fucks."

With his knife he ripped a swatch of the thick flannel from Josh's shirt and used that to bandage the wound. Flies had been at him, too, but he had no time. A flash of light, a reflection of metal, showed beyond the house. Benny's head snapped up. Two large black four door cars were winding up the long, twisted drive. The tires were silent, the engine at an idled purr. Old-Man Henry liked to use chipped branches rather than gravel. It saved a lot of money and looked real good, woodsy and natural. But the Auracona chickens kept scratching holes in it, hunting for bugs. That saved on feed, yeah, and stopped a lot of unwanted traffic. Mr. Long had a still back in the swamps.

Water from a pot hole flashed in the sun . . . not from the dulled chrome.

"Dammit. The ride." His teeth bared in hate.

In a low crouch Benny ran through the trees, leaping puddles of water, dodging angry swan geese. He paused at the edge of the narrow band of pasture. Could they see him from there? Men in dark suits and Bolero ties were exiting the cars. Benny listened while they laugh, heard their obscene jokes about the jobs they did for the Project. Hell, they were no better than pimps, right? They worked for the Project and loved it and nothing else.

One step above punk. Ha, very funny, Grey. That's about three rungs above your ass if they catch you, rabbit.

No time like the present. Benny eased out of the woods, moving slow, his mind chanting a slow cadence.

Here is a Rock, unobserved, unnoticed.
In darkness a shadow, a snake unseen.
Here is Lion, invisible.
Here is Wolf, hidden from the eye of man.
Here is nothing, a shadow.
Spirit.
Nothing.
Spirit.
Here is dohi:yi, the Peace of the Forest and with the Forest, one.
Spirit . . . 

In the back of his mind he could feel himself melting into one with his Old-One, Grampa Wya. Together they sang the words passed down through generations of the ani. With the forest, they became one of the One.

Geese hissed and punched his shins hard enough to make him want to yell when he felt the bruises later that night. A rooster challenged him, then begged for grain for his lady-friends. Deep in a trance-like state Benny floated through it all and then was at the side door of the barn.

Here is the warrior, unseen.

Dohi:yi, Old-Woman . . . I am your free-born son. I owe you one.

From behind Benny, the Eagle-Woman's smile was wistful.

"I'd like to collect now, if you please, Wolf's-Brat."

Benny scowled and rubbed his ears.

"Now I'm hearing crap." He glanced around with a dark look.

"Yo . . . hey babe. How's it hangin?" Benny smiled with relief at the pile of loose hay. He swept it away, and spat at an angry hen nesting under the tarp. She swore at Benny and charged.

"Hey," he cried when she attacked him. "Chill, you reject from a stew pot. It's my ride."

The old biddy had her own opinion on that and charged again.

His hands swept down and Benny held her beak shut. A quick glance through the planks of the barn wall showed him one of the Feds looking his way. The agent called to his friends as they entered the house. He started for the barn.

A few choice words came from Benny and he seriously contemplated wringing the old hen's neck. The laughter cut off in a shout of horror and outrage from the house. Despite the problem, he could have smiled.

"Shame to waste Mandy's good knife like that." Benny shrugged. "Crap happens, ist, old lady?"


The agent held his back to the wall of the barn. The sun was warm, the smells, to him, were rank. He slipped into the dim light, took a cautious step, and Benny slapped the hen at him. The old biddy took a hint and clawed at the man's face. She squawked and was knocked aside.

"You bastard."

"What's up, man?" Benny spread his hands. A small grin played on his face. The agent brought his gun up and Benny kicked it out of his hands. He spun, rammed the heel of his boot into the man's groin, then face.

The man collapsed, half in the barn, half on the muddy chips of the lane. Benny stepped forward. The agent groaned, rolled over, and tried to get up. The boot rammed the man under the chin. Bone crunched and the man flopped down.

The Uohali Sun welcomed him with a rumbling purr and an eager spray of straw and wood chips. They bolted out the door. As one, Uohali and Rider, they exploded from the barn.

An agent tore off his heavy sunglasses and tried to head Benny off.

A harsh, bitter smile on his face, Benny leaned hard into the bars. The agent stumbled out onto the road, Stun-gun in hand.

The Uohali Sun roared a challenge and Benny goosed her hard.

"You murdering bastard," the agent screamed. Tazers snapped over Benny's neck, the wires brushing his jacket. Benny's finger shot up in salute. "Friggin hypocrites, Nazi fucks," he screamed and was gone around the bend.

A bullet crashed through the lilacs along the road. Twigs snapped from one of the cedars that the old woman planted to protect the farm from evil.

The cedars, they didn't work so well, not when evil rode an Uohali Sun and came as family. A bitter acid swelled in his mouth.

The agent's Luger was an antique but it was well cared for and rebuilt. The sights lined up on the kid's jacketed back, orders or no orders. With a gentle caress he squeezed the trigger. A small stone hurtled through the underbrush to crack against the agent's ankle. Slugs tore through the brush, ripped a hole through the Longs' mail box. He yelped and his last shot, aimed so delicately on Benny's spine, tugged a hole in the shoulder of the jacket and smashed into a tree. And then Benny was around the last curve and gone, man, real gone.

The agent stopped, body shaking with violent denial. He slapped a few leaves from his pants and shot an angry look over his shoulder at the men cursing him for missing.

The tsi:ge:O giggled and rewound the sling around her waist. She hitched a ride on a passing China goose hen and returned to the swamps.


Benny found a place, only a dark patch in the trees, and dragged the Uohali Sun in. He took a branch and brushed out any marks he made, then went back to the motorcycle. His weary body sagged to the damp leaves. Benny fought the bone-tired weariness, haunted by the deaths of yet two more people he loved.

God, but why the Longs? Why?

And Mandy's voice caressed his soul.

Tiny and dark of skin, they crept out with knives made of stone and glass and even the parings of animal hoofs clenched in callused hands. The tsi:ge:O surrounded Benny as he slept and dreamed.

Tall, knife-ridged mountains. Sheets of freezing rain and banks of thick, heavy snow fell on them, drifted through scrub oak and laurel thickets in a soft, blinding quilt.

Does slipped through dark forests to sip at cold, black waters. Wild geese called softly, insistent, called for him to come home.

Dohi:yi, Young Grey-Wolf Person.

Peace to you. Come home, Benny. It's time to come home.

©2003 StoriesByEmail.com

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