tales-from-the-far

[tales-from-the-far]

4. Falcon

When I was young, my father would take me hunting. We would go up north, where the leaves of the birches and maples would shake in the wind, singing their song in chorus. The pines would call you in with their aroma, and the scent would cling to you and follow you home. When you heard the sparse sounds of the forest floor it was like you had your ear to the forest's chest, and you could feel each steady breath of the ecosystem around you. At night, the coyotes and wolves would cry together, their calls ringing out through the lands, and eventually reaching our small tent. I shared this beautiful world with my father, and it's forever a memory that I get to keep.

But the land is different now, and I don't understand it anymore. The forests which once brought me comfort, now only causes me confusion

I don't know how the three of us survived the change, but it was volatile. Homes, cities, people, families were all obliterated. We've had to move across The Wilds, from village to village, from ruin to ruin. Our child doesn't have any idea of what the world before this was like, and it pains me. How can this be his normal? How can he find comfort, or joy, in this hellscape? We've told him stories… of how things used to be. I showed him the photos we saved in old albums: grainy photos of me at college parties, the places my husband and I would go on dates. But now, I’ve realised that it’s too late for that. I think the past has died.

In one last attempt to show our son what life was like, I decided to take him hunting. I had spent a long time looking for the right timber to turn into a bow, and settled on a maple tree. I used some saved up pine resin to turn into a glue for it. String made from wild grape, drying the wood, giving it polish, making it the best damn bow I could. He deserved it. With months of blood, sweat, and tears, I gave a gift I thought anyone would love. When the leaves began to fall, the two of us began our first hunting trip.

The long, ever-expanding backwoods were not as I remembered them. The leaves sang a different chorus, and I didn’t recognize most of the trees that composed the new canopy. The pines still stood tall, but their scent didn't bring me nostalgia. The leaf litter that lay thick on the forest floor. It was quiet — unmoving, unliving. Worst of all, I could tell my son wasn't enjoying this.

He definitely got more traits from my husband; the two of them would dine on any fine art that still remained around us. I showed him my music, but he never liked it: the tasteful sounds of Bob Dylan, and the colorful nonsense of R.E.M. like I did. He was always so quiet about his interests with me, but was so loud and proud with my spouse. All I wanted was to bond with him, to show what I could bring to his life, what made me, me. I was able to connect with my dad so easily, and it was a bond that lasted until his passing. I wanted that again for my own son.

Maybe it was the silence of the forest, the stillness for hours, not being able to talk, but this wasn't fun for him. I kept telling him if he just waited, we'd see something, that this is what I do nearly every day to keep us alive, but it didn't matter. I… I just wanted him to see what it was like when I was young; how I lived.

Multiple potential targets arose from the forest around us, but there was always a challenge with them. There were many mammals that I recognized, but now they were too big, or there were too many to safely ambush, or they looked too damn scary to even try. Other animals that I never saw when I was younger were also out here, stuff I'd see at a zoo or in the dinosaur books I read as a child: gorilla-horse hybrids, groups of small dinosaurs. We had to hide from a herd of some larger ones, larger than moose, and had hands with giant, spiked thumbs. After some time, though, something made itself vulnerable.

I was almost happy, since it seemed like a normal deer — an animal from my childhood — but when it turned its head it revealed a weird horn on its nose.. Nothing was normal anymore. I told my kid where to try and hit: right between the ribs, aiming for the heart or lungs. But, he refused. He was tired, bored, done. I didn't understand, I couldn't have. Our brains were from different times and I wasn't able to see that.

A crash from the woods snapped us out of our small squabble, to turn to see the large dinosaur breaching the treeline. A gray, vulture-like naked head, equipped with the teeth of a predator. Its previously white feathered body was quickly splattered with the color of red wine. I cracked. I spent hours trying to show my son the world I lived in, the one I loved, and it was hated and killed by this stupid, cruel, shitty future.

I fired an arrow at it, with my anger leading the arrow far from my target. It didn't even seem to care, not turning its head. It began dragging the carcass into the woods, for us to never see again. I was defeated, broke, and tired. I was done. I sat in my wallow, my head buried deep into my torso. I failed.

