Devil Moon

Chapter Two

The female sensed great danger. A growl started to rumble from her chest, but she stopped it and waited to see what the strange creatures would do. They were jabbering at each other like chipmunks, making noises new to her. The creature on the ground took a few steps up the slope but stopped at a sound from another of the creatures on one of the elklike animals. It seemed to her that the creature reluctantly turned back and climbed on the animal it had been riding, and together the whole strange group moved off into the woods toward the setting sun.

For the longest time she lay listening. She was fearful they would come back, and did not know why she was fearful. The only other time she had ever felt this way was when her mother was killed by the hunger-crazed wolves.

But the creatures did not return. Gradually the normal sounds of the forest returned, and she relaxed. Two of her kittens played with her tail, while two others wrestled and hissed. The big dark male paced back and forth and stared down at the alien world below. He was odd, the dark one. She had never had a kitten quite like him. For one thing, he always looked her in the eye when he came up to her. The others rarely did; they were too interested in her teats or her tail or her ears. For another thing, he was not only bigger but more muscular than the rest. By the time he was two months old, he had the build of a male of six months or more.

By then she weaned them from her milk. Their teeth were too sharp and it hurt when they sucked. Their claws, too, which they liked to flex when they nursed, pricked her belly uncomfortably. She started to bring her small kills to the den. The first was a rabbit. She plopped it down and five of the six were so startled they scrambled back in fear. Not the dark one. He walked up to the rabbit and sniffed and then sank his teeth into the rabbit’s throat and sucked what little blood remained.

Another moon passed, and the kittens ate whatever she brought. They always fought over the meat and it was always the dark one who got the most. He brooked no disputes. One time when the second biggest male tried to wrest a piece of grouse away, the dark one cuffed him so hard he was nearly sent tumbling from the ledge.

At last came the day the female looked forward to, the day when she took them from the den for their first excursion in the outside world. Five of the six were scared and hugged her like a second pelt. The dark one walked at her side with the assurance of a yearling. He studied her every movement and imitated her with perfect ease. That night she licked him until he tired of being licked and moved off to curl up and sleep.

It was not long after that she came back one evening with a raccoon in her mouth. She leaped onto the ledge and found four of the six huddled in fright at the rear of the den. The dark one stood in front of the others, teeth bared, ready to defend the others. Belatedly, she realized that one of the females was missing. She sniffed and a snarl was torn from her throat.

The bobcat had been there.

She followed the scent up the mountain to a thicket. The missing female, or what was left, lay at the edge. From then on she was alert for the bobcat’s presence, but he stayed away. He knew what she would do to him if she caught him.

Seven moons went by. Early one afternoon, she decided it was time for their first hunt. They were used to going short distances but not long treks, and several balked at entering the aspens. Not the dark one. He showed no fear of anything. She led them into the forest to a certain log. There she crouched. They followed her example, but they were still kittens and did not stay motionless, save for the dark one.

A short way off stood a tall tree. High in its branches was the conical nest of a gray squirrel that liked to come out at this time of day and forage. She had seen him many times. This day was no exception.

The dark one saw the squirrel right away. The rest were lax. One played with a pinecone. Two others pawed each other. A low hiss from her brought them close to the log where they peered over as she was doing.

The squirrel was perched on a limb, chattering noisily. Not at them but at the surrounding woods. It dropped onto all fours and scampered down the trunk, its bushy tail arched over its back.

Her kittens were riveted.

The squirrel was almost to the bottom. It moved in jerky spurts, stopping often.

Out of habit the female coiled and then let the tension drain from her. This was to be their kill if they were smart enough to sense what to do. Four of the litter, to her disappointment, didn’t. They had never been this close to another living animal, and they were uncertain.

Not the dark one. He craned his neck over the log as the squirrel ran from cone to cone. Its antics brought it near the log. With a snarl, the dark one launched himself up and over. The squirrel raced for the tree. The dark one went after it, but that snarl had a high cost; the squirrel reached the tree first and was up the trunk in a flash, leaving the dark one thwarted and growling at the base. She was proud of him nonetheless. No kitten of hers ever went after prey its first time out.

It did not surprise her that he made the first kill not long after. A snake made the mistake of slithering onto the ledge during the hottest part of the day, no doubt to sun itself. It was only a bull snake, but it was thick and long and when the dark kitten leaped on it, the snaked bit and coiled and fought furiously for its life. The other kittens sprang to help, but it was the dark one that bit down on the head and ended the struggle.

The female had eaten snake a few times, but she was not fond of it. There was too little meat. She watched to see what the dark one would do—he sniffed the snake and walked off.

The rest of the kittens had a new toy. For days they played with the body, batting it around and pretending to stalk it and kill it. Finally the stink was more than she cared to endure and she carried it in her mouth down among the boulders and left it.

The days and nights rolled on, the moon waxed and waned. The kittens grew stronger and more sure of themselves as she showed them more of their world and taught them its dangers and delights. They tried to catch frogs at the lake. One of the kittens fell in and thrashed wildly until she plucked it out by the scruff of its neck. They swatted at fish in the stream. They chased birds and they chased chipmunks and they chased rabbits. One day they came on a turtle. It pulled into its shell and for the rest of the morning the kittens batted at the shell to make it roll end over end.

At night they lay on the ledge and listened to the baying of wolves and the fierce roar of the lords of the mountains. Occasionally they heard the far-off shriek of their own kind.

The leaves were starting to change color when she led them down through the aspens and across the meadow into the heavy timber. The thick canopy dappled the fallen leaves and pine needles with shadow, and maybe that was why she didn’t see the snake when she passed a cluster of rocks. The kitten behind her saw it, and snarled and sprang. But it wasn’t a bull snake. This one was a rattler. She heard the buzz of its tail and whirled, but by then the snake had sunk its fangs into the kitten’s neck and went on striking. The dark one killed it. With a growl almost as loud as hers, the dark one did something she had never seen a kitten its size do; it crushed the rattlesnake’s head with a swipe of a forepaw.

