Cutch reined up at the head of the cascade that fed one of the streams gracing the Torech Besruth enclave. The manor was now his home, a grander place could not be imagined for a one-time mortal wanderer, nor a more wondrous wife as Seregrian, also Ladyship of the House, who he cherished as Her husband and faithfully served as Steward of the Hall.
His duties included many things he gladly performed, and one of them was keeping the larder well stocked, and as Her Ladyship favored venison in all the many ways he prepared, he would often hunt. As he sat upon his saddle looking down on Her House and their home, he knew he would miss her until he returned, but he also sensed a need in Her for some solitude. Their recent wedding and bridal tour, and their subsequent days of intimate marital bliss, were no doubt a blessing to them both, but was also distracting Her from Her vocation; lore-mistress and researcher of things either ancient or arcane, or both.
He smiled seeing the courtyard empty, imagining that Her mind’s insistent curiosity had quickened Her pace back inside and to the top of the manor tower, to the Sanctum, Her intellectual fortress. He hoped She would notice the aroma from the coffee he’d left keeping warm for her in the kitchen and be tempted by the pastries he’d placed conveniently, as She would often not think to eat or take a moments rest when Her studies absorbed Her.
“Hunting”, he murmured to himself, shifting his thoughts to his own mission of the day.
As he rode out of the village towards the woods where game was plenty, memories drifted back to him of his most unforgettable hunt….
“The auroch,” Andreg continued as the boy Cutch nocked another arrow, “can provide meat, hide, hair, and bone in great quantity, and are plentiful in the open grazing fields here in the eastern part of the North Downs.”
Cutch nodded as he drew against the much stronger pull of the bow he’d been given. Down range, a sack of tightly packed straw sat on a stump at the woods edge. A red dot the size of a fist had been dyed into the center of the target.
“Such large game is necessary to hunt if you truly wish to be a wanderer, Little Man. Not only will you need to provide for yourself, but you’ll also need something to trade for what you cannot hunt, fish, or gather. Take great care should you decide to hunt something that large alone. You may only get one chance at a kill shot, and a large, wounded beast…….”. Andreg paused to watch the boy.
Cutch’s arms and shoulders trembled as he steadied his stance to aim, then he released and immediately winced, realizing that he would not hit the practice target. Instead, the arrow zipped straight into a sapling behind the stump and imbedded with a convincing whack. Cutch sighed, knowing how unlikely it would be to recover the arrow undamaged, one he had painstakingly fletched under Andreg’s watchful eye.
The man stepped forward and rested a hand on Cutch’s shoulder.
“On the other hand,” he said, replying to the boy’s sullen exasperation, “the arrow flew true to the line of its release and struck deep, and over a much greater distance than you’ve reached before. So, we need to get a little more meat on your bones, to steady your aim, and keep you practicing.”
With a nod and a face stretched with chagrin, Cutch took the long walk to the embedded arrow to attempt its retrieval. The shaft was cracked and barely whole, but the point and feathers were worth the effort to save.
Riding back into the Dunedain settlement of Esteldin, the two were greeted with the usual mixture of attitudes: for Andreg, uniform respect, but for Cutch, either indifference, condescending sympathy, or hostility, all silent and all mysterious. And thus had it been since Andreg brought the boy to the hidden ruins the previous fall to winter over and begin his education on the ways of the traveler. When Cutch asked Andreg about the standoffish demeanor towards him, the man passed it off as reservation, only to be overcome when the boy had proved himself. Andreg did not like telling that lie, but he was constrained by The Vow, which included not revealing the truth about Cutch, even to the boy himself, and the man was insistent that the other Rangers, as a minimum, honor that secrecy.
And so, Cutch took to heart all the tasks he was given, much as he did as a farm boy in the Wildwood. His determination was unassailable, and it mattered not how often he would have to try to get it right; he eventually would get Andreg’s approvals. The boy learned to tie knots for a variety of purposes beyond those for farm work. Then he learned how to trap, hunt, and fish for survival, and from those skills grew the ability to move unnoticed. He learned how to create a concealed camp, and especially a cold camp. But none of his successes would satisfy any of the rangers, at least outwardly, except Andreg, who gave approval when it was earned, and further instruction when it was not.
When spring of the following year came about, Cutch, now entering his fifteenth year, began to feel the wanderer’s call. The settlement had become, for him, and unfriendly place where the only un-surly regard for him, besides from Andreg, came from Elf or Dwarf traders in nearby settlements who he would visit, as he accompanied Andreg, for business or news. With them he could converse and get at least some recognition, even acceptance. But all too soon, their dealings would conclude, and the two would leave, often with Cutch wishing he could stay.
Determined to prove, most importantly to himself, that he was worthy to go forth on his own, he set out on a hunt by himself. It was not the first time he had done so, and usually he would return with small game, or even a deer, dressed meat and hides ready for the settlement. Today, however, he would prove to everyone his worth returning to Esteldin leading his horse laden with the results of a successful, albeit secret, auroch hunt. He was sure to get respect, begrudged or otherwise, and earn the right to shake hands of farewell with Andreg, and to indifferently turn his back on those who had given him no true regard.
He chose a drizzly day, thinking the weather would hide his predatory presence, and rode out at dawn to a soft round hill not far from the Gatson farm, where the ground was open, the grazing grasses were lush, and the auroch herds often wandered. Atop the hill, an old ruined stone tower squatted, weathered columns forming a circle over broad, smooth flagstones and lifting up arches capped by a headless statue of some forgotten, spear-wielding sentinel.