"All I wanted," I sputtered, trying to hide my tears building in my eyes.

"All I wanted… was to spend time with you. To have fun with you. I wanted to show you what my dad did with me. I just," I began trailing off, muttering to the darkness.

He planted a hand on my shoulder.

"Dad…" he said, quietly, as if trying to not scare me.

"I never said it wasn't fun, it just wasn't, really fun. It was fun just being able to spend time with you, hearing you talk about the animals we saw, the small conversations on the sounds around us. What I like… is spending time with you. We might not like the same things — find joy in the same things — and you try and make me like them. Forcing an activity with someone won't make them enjoy it."

"I'm… I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Can we go home? The day is still young, and I think I know something you'd like."

We went home, cleaned up, hung up our bows, and went outside again. He told me to follow him to a place he had discovered. We hiked across an upward slope, stones and debris clattering as we took our steps. Walking along the flowing river we got water from, we eventually reached an apex: a multi-layered waterfall, with the sounds of water flooding our ears. Behind us, we could see over the tree lines, and see birds flying high above. He pulled out his sketch book, and showed me his progress on drawing the view. It was almost picture perfect. He showed me more of his sketches, snippets of nature he had captured. Eventually, he began finishing up his most recent piece. He noticed the details of the environment I never really thought about; the shapes trees made, how the light reflected off of surfaces, and the stories you could see.

Up there, I heard the echoes of the animals that now claimed the forest below. There were bellows and groans of animals I may have never seen before. Small muskrats swam in circles in the rivers around us, playing together. Occasionally, you'd see a heron peak its head into the water around us. The trees stood tall, old, and wise. And, whether it was my imagination or maybe from the conifers around us, there was a faint fragrance of pine around us.

[tales-from-the-far]

Interlude. Lost Writing

Imitator hominum, meaning "human imitator". Also referred to as "Mimics".

Imitator hominum is apart of the Felis genus, with their closest relative and descendants being house cats. Much larger than their ancestors — comparable to a cougar in size — they come in many patterns and colors. Other than their size, the main distinguisher of the two being the unique way Mimics hunt their prey. A primitive voice box, one that resembles a humans', they lure prey in to set up an ambush.

Found often wandering the wilds, they often settle a territory where there is high human foot-traffic: suburbs, cities, farms, etc. Imitator hominum can be seen in high perches, on watch for potential rivals, danger, and prey.

They exclusively hunt people.

[tales-from-the-far]

3. Swan

I met my wife shortly after everything started to fall. I stumbled upon her camp with my son while trying to cut through some swamp land. We gave her such a fright, she almost shot us. Her camp, which consisted only of a few weary people and wildmen, agreed to take us in. It was uncomfortable at first, tense even, since these random strangers had acquired a new pair of mouths to feed. I felt awful. I had no knowledge of living out in the woods. Hell, I couldn’t even start a fire. I didn’t know at the time why, but she was the only one at that camp who tried teaching me anything. She even gave my kid little gifts. Apparently she’d worked at a local toy shop, so she was a wonderful wood carver. Eventually, I started to fall for her, and luckily, she felt the same. 

I remember that night so vividly. She woke me up, grabbed my arm, and we just started walking. She’d not even given me time to make myself decent; walking in a swamp with only a bra and pants is an awful feeling. After some time, the treeline had cleared, and we stepped on top of the hill, with the moon right in front of us. We were alone, with only the night sky and the sound of the forest to keep us company.

There wasn’t any foul play or bad blood, but slowly, members of the camp started moving to the large town nearby. My spouse, child and I decided to find somewhere else. Many of the stories we hear come from similar settlements to the one our acquaintances went off to, most of them ending in tragedy. We never saw them again, but I hope they’re doing well.

While on the road, my partner had been teaching our son basic survival skills. He was a natural, learning way faster than I ever did. I honestly felt slightly jealous; but in reality, I was so proud. When it was just the two of us, we survived off of the kindness of others; stumbling upon camps, random nomads, trash heaps made by nearby towns, anything to keep ourselves alive – to keep him alive. We had a lot of close calls, people and beast alike, but we always powered through. I had to. I couldn’t have left him alone in this world. Once, he was so sick, I thought he wouldn’t make it through to morning. I remember clutching my knife in my hand, sobbing as quiet as I could to not wake him or alert anyone. I starred at him, wondering if I could even do it. 

