The Empty (2 page)

A molt? His father had called him a molt. The term referred to reyaqc who, in addition to drawing essence from humans, drew from animals as well, shedding some of their more human-like characteristics in favor of those of the animal. A molt. Yes. The fox. Dolnaraq vaguely remembered the hunt, the chase, the experience. Had he done it? Had he been successful? Had he truly drawn from the fox? He lifted his quivering arm to before his eyes. Where was the fur? Where was the sleek coat he’d envisioned?

He rolled his head in the direction of his father’s voice. “The fox?”

His father moved forward. His skin and hair were darker than Dolnaraq was accustomed to seeing on him. A band of gypsies had recently settled in the area and many of the pack had drawn essence from these dark strangers, causing their own tones to gradually darken as well. “Yes, the fox,” said his father. “It is dead.”

Dead! No. He’d taken too much. When first drawing from a creature one must proceed slowly, taking small amounts of essence over several days. If too much is taken and the animal perishes, then another must be found—another of quite similar essence. Otherwise the reyaqc may become ill, the two essences not complementing one another, but rather battling for primacy. Dolnaraq sought to find his voice. It came in a harsh whisper. “Dead. But, have I…?”

“Changed? Yes, boy, you’ve changed.” Dolnaraq’s father closed his eyes, drew a long breath. “Why?”

“To be strong, Father. To be a great hunter.” And then, after a pause. “To make you proud.”

“Make me proud! How could you imagine this would make me proud?”

Dolnaraq had no words, no response. His young mind could not fathom the reasoning behind his father’s question. Of course the elder reyaqc should be proud. Dolnaraq had shown courage. He’d taken risk in order to better himself. Why would a father not be proud?

Dolnaraq watched through unfamiliar eyes as his father drew closer yet. “Boy, have you never wondered why I have not become a molt, why so few of our pack have done so?”

Dolnaraq had assumed it was because his father and the others were too afraid to take such a bold step, but not feeling comfortable with this response, he remained silent.

“The reasons are many,” began his father when Dolnaraq failed to respond. “There are risks in the way of the molt.”

“Then, you were afraid,” said Dolnaraq before he could stop himself from doing so.

“No,” sighed his father. “Not afraid as you see it. The advantages of animal essence can be either great or minimal. Yes, you may acquire the hunting skills or the superior sense of hearing or smell. But you also may degrade your intellect, or you may become more rash and violent or more skittish and fearful. Your appearance will change making it more difficult for you to blend with humans.”

“Why would I want to blend with humans? They stink.”

Dolnaraq’s father offered a momentary grin. “Yes, their odor can be off-putting. But we need their essence. We need to hunt among them. Like it or not, we depend on the humans for our survival.”

“You’re a human lover!” screamed Dolnaraq. He had expected his father to praise him, to tell him how brave he had been, to say that he wished he had the same courage as his young son. But, all he had done was to belittle Dolnaraq, making him feel foolish. “You’re a human lover and a coward.” Dolnaraq attempted to rise from the cave floor, but found he was unable to lift himself from his bed of straw.

His father watched his pathetic struggle for a few moments, and then said. “No boy, I am neither. The humans are not so despicable as you might think. And I am neither enthralled by them nor a coward, as you claim. But neither am I your father. Not any longer. You may rest here until you’ve regained your strength, and then you must find dwelling of your own.”

This was the last conversation the two would have, though the young reyaqc did hear his father weeping in long, guttural sobs from beyond the cave entrance and long into the night.

* * * *

Dolnaraq found his feet. He was now able to hobble unsteadily about the cave. His head still ached and his stomach would not yet tolerate food, but at least he was able to move about. Though, why he’d want to, he didn’t know. His father had an old, palm-sized mirror he’d acquired from a human some years prior. Dolnaraq had taken this and viewed his image. He had changed, yes. But not as he had hoped. His nose was now dark, but still shaped as before with no other fox-like characteristic. His left ear was somewhat elongated and random shoots of red fur protruded from it. His left eye—though still milky white—had widened in comparison to his right. And, within his mouth, one long canine tooth had grown—again, on the left—and protruded stupidly from between his lips making it impossible for him to shut his mouth completely. This also caused some difficulty in speech. The fingers on his left hand were shortened and clumsy, and his left leg felt twitchy and uncontrollable. He had no sleek beautiful coat as he had imagined. His senses of smell and hearing had not been enhanced. All in all, he’d become a useless freak. As such, he’d determined never to exit this cave again. What possible use could there be for one such as he?

