“Is that clear, Youngling?” he says.

“Clear as…”—Mud? Sandy water? Tug blood?—“…rain,” I say.

Chapter Seven

The good news: my wrist is fixed up in time for me to watch the Hunt. The bad news: it’s broken in two places and’ll take at least a full moon and a half to heal.

There are at least a dozen Hunts taking place today, all around fire country, at the usual and rare spots, where the wildgrass and scrubgrass still flourish, growing in ankle-high clumps. The tug got no choice but to eat right where we expect them to. But that don’t mean taking them down’ll be easy.

Although Heaters go out on a daily basis to scrounge up ’zard and pricklers and other small animals and plants good for eating, the Hunt is the most important event for our survival. It’s where the Hunters will—assuming everything goes well—bring home thousands of pounds of tug meat for the village, which’ll get us through the next few full moons.

I’m walking out to one of the Hunts—the one Circ’ll be participating in—with a group of other Younglings. Well, not walking with them exactly, more like off to the side, but we’re all headed in the same direction. My arm’s wrapped up as tight as a pink new-faced baby, and strapped to my shoulder, too, using a tugskin sling. As usual, it’s hot, exceptionally so for this time of year, and I can feel beads of sweat rolling down my back already.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Hawk break off from a group of his friends and saunter toward me, but I keep my eyes forward, pretending not to notice. When he gets close, he says, “What happened to you, Scrawny? Did the wind blow a little too hard and snap your arm in half?”

My heart starts beating faster, but I’m not in the mood to back down, so I ask him a question of my own. “How come you’re not in the Hunt today? Still haven’t managed to pass the skills test?” I muster as much confidence in my voice as I can, but it still sounds high-pitched and weak to my ears.

To my surprise, Hawk laughs. “Haven’t you heard? I just passed yesterday.”

My eyes flash to his. He could be lying, but if he is, it doesn’t show on his face. “But then why…?”

“Why ain’t I with the other Hunters? Don’t you know nothing? First Hunt I get to come in all special-like. They’ve got me set up on the bluffs with the rest of the spectators.”

He’s right. Memories of Circ’s first Hunt flash through my mind: the other Hunters set up en masse in one area, Circ away from the main body; Circ running up, so much smaller’n them, like a mini-Hunter, the sharp end of his spear showering sparks of reflected light around him; his first kill, a decent-sized tug with long black horns. Typically Younglings don’t kill a tug their first time out. But Circ did.

“Took you long enough,” I say. Then, staring straight ahead, I think to add, “Don’t get yourself killed.”

“I’m not the one you should be worried about,” Hawk says, but ’fore I have a chance to reply, he veers away, back to his friends, who laugh and pound their fists into his.

What’s that s’posed to mean? I’m left wondering. I worry ’bout any of the Hunters getting hurt, but the only one I’m ever really focused on is…

Circ.

“Hey, Sie,” Lara says, coming up behind me.

“Sorry, Lara, I’m really not in the mood to talk ’bout—”

“I heard about your wrist. I’m really sorry it happened.”

“Uh, thanks. It hurts like a Killer’s jaws are sunk in it, but I’ll survive. I’m feeling alright after MedMa’s herbs.”

“It’ll get well before the Call though, right?” she asks.

“Yeah, MedMa said it’ll only take a little over a full moon to heal. But why do you car—”

“Good,” she says. “See you later.” And just like that, she’s gone too, leaving me scratching my head with my good hand. I want to chase after her, demand some answers to all her cryptic words, but I’m too scared about what she might say. That she’s involved with the Wilds, the Icers, or someone even worse. I kick a rock in the direction she left, half hoping it’ll hit her.

~~~

The tugs are restless.

They may not be the smartest animals, but they ain’t stupid either. As soon as the Hunters come into view they start stomping their cloven feet, bucking their monstrous heads, and milling about like a bunch of Younglings at a Learning social event. They know something’s up.

The massive beasts look like hair-covered boulders out on the field, their heads as big and round and wide as the rest of their bodies.

The tugs ain’t exactly considered sacred animals to my people, but they’re not far from it. I mean, without them we’d have died off long ago. Although I don’t particularly like the idea of the Hunters killing them, I know it’s necessary for our survival. After all, almost everything we have comes from them. At over two thousand pounds each, a single tug can feed an entire family for a year, from boiled liver to spiced jerky to stacks and stack of ribs and rump steaks. It’s always a welcome change from the chewiness of ’zard stew or bitterness of prickler salad.

Tug hides are used by the tanners to make leather for our moccasins, dresses for the women, britches for the men (and for Lara, I s’pose), hats, pouches, bedding, and most importantly, tent covers. There’re probably ’bout a hundred other uses for tugskin I can’t remember.

But it’s not just the skin we use. We use everything, which I’d learned by the time I was six. Their sinew, bones and horns are used by the weapon makers to craft bows, pointers, spears, and knives, as well as to make glue and tools. From tug hair we get ropes and stuffing for our pillows. Tails are used for paint brushes—like the one Greynote Giza uses—and decorations. We even use tug blaze. This is pretty raunch, but it works wonders on getting a cook fire started, although I can’t say it does much for the flavor of whatever you’re cooking.

So, yeah, the Hunt is important, ’specially the last one, ’cause if it don’t go well, then we starve.

From high atop the bluffs, I can see for miles and miles, the whole desert spread out ’fore me, like I’m sitting in the sky. I flop down well away from the rest of the Younglings—even Lara keeps her distance today.

A few of the tugs look up our way, toward the spectators, like they know something’s up, but they’ll have plenty on their minds soon enough to worry about us.

I watch as one of the monstrous tugs circles t’others, as if hurding them, trying to keep them from scattering, where they’ll be more vulnerable. Their strength is in their size and numbers. This particular tug must be a leader. With a thick layer of brown shag, a body the size of a boulder and six-inch-long horns that’ll impale you quicker’n a mosquito sucks your blood, the male tug can be deadly to even the most experienced Hunter. And this male tug is bigger’n most, a real biggin, with brains to boot.

Stay away from him, Circ, I think. Stay away from that biggin.

There are a few baby tug mashed together between a bunch of females who take their motherly duties very seriously, but still, there should be more tug calves. As we’ve been taught in Learning: the tug numbers are on the decline, which poses a major problem for us and for them.

The Hunters hold their position ’bout half a mile away, maybe a bit less. I see Hawk strapping on his final pieces of gear: thick leather shin and arm blockers, a wicked-sharp curving knife, a sachet of pointers and a tightly strung bow. Lastly, he picks up his spear. He’s ready. Like Circ, lack of confidence is foreign to Hawk. Either that or he hides it well. Despite being on the verge of charging into the middle of a bloody battle, the likes of which he ain’t never seen before, he manages to crack a joke to one of his friends.