After days, maybe even weeks of travel, we had found something incredible; a home. It was run down, sure, but it wasn’t in horrible condition. I became kind of obsessed with the house, talking to my partner of dreams of having a family life with her in it. After days of begging, she finally caved in to begin work on it. My son and I helped, yes, but she was the one who ran the whole operation. After a couple of months, we had somewhere to lay down together. We made tables, chairs, bowls, anything we could have to give us the illusion of a normal home. It had been a year or two since the last time I painted, and even with the homemade paint that would go bad after a couple of hours, the rust came off, andI painted a portrait of all of us together; a family. 

My wife brought in a deer she’d hunted that afternoon, hauling it on her back, as she plopped it down and began her craft. Our home was decorated with animal pelts; some had been turned into blankets, others had dead grass stuffed in them to make pillows, others hung on the walls like tapestries. I would always ask her how she learned how to butcher animals so cleanly, she would never give a clear answer though, seemingly always distracted before she could finish her story. I went outside to grab a bucket of water to boil, I always prepared one for her to clean her bloody hands with. After filling the pail with the murky water, I began walking back, not before hearing something out there. It was far too dark to see what was out there. Returning to the house, there was definity a slight briskness to my feet.

After going inside though I had forgotten about it completely, entering to see my lover showing how to prepare the meat with my son. I walked to our kitchen, and began a fire in the fireplace, filling the pot above it with the water I’d just grabbed. 

“Stop”, my wife said, suddenly and without warning. It frightened me, I almost dropped the bucket.

“Do you hear that?”

Everyone in the house stopped moving,our breath was ripped out of our lungs. It was silent for only  a moment, but it felt like hours. Eventually, I began hearing the sound of plodding footsteps around our home. 

“You two go upstairs now, I’ll yell if I need you.”

I grabbed our son and brought him to the top of the stairs. My partner had taken position somewhere downstairs, I couldn’t see her anymore. The steps had been getting closer, sounding like they were just on the other side of the door. We could see the front door clearly, enough to see the door being pushed from the other side, the sound of claws digging into the wood. Whatever was out there, eventually put its entire body weight on the door, having burst from henges, splitters shooting off in any direction. I covered my son’s mouth to quiet him down, holding close to me to reassure him everything would be fine, knowing that I was equally as horrified. 

Finally getting a good look on what was on the other side, the crocodilian creature stared blankly into the home. As it sniffed around, every time it exhaled, you could see the puff of its breath in the dull air. It began to slowly force its way into our home, the door from buckling as its body was too large to fit into the door frame. Its claws hit the floor boards, making them creak as it began to wander its new environment. As it began entering the kitchen, I became mortified, as I truly didn’t know which room my spouse was in our home. I could it knocking over the counter in the kitchen, glassware shattering and pots smashing into the floor. 

I heard the hiss of the fire being extinguished, as the fire was silenced from the water. As darkness flooded our home, I struggled to keep my mouth shut, tears rolling down my cheek. A loud thump hit the floor of the kitchen, then the thumping of the nails of the feet clack on the floor. Eventually we saw it again, dragging the gutted corpse of the deer through the doorway, the blood of the deer being smeared across the floor. As it walked out of our home, it looked back into the darkness, and, perhaps my eyes played a trick on me, but I swore I made direct eye contact with it. I don’t know how long it was; it could have been seconds, minutes, staring into the slitted pupil of the beast, before it wandered back from which it came from. 

[tales-from-the-far]

Interlude. Folk Tale

The trees in the distance began to buckle, crashing down with thuds that were felt in your chest; the sounds of sleeping giants being killed off by whatever was ahead. The sounds of forest life scattering, avoiding the falling debris of mangled tree trunks. This force did not care if thy were prey or predator; you cannot fight a force of nature. Birds flying from their homes, with only scraps of their nests laid upon the forest floor. Its shadow blocks the sun above, like a sentient solar eclipse. From on top of the beast, seemingly miles high above the clouds, laid people. They had no care for what damage they caused beneath them, for where they were, it was only luscious parties; a nation of drunkards rode upon God. They lived like royalty, for if they acted like there was no tomorrow, perhaps there wouldn’t be one. Joy flooded this civilization upon their beast of burden, a dark contrast to what lay below them. They would never know if there were others on the earth, for those under them did not deserve to be with them. 

