Morning slips by with no sign of the young scout’s return. In his absence, the old man reveals the true severity of his perished lungs, coughing thick phlegm onto the dank grass of the hollow. By now, that mottled green is matted with a tainted film of clotted blood and mucus, even the insects dare not touch.
This old man’s not going to leave the valley. That much is clear to me. He’s coughed so much of himself onto this isolated hillside, there’s nothing left to carry home. Over the course of the early morning, I watch him struggle to his feet on two separate occasions and peer north for sign of his son. Those movement cost him dear in pain and effort. The third time he rises, he falls back on his arse, another bout of bloody coughing leaving him too sapped to try again.
I continue to watch the old scout as he leans back against the tree, listening for a time as his rasping breath grows quieter. At first, I think he’s dozing. When a raven alights on a branch above him and perches without fear, I realise he’s exhaled his last damp breath.
I rise to my feet, axe in hand, limbs stiff and heavy from lack of movement. Moving at an angle to approach from his rear, I keep one eye on the old man’s slumped shoulder, ready to lunge forward at the slightest hint of movement.
I needn’t have worried. The raven squawks angrily, taking to the air in a flurry of black feathers but the old man remains where he is, slumped against the trunk, eyes closed, chest unmoving.
I’m surprised to find how frail he is. His body’s slight, brittle as a bird. There’s no meat to him, no muscle. Up close, his fearsome tattoos have all the terror of a child’s finger-painting.
I poke him with the axe-head but of course there’s no reaction. Sucking air in through my teeth, I cluck my tongue, annoyed at myself for wasting time on a dead man. I’m about to reach down and rummage through the leather satchel when a distant noise alerts me. Scurrying to the shadows of an oak cluster at the hollow’s edge, I slip into the darkness just as the second scout returns.
The young buck comes in at a run and you can read his excitement in his pace, his eagerness to share what he’s seen. Oblivious to my presence, he hurries past and jumps down before his prostrate father. The shaft of the axe swells in my palm, moist from sweat, hungry for blood.