Cutch rode a wide circle around the hill, seeing one herd grazing lazily, and after making a full circuit, dismounted nearest the Gatson farm and unburdened his horse to let it browse. Taking up bow, full quiver, knives, and a rope, he moved up the hill at a quiet crouch, mindful of the herd’s location and keeping out if it’s collective notice. He scrambled up the broken edges of one of the tower columns and found a spot to sit, hooded and cloaked, watching the aurochs away and below. With arrow nocked but not pulled, he waited and watched, as the drizzle drifted around him. The morning dragged along, grey, and shadowless.
As noon approached, the herd spread out along the hill, and one yearling cow drifted away from the others, mindlessly drawn before him along a meandering arc of succulent grasses. Cutch gauged the distance she was making from the herd and assessed smartly how much her dressed out parts might weigh. She was perhaps a third the size of a fully grown male but would still be a respectable prize. Slowly and quietly, he drew the arrow and waited for her flank to be fully and flatly exposed. Being now nearly a year older and more mature in his body, his shoulders and arms remained steady until ….
The arrow slipped straight through the misted air and struck perfectly, its finely honed point driving in just behind the shoulder and into the heart. She simply dropped, a last breath sighing from her as she slowly rolled away to her side, and lay motionless, a clean kill on the first shot, the arrow standing up out of her like a victory pennant.
Cutch, grinning ferally, cast a quick glance toward the rest of the spread-out herd, but did not immediately see any reaction to his kill. Anxious to get on with the tasks at hand, he scampered down and trotted over to the felled animal. He paused to make sure it was not breathing, then dropped his bow and quiver and unsheathed a knife. Kneeling next to her and with careful confidence he drew the sharp blade across the auroch cow’s neck, slicing the thick vein that would release blood.
The ground shook, and the dense air split with the enraged bellowing of an auroch bull beginning its charge at the boy. Cutch was frozen for only a scant moment by the image of a thousand pounds of crazed beast brandishing huge horns and bearing down on him. He sprinted toward the ruined tower hoping against reason that he could run faster scared than bull could blinded by hate. The beast skidded on the wet ground as it attempted to change course to intercept, and its brief loss of footing gave Cutch the extra moment he needed to reach the gap between two of the columns, behind one of which he knew he’d find purchase to climb.
As he grabbed at the column to help him make the quick turn inside, Cutch felt the hot snorted breath of the bull rushing past, barely missing him with its lowered horns, its momentum carrying it to the wet ancient flagstones. Once again, it lost its footing and began a flailing skid, frustration magnifying its rage, and once more it loosed a bellow. Cutch had to drop his knife to use both hands as he scrambled up, barely in time to avoid the righted bull slamming its horns into the column. The impact shook the stones and they rumbled. The boy managed to find the top of the column and clung to it, splayed flat and heaving a sigh of relief. Twice more the bull charged the column, pounding its horns against the stones, and each blow would shake the tower. Cutch lay still, wondering how many such assaults would bring down the tower and deliver him to be trampled and gored.
An auroch’s eyesight is not it’s sharpest sense, and as Cutch clung flat to the top of the column, the beast could not get a good view of him. Still angered, it went back to the downed cow and nuzzled at it, bleating sadly for a moment, then strutted about looking for something to receive its fury. The bow and quiver lay near and with renewed determination the bull trampled them. The arrows crunched and the strung bow snapped, sending its broken halves spinning crazily around the bowstring and toward the ruin to land at the foot of Cutch’s column. The bull resumed its patrol, circling the tower and attracted by the boy’s fear-drenched scent. Occasionally, it would deliver another jarring attack, and the tower would shudder, sending down dust and weather-crumbled chips of stone.
Doing a quick inventory, Cutch was now without bow, quiver, or the knife he had dropped to ensure his climb. He had another knife sheathed, but that would be just as worthless in any attempt to face the bull, which was still outraged and maintaining its vigil rolling around the ruin, searching for an enemy. All the boy had left was the rope slung around his body, hanging on one shoulder. The desperate plan forming in his mind made him roll his eyes, for it seem comically preposterous.
Keeping himself concealed as the beast circled the tower, he would wait until each lap momentarily put the bull out of view. At these intervals, Cutch would work at tying the rope around the span between his and the next column and then tie a noose-like loop on the loose end. He shook his head with disbelief at what he was going to do next.
At just the most opportune moment, Cutch popped up to a crouch, loop in hand, and peered directly down at the bull. He screamed, his still boyish voice cracking shrilly as he tossed the spinning loop at the beast’s massive head. The bull glared up as the loop descended and failed to encircle the neck, but instead flopped draping over one horn. Cutch lurched up and pulled the loop closed around the horn, but also lost his footing and fell backwards from his perch. Still clinging to the rope, suddenly taut under the beast’s initial resistance, the boy managed to right himself and land on his feet. At the very same moment he touched the wet flagstones, the rope went limp and the sound and shake of rushing hooves propelling the massive bull closed the distance between beast and boy, separated by the column.
Cutch bolted.
The impact caused the column to finally surrender its ancient posture, its collapse rippling through half of the tower, pulling more columns down. Behind him, Cutch could hear the bull roar and looked back to see it emerge from behind the rubble of the half-collapsed tower, clumsily dragging a huge stone tied to a fraying rope still looped on a horn, the animal’s attention now fully on this new and mysterious threat. Mud flew as its hooves dug through the wet ground, struggling. In that precious moment of the beast’s distraction, the boy scanned about until he saw the smoke rising from the Gatson farm’s chimney, and he ran to it, not daring to look back.