His father had ordered him to leave, but his mother would care for him, he was sure. And if not his own mother, if she fell sway to the same repulsion as his father, then one of the other females father kept, one of the childless ones would certainly show pity on this freak.

Pity. That was all he was worth—someone’s pity.

Dolnaraq rolled over in the hay weeping. It was not supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be stronger, more able. He was supposed to be admired not pitied. Maybe he should die. Maybe he should refuse all food, take no essence whether human or animal, and allow himself to waste away. It would be painful, yes, but not so long lasting. He was already weakened, in need of essence. The process of becoming a molt had drained his system. In many ways he was already depleted. Surly, it would be a simple thing to die. Then his father would truly weep. He would realize what his rejection had done and he would fall to his knees in anguish. Perhaps he’d even take his own life. This thought heartened Dolnaraq. He only wished he could be alive to witness it. Maybe he could hold his breath, pretend to be dead, make his father realize how wrong he’d been, then Dolnaraq could “awaken.” His father would be so thankful Dolnaraq was alive that he would hug him and care for him.

Or maybe he would curse him. Maybe he would rather that Dolnaraq did perish. Then he wouldn’t have the embarrassment of a freakish pup.

Nothing made sense. Nothing was right.

But then came the raid. And everything changed.

* * * *

The pack from the north attacked on the night of the smallest moon. The minimal light granted them cover as they swept in from three different points of attack. Reyaqc packs attack one another for various reasons—food stores, supplies, better positioning relative to humans and prey, sometimes to replenish their stock of females and youth, or other times simply out of pure savagery.

The commotion began well after sundown. Shouts and footfalls as reyaqc raced back and forth about the clearing, growls and shrieks, the sounds of struggle, the gasps of the dying. Dolnaraq knew the sound of a raid. There had been many in his short lifetime. This was part of the reyaqc life. He also knew that even a pup such as he was expected to defend the pack. If he was old enough to hunt, he was old enough to fight.

Dolnaraq closed his eyes. It would be an easy thing to simply lay here and allow one of the raiders to come by and kill him. There would be no prolonged starvation, no pleas from his mother to reconsider. What of the others? What of his mother? Already he could see the females gathering armfuls of food and supplies and carrying them further back into the depths of the cave. The females were doing their part. Dolnaraq should do his. Perhaps he would die in battle. Then his father would be forced to be proud. Yes. Die in battle. Die a hero. Maybe even a freak could be a hero.

It was not an easy task to rise from his bed as his muscles curled into tight balls of pain. But Dolnaraq used the cave wall for support and gradually attained an upright position. The first steps were particularly painful, but with each his muscles seemed to loosen. He hobbled some, his left leg remaining numb and twitchy, but he found he could move about in a slow uneven gait.

The scene beyond the cave was a mass of confusion. The northern pack had seemingly swept in from all sides, catching Dolnaraq’s clan off guard. Already, bodies littered the cold snowy ground, many slashed open with entrails leaving streaks of red upon the pristine white. To his left a young female was thrown harshly against an ancient oak. Her head made a sharp cracking sound with each of three successive strikes. When she finally fell limp, the northern reyaqc bent to clutch her right ankle and then dragged her into the darkness. Directly ahead, two northern reyaqc—both molts—descended upon Mynig, the pack chieftain. These reyaqc had the sharp claws of mountain cats. Mynig did not cry out, nor attempt to flee. Rather, he bit and clawed until finally succumbing in a heap on the bloodied snow.

Most of the northern reyaqc were molts. But not molts such as Dolnaraq had become. These were fierce creatures, many with full long canines and razor-sharp claws. How had they done this? Why had they become amazing while Dolnaraq had become foolish?

He knew the answer to this.