Many people had encountered this moving city, yet no one would believe them. Even with a giant wandering upon their same earth, no one would meet another person who saw the forever shambling festival.

[tales-from-the-far]

2. Killdeer

I woke up to find my camp had been tampered with. Nothing was stolen or damaged, but things had been moved. The ground was too dry for any footsteps to have imprinted around the area, but it must have been something quiet enough to not have woken me up. If it were other survivors, I’d assume something I owned would have been stolen — plus, I can’t remember the last time I saw a person. I nested under an overhang, perhaps it was just an animal that needed shelter as much as I needed it. I began packing everything I owned, stuffing it all into my cart, and beginning my daily ritual of wandering. 

Even with civilization in ruin, I rarely find any sign of nature in my travels. I fear that, one day, the wildlife here will realize we’re more scared of them, then they are of us.

I really don’t know how long I walk, I’ve kinda lost track of time months ago. I wish I could find a watch. I don’t how others deal with it, losing all sense of time, of others existing, that everything is gone. Often when I’m on the road I’ll talk to myself; it’s useless, takes up energy, alerts others I’m around, but I wish for the day I say something, and someone responds. 

Being caught up in my own head, I didn’t realize the sudden drop in elevation, blocked by the meter high grass surrounding me. I definitely did something to my ankle, because trying to stand just caused me to fall again. One of the wheels on the cart broke, something fixable, but I couldn’t stay here to do it. I grabbed my knife and cut some fabric off of my tent, then promptly wrapped it around my ankle.  I dragged my cart through the grass, my ankle throbbing, screaming at me to stop, but I had to move. I couldn’t tell if my mind finally started to break, but I swore that there was something out here with me. 

A small break from the grassy plains led to a small patch of forest; enough to give cover, but enough to see what was around me. My paranoia had worn off as I looked back from where I came, seeing no evidence that something had followed. Half day perhaps? I had to begin setting up camp to fix myself and my cart, otherwise, I really don’t know if I could keep going tomorrow. I removed the cloth bandage around my ankle; it had begun to turn purple. I had no idea what this meant medically; it could be just a bruise or something worse, but I tore another piece of my tent to wrap around my leg

I began to search for firewood, and possibly something to make a new wheel out of. My freshly mangled ankle wasn’t making this process any easier, hindering to the point that, once I regrouped with myself at my camp to settle down, I had firewood for maybe a couple of hours. The pain of walking was unbearable at this point though. Grabbing some branches, tearing more pieces from my tent, I made a shitty splint. It wasn’t perfect, but it’d have to do. My anxiety had returned during my search, constantly snapping my head in directions, looking for the origin of any sound I heard. I know I couldn’t stay here for multiple nights, but I was in no condition to keep moving. 

As the sun set, I could see storm clouds over the horizon; I had to begin hastily making some way to cover my valuables and fire from the rain. At this point, my once tent had become a tarp, draped over branches to make some sort of roof. 

I could barely sleep. I kept seeing… something. I couldn’t tell if I was going insane or I was in danger, either way, I was terrified to be asleep. Eventually, my exhaustion got to the better of me, and brought me to sleep.

As I woke, the first thing I saw was the fire light glowing upon the monster. It wasn’t a cat, a dog, maybe not even a mammal, it wasn’t a reptile either, but must have been larger than a bear. What I saw second, was its dagger-like fangs, protruding out of its mouth. The third, was its golden eye, staring right back into mine. I must have awoken from hearing it settle down next to my fire. Slowly, I pulled out some of my jerky, and tossed it about a foot away from its massive skull. It looked at what I threw, sniffed it, then slowly gulped the small piece down. The animal must have been desperate for food and shelter, I could see the outline of its ribs, slowly expanding and shrinking as it breathed. I threw two more pieces towards it, until eventually sticking my hand out to it, holding a couple more pieces of meat. 

