work its magic. Soon the scent of the fungus changes, and I feel my stomachs demanding I eat it now. The scent is, what is the word—savory— and it is all I can do to keep from eating it whole. Instead, I take a small bite and roll it around my tongue so I can enjoy the flavor before I swallow it.
I sit and wait, afraid that what I have eaten will turn on me, ripping my first stomach to shreds, making me bleed out my fife here in the rocks. Instead, my first stomach ceases its complaints, so I take another bite, then another, and before I know what is happening, I am snapping at the end of the stick on which I roasted the fungus. I want more, so I take another few pieces out of my pouch and roast them, and eat them until I can eat no more. I look around my rock shelter for more, but I see only a few very small growths in a hidden nook.
I decide to leave them to grow, but I also plan to look for more of this fungus in other rocky places over the next few moons. I want to keep myself well fed on them until I can get back down to the pool where I have my fingerling nets. And maybe, later, I can gather spores to take back with me.
I relax as I settle down by the pool, and I bask in the warmth of high summer. The sunlight is as dappled as my formerly bare hide once it threads its way through the leaves to the ground. Around me, in the brush, I hear the sounds of the small creatures that indicate the forest has grown used to my presence.
Light sparkles off the rippling water, and the small stream that feeds the pool chimes as it dances down the rockfall from above. This place is a good place to stay, and one in which I can live comfortably. It is far enough from Green Hollow that I should not be interrupted, yet it is near enough that I can return easily when I am ready.
I study my left hind leg as I stretch it out over the soft ground cover on the bank. It is still a bit stiff, but I no longer limp, and I can move easily when I need to.
As I watch the ripples in the stream, I wonder how things are going with the Nobodies who stayed closer to Green Hollow. How many, I wonder, have managed to find something that will prove to be of benefit to the Real People?
I check to make sure the year brand that I received to mark the start of my Test has not blurred too much with time. It would not do to be identified as one of the Nobodies from a later year. I wiggle my ears with pleasure as I see that the spirals and interlaced arcs are still visible through my hair. I am satisfied.
I review the skills I have learned during my Testing.
I know how to fish not just for fingerlings, but for the larger silverscales, which provide such succulent flesh. I know to seek out and harvest the barbleberries that infest the forest. I burble to myself when I think of the barbleberry seeds that Real People have thrown away, thinking they were useless. And, oh, that fungus! I wipe away the trail of drool that runs down my chin as I think about it. I have not yet figured out how to cultivate the fungus, but it is what I wish to contribute. If nothing else, I can lead harvesting groups to the mountains.
The line attached to the net draws taut. I reel it in and pull out the flashing, flipping silverscale. I dash its head on a rock to stun it, then slip it into a reed bag. I drop the net back into the pool, then secure the line with a rock. I hope to start my journey back in the next few days, and I want to smoke as much of the meat as I can. I already have several packets of fungus spores in my carry sack, to take back as my benefit.
Brush snaps behind me, and I hear grumbling from beyond the bush screen. I scramble to my feet. A screen of vines, woven into the barbleberry brambles, shakes as if a bull lorox is tearing at it with all four horns. Better safe hidden, I decide. I scramble up the rocks beside the stream and shelter behind the rocks and brush on the crest above the cascade. Once there, I tilt an eye into a small gap so I can see what is going on below.
My hearts thump in dissonant rhythm as I see a trio of People force themselves into the clearing. I recognize them; they are Nobodies from my Testing group. They are together! I shiver with anger. They risk their lives, as well as the fives of any others they approach. Like me. I itch and fret, wondering what they are up to now.
One of them is the bully who was born to the Chief Family. The bully seems not to care that it has company. I curse silently, adding the bully’s behavior to what I saw at the village when I was there. And I wonder; how does the Chief Family expect to get away with law-breaking, and how does the bully plan to prove itself worthy of adulthood benefit? Has it found a benefit yet?
“That cripple was here,” the bully says to its companions. “I can still smell it.”
“It’s not here now,” the smallest of the three says. “Let’s go, before any Real People see us together.”
“Forget the Real People. The cripple stole some of the food my Family set out for me, and I intend to take back what I can, even if I have to skin it. And I’ll take whatever else it has at the same time. Why should I work to find a benefit for those idiots back there if I can take it?”
The third Nobody, whom I recognize by its crooked nose as one of the bully’s childhood followers, says something and lays a hand on the bully’s shoulder. The bully turns and hits Crooked Nose. As I watch, the three of them fight among themselves. I shiver, glad I am not part of their group. And I am grateful again I was never a friend with any of them when we were still children.
The bully knocks down Crooked Nose, then he and Shorty beat it until it collapses. Then the bully looks up and stares at Shorty, both eyes forward. The bully attacks Shorty and drives it to the ground, too, all the while muttering that it cannot leave witnesses. I am beyond shock, my legs locked in my fear, because I know that I am next, as I watch it snatch a piece of deadwood and beat Shorty. The two on the ground finally stop moving as their life fluids trickle out onto the verge.
The bully looks up from the two bodies and moves toward the rockfall where I am hiding. I shift back, away from the clearing, huddling down to avoid being seen. I am a short distance away, just into the wooded area beyond, when the bully scrambles to the top and finds the sanctuary I just left.
“Stop!”
I am not a fool. I run, pushing through the brush, branches whipping my face. I do not care as long as I escape from the bully. Strange bully, thinking I would listen to it, after watching its behavior back at the rock pool.
I climb into the nearby mountains, finding my way through culverts and chimneys in the heights, slipping through angled tunnels as I attempt to get away from the bully. It follows, and it is very noisy. I wince as I hear the various small creatures who live in the low scrub as they scurry for shelter from this angry, loud monster.
I move into a canyon I have not yet seen, and travel along the banks of the small stream that flows there. I come to the end, a rock wall. The stream gurgles out of a fissure in the rock, with small plants—belly flowers—low around it. Their perfume fills the air. I bend over and scoop handfuls of water, still keeping one eye turned to watch behind me. I know the bully still follows, and I need to find a way to escape. This canyon is not the way, yet I am not sure how to get out of it.
I no longer think of the bully by any other designation than the Murderer. That is what it has done, and from all the teachings I learned from the village wise ones during my childhood, it has forfeited its right to becoming a Real Person.
Still, I wonder about history, as I think back on the low survival rate of other groups who have been Tested. I know that Testing those who enter puberty is to weed out those who are not worthy of surviving, but after what I have witnessed, I wonder if our past survivors haven’t been those who are most like the Murderer. What determines fitness to survive, after all?
I stretch after I drink my fill, aware of the aches in my joints and the sharp itch of the scratches on my arms and legs. Some of them are weeping yellow, and when they drip off, they leave a brown spatter in the dust.
The sun batters my eyes until I am not sure which way to turn. I move back and forth at the base of the rock wall, looking for an opening. There is none.
I do find a foothold, so I stand on my rear legs and reach up with forelegs and arms, searching for holds. I pull myself up the rock. Once my rear feet are above the canyon floor, I meld with the rock face, then look for a higher hold.
I find one; a tough spur to my left. Can I reach it? I lift my hand, and my three fingers encircling the stumpy gray stone. I tug on it; it
Sweat trickles off my eye turrets as I move upward, each eye swiveling around, as I look for something new to grab on to. Then I find I am on a ledge, where I rest, for fear of collapse.
I look around to find a route to the top from here. There is a trail; narrow, but workable. As I get ready to move on, I look around, and inhale sharply. The Murderer is just below me, climbing the cliff face after me. It is silent as it climbs, except for the deep grunts as it fights for breath. I draw back, surprised, and hope the Murderer