In these more savage packs, those who did not achieve some level of strength or usefulness were simply slain and then consumed by the pack. In this way, at least, they contributed something to the well-being of the many. If Dolnaraq were found by these, he would be murdered. He’d be devoured. Dolnaraq now realized he didn’t want to die, that whatever he had become, he still had reason to go on. But could he? Could he go on? The pack was under siege and Dolnaraq was still weak and uncoordinated from his ordeal.

Two reyaqc fell before Dolnaraq, scraping and clawing, causing the young pup to scurry to his right. All about him were scenes of carnage—limbs severed, throats bitten and ripped. Dolnaraq’s pack was not large, only comprising some forty members. Dolnaraq knew each corpse by name. He had spent hours with each dying soul. An older reyaqc, Narmon, called out from where he lay on the icy ground. There was a gash in his side, and he was trying to force his innards back to within his body. “Dolnaraq!” he cried in a raspy croak. “Help me to put myself back together! Help me put these in!”

Dolnaraq stood horrified. What was he to do? Narmon was obviously beyond repair. How could he possibly expect young Dolnaraq to fix him?

“Dolnaraq, please!” croaked Narmon one last time. But Dolnaraq fled with a quick hobble. Still, he seemed unable to outdistance the carnage. Everywhere, he saw those he’d known for the entirety of his existence falling to this superior force. There was nothing he could do, no direction he could turn.

“Amazing.”

The voice came from behind Dolnaraq. He spun around. Tresset stood before two males who were breathing their final breaths.

“Amazing,” repeated Tresset, a broad grin on his pale round face, a look of shear awe in his milky eyes. “Can you see the strategy, Dolnaraq? Can you see how they swept in from the east, forcing our pack to retreat west? Then waves two and three, from the west and north, encircled us, cornered us against the caves. We were pathetic, with no plan, no countermeasures. But, these! These were magnificent. Our entire pack will have fallen within thirty minutes. It’s amazing.”

The youth was enthralled, hypnotized by the battle. But he was also correct in his assessment. Dolnaraq could see that now. His own pack was doomed. Even now, they were down to less than half the number of the invaders. The only hope was retreat. It was not brave to die for dying’s sake, for this would only bring a greater victory to one’s opponent. No. It was time to flee. Dolnaraq didn’t know if this was logic speaking, or shear cowardice. But he knew it was right, that it was necessary.

“Tresset,” he called. “Tresset, come. We must flee. Our pack has fallen. Come. Now.”

“Do you see the discipline?” asked his friend. “Do you see it? Even those few who have fallen do so with grace, with superiority.”

“Tresset, please. We need to go.”

It was then that a large bear-like reyaqc fell upon Tresset. The youth went down with a panicked yelp, but no serious injury had yet been inflicted. Dolnaraq had no time to think, which was well, because had he had that opportunity he surely wouldn’t have leapt upon the brute, sinking his one long canine into the thing’s neck, clamping it there, pressing it deeper, deeper. Dolnaraq felt the things talons as it dug into his side. He released his hold, but the brute of a molt did no such thing. Now Dolnaraq was on the ground. Those claws raking at him. His own blood splayed across his foe’s gnarled face.

Another joined the fray. At first Dolnaraq thought it might be Tresset, but the other youth was still on the ground, having scooted to the side after Dolnaraq had fallen upon the molt. Whoever it was, he’d somehow pressed himself between Dolnaraq and the other, and was now grappling with the larger reyaqc. Despite the molt’s injury to the neck, it was still a lopsided battle, and the outcome predetermined. The molt would be the victor.

Dolnaraq moved to renew his attack but the other shouted at him. “Dolnaraq! No! Flee into the forest! Flee!”

It was his father’s voice. And it was soon forever silenced.

CHAPTER THREE

1897 – 1909

The two young reyaqc had fled their native pack the night of the raid. Dolnaraq had witnessed his father’s murder. He stood horrified, nearly paralyzed with fear and fury. Tresset tugged at his younger companion, forced him to leave his dying father behind. Both youth had sustained minor injuries, and the pack they had known for the entirety of their short lives was no more. The surviving females would be carried off to the northern pack for sport and breeding. The adult males would all be slain and eaten, as would any youth old enough to hold revenge in his heart. Tresset had no desire to be consumed that eve.