I don’t even remember seeing it move, I only remember the feeling of its teeth in my arm. It waited for me. It had been waiting this whole time. I pulled out my knife and jammed it into its eyeball, feeling a warm spray of blood hit my face as it pulled away. I heard it yelping, galloping away into the night. I can’t believe I trusted this wild animal. Maybe I was desperate for some sort of connection. 

I put my knife in the rain to wash off the blood, before shortly, cutting another piece of the tent fabric to wrap up my mangled arm.

[tales-from-the-far]

Interlude. Lost Writings

Something, is on the roof

I can hear it walking above me

Boards, bending and bowing

Each step, creaks 

There is something, on the roof

The noises it makes

A deep, popping sound

The clacking of a beak?

Whatever is on the roof

Is hunting me

Looking for me

It wants me dead

I share my breaths with it

As it slowly climbs down

But now I realize

Something, is still on the roof

[tales-from-the-far]

1. Vulture

Any of the larger houses that you can find are usually completely empty, or have enough for an entire week's worth of supplies. It’s hard to say, but sometimes, I thank Bios for 1950s suburbia. Wandering these neighborhoods makes me feel uneasy, knowing how people used to live here. My father would always tell me how he used to live in a neighborhood like this; apparently it’s nothing like being in Stoneground, but the only difference I see is what lives around here. Stoneground is a… fine settlement. It’s better than wandering out in the wilds; and yet, here I am, doing that very thing. My father was a part of The Vultures, walking outside the walls to find supplies that couldn’t naturally be grown and harvested: copper, car parts, anything that could give tetanus. I looked up to him, but now I know how shitty of a job this is. It never gets boring, though.

Seeing some of these houses still standing impresses me, knowing how much of the structure is worn down by the elements. Some have remnants of Wildmen who occupied these places for a bit: opened cans, torn supplies, gun casings, the whole thing. Once I saw actual people. I think about them a lot. A family of humans, with a Neanderthal on their side as well. I wish they would have listened to my fellow Vulture; maybe then I wouldn’t have needed to see my first murder. “Sometimes you have to make a body to scavenge,” he said afterwards, moving the human child out of the Neanderthal’s arms to see if she had anything valuable. She had nothing.

You never really realize how much stuff people put in their kitchen until you scrounge around the place. In hindsight, I should have scouted the entire vicinity of the home before I even began to collect. Stuffing a duffle bag full of metal and food makes a lot of noise. I had to stop what I was doing, because I swore I heard the floorboards above me creak. There could be hundreds of things that would have made that sound: structural damage, wild cats or dogs, even another person. I put down my bag and wrapped my hands around my revolver, flicking it open to see how many shots I had.

Two.

The squeaking of the ceiling above continued. I could hear whatever was up there, and its steps were slowly, carefully going to where I assume the stairs connected to. “Vultures only hunt when necessary,” my father would say, “for an empty stomach can change anyone.” From my pocket I pulled out my small lantern and hurriedly tried to light it. Matches are a rare and special find, and their value is incredible for trade, and the first one I try snaps. I reach into my box with my fingers to grab another. None. I scramble on the floor looking for where that snapped shit went. The soft but meaningful footsteps became louder and louder. Vultures are trained not to feel fear, since they can always fly away. Sometimes, though, your primal instinct can break you. After finally grabbing what was left of the match, I struck it. The light of even this small flame felt so warm. Just then I noticed the footsteps had stopped. 

“Hello?” I said, shining my light up to the stairs.

The dull lantern light reflecting off of the eye of the theropod dinosaur is what caught my eye first. Seeing it hunched over, looking down upon me, took the warmth of the small away from me. 

“Hello?” it said in my voice.

It stood as tall as its cramped body could, opening its maw, letting out a guttural hiss as its quills stood up. I dropped my lantern, shattering on impact with the ground as I grabbed the duffle bag and went through the door as fast as I could. My pay was deducted that week for breaking that lantern, even though what I brought out valued the lantern by miles. I was, mostly, okay with it, because I still knew I had a heart beating in my chest. I was never the same after that. Nearly every day I pass by that neighborhood. When I ran from that house, I turned around briefly to see it, watching me through the kitchen window. When I turned back, perhaps I hallucinated, but I swore it barked out my name.