The kitten that had been bitten staggered and fell onto its side. She licked it and nosed it and then stood helpless as it convulsed and twitched and finally went limp.

The dark one did something else new. He walked up to his fallen brother and stared at the still form until she coughed to signal they should move on.

In due course the trees lost their leaves and the nights and days grew colder. Her small ones lost their kittenish traits and were more like her in appearance and acts. The dark one grew twice as fast as his siblings. He could run faster, leap farther. When they hunted, he stayed at her side and didn’t trail behind as the others did.

The patterns of the other animals were changing. The deer and the elk drifted lower. The squirrels and chipmunks scurried about gathering stores. Bears sought to put as much fat on their bodies as they could.

On a cold, brisk morning she led the kittens farther down the mountain than they had ever gone, to a larger meadow where elk congregated in rutting season. The males bugled and fought over the females. They were not as alert as they normally were, and sometimes she could sneak close enough to bring one down. She always chose a female. The males were too big, their antlers formidable.

On this particular day she reached the meadow when the sun was directly overhead. She lay in a thicket with her young around her. No elk were there yet. It wasn’t until the middle of the afternoon that a few cows drifted from cover. By late afternoon a herd of over fifty had gathered and the males commenced to fight. Their battles were spectacular; they would lower their heads and paw and charge, and the crash of their antlers was like the crash of a falling tree. Then they would dig in their hooves and push and strain until one or the other proved stronger. Sometimes their antlers locked and they become almost frantic in their efforts to break apart. The females huddled and watched, and it was then they were easiest to stalk.

The female crept to the meadow’s edge, the dark one at her side. The other three—two males and a female—were behind her. She flattened and waited, and presently a cow drifted near. Coiling her legs, she launched in long leaps and vaulted high onto the cow’s back. Her weight was enough to bring down a deer, but elk were a lot bigger and although this one staggered, it stayed upright and bawled in fright and tried to shake her off. She churned her claws, threshing hide and flesh, even as she sank her fangs deep. She was aware of the dark one clinging to the cow’s neck and the other kittens attacking its legs. With a loud cry, the cow toppled. The other female elk and most of the bulls scattered.

Most, but not all.

She didn’t see the one until it was almost on top of them. With her lightning reflexes, she sprang clear. The bull hooked his antlers at the dark one, and the dark one jumped higher than she ever saw a male its age jump, and avoided being impaled. The bull slashed at another male, but it wasn’t as quick. It shrieked as the sharp tines drove into its body. The bull tossed it a good distance and the instant it fell hard to the earth it was up and running. She did the same, the rest on her flanks. The bull came after them but stopped at the end of the meadow and snorted and stamped.

She did not like being driven from her prey. She could see the cow, still down and bleeding badly, its legs moving feebly. Then she heard a mew and turned to find the male kitten the bull had attacked was down, too, and bleeding as badly as the cow, if not worse. She went to him. There were holes in his body and another in his neck. He raised his head and mewed at her and she licked him, but that was all she could do. His eyes closed and he convulsed a few times and then he lay limp.

She had lost another. It was always thus. Out of every litter, it was rare if two survived.

The bull continued to stamp and snort and was joined by others. Their rut was temporarily forgotten in their united effort against a common enemy.

She started back up the mountain. Their bellies were empty, and she was in an angry mood. She was almost glad when they startled a doe into flight. The dark one was on it before she was, but together they brought the doe down and it was the dark one whose fangs dealt the kill. Afterward, they feasted and then retired to a sunny clearing to rest.

The other male and the young female still had kittenish streaks, and played and wrestled. Not the dark one. He lay watching everything around them, and missed nothing. She went over and licked him, and he licked her and she lay at his side.

The hunting was good until the first heavy snow. She had seen snow many times and was accustomed to it, but to her young it was wondrous. They frol-icked and gamboled, even the dark one, swatting and rolling and acting as if they were one moon old again.

Game became scarce. Many of the smaller animals stayed in their burrows and dens. Bears were in hibernation. Most of the birds so common in the summer were gone. Ravens and jays stayed, but they were too wary to be caught. Grouse went deeper into the thickets and were harder to find. Rabbits changed color and were harder to spot. The deer were not abroad as much.

Where before she and her brood might have gone three or four days between kills, now it was sometimes five or six. They were often hungry. The temperature fell, so they were often cold, too. They spent much of their time at the den, resting and gazing down over their domain.

This winter was worse than most, and in the coldest of the moons she was pressed to find prey. She roved far and wide without success.

They had been four and a half days without anything to eat when she caught the scent of a doe, mixed with blood. Her belly brushing the snow, she stalked through the undergrowth until she saw it. Puzzled, she stopped.

The doe hung by its neck from a tree. A thin snakelike thing that was not alive had been wrapped around the doe’s neck and head and around a low limb.

The female had never seen anything like this, and she was wary.

Beside her, the dark one crouched silent and still. The other two were famished and eager to eat. They kept shifting their weight and flicking their tails, and finally the male snarled and moved toward the doe.

She tried to move in front of him, but he went around her and kept going, his paws sinking into the soft snow. She was uneasy. Something was wrong. She sensed danger.

The dark one growled. He was looking at a snowbank near the doe. She looked but could not account for his growl.

The other male came to the doe. He walked in a small circle around her, looking up and growling. She was well out of reach. Crouching, he prepared to leap.

The female went to rise. She had been wrong about the danger. They could all feed.

That was when the snowbank broke apart and a two-legged creature with a feather in its black hair reared up.