Hunter's Captive

There. Movement. The slightest change to the drought-dry grasses in the valley below.

Holding his breath, Songaa tightened his hold on his bow and arrow. Tension gripped his spine.

Eagle, I beg you, guide me today. Keep me worthy of what I am, an Arrio hunter-brave.

Done with the necessary prayer to his spirit, Songaa started down the hill. Despite the urgency that had forced him here today, he maintained a slow pace. He split his attention between whatever he’d spotted and his footing -- silence was vital. His bare feet glided over the packed earth, dead vegetation, and rocks.

After covering half the distance between him and what he hoped would fall prey to his arrow, he stopped and shielded his eyes with his free hand. At first he saw only a few birds, none large enough to feed a small child. Then the movement that had caught his attention began again.

A deer, its lean gray body little more than a shadow, moved among the vegetation.. Songaa’s mouth dried, and sweat dampened his palms.

Eagle? Is this your doing? You understand the Arrio's need?

Even more on edge, Songaa started walking again. Instead of hunting in a group as usual, he was alone today. Other Arrio men had gone in different directions, each committed to bringing down what game they could.

If they could.

No matter how carefully he planned where to walk, his feet occasionally crunched twigs or leaves. Each time, his heart pounded and his breathing froze. The deer -- a yearling doe with ribs showing -- would stop eating and look around. Her ears were in constant motion, and she kept flicking her tail.

Eagle, please, be with me today.

Because of the intense heat, sweat clung to every inch of him. He kept wiping his palms on his naked flanks, switching his weapons from hand to hand as he did. Much as he hated limiting his view of the area, he bent over in an attempt to lessen his impact. Any moment he expected the doe to bolt

One step after another, back strained, eyes staring, he moved closer. Closer. Much as he longed to aim and let loose his arrow, he didn’t. Turned the way she was, the doe presented him with her narrow chest instead of her broader side, and there was shrubbery between them. Moving to the right, he held his bow and arrow low and in front near his loincloth. His forearms trembled a little, forcing him to suck in a calming breath. Unaccustomed as he was to being nervous while hunting, he nevertheless understood why. The stakes had never been this high.

Eagle, I turn the strength in my arms over to you.

Wishing he felt as confident as his prayer sounded, he crossed his left leg in front of his right so he’d continue to face the doe while positioning himself. That done, he started to slide his right leg outward. The side of his foot brushed something. Sharp pain shot through his smallest toe.

Knowing he’d been stung by a ground-dwelling wasp, he gritted his teeth and instinctively pulled his leg back.

The doe lifted her head even higher. Tail sticking straight up, she suddenly whirled and bounded away. Without conscious thought, Songaa aimed and released his arrow. At first it flew straight; then it canted to the left, just missing the doe. He reached behind him for another arrow, but even as he notched it, he knew it was too late.

* * * * *

Hours later Songaa sat under a dead bush’s scant shade. He’d already drunk all the water he’d told himself he would during this rest period, but his throat was still so dry. Cursing the relentless, moisture-sucking sun, he took another swallow. His belly growled, and his head ached. Studying the nearly empty bladder, he knew he’d soon have to turn around and return to his people. Otherwise he risked death.

After putting the bladder on the ground next to his bow and arrows, he rubbed his forehead. His headache came from disappointment in missing the doe. At least that’s what he’d been telling himself since it began. Now with weariness weighing him down, he faced the truth.

Eagle hadn’t heard his prayer. Either that, or Eagle didn’t consider him worthy.

“Which is it?” he muttered. “Have I done something to displease my spirit?”

Exhausted by the unanswerable questions, he nevertheless stared in the direction he’d been going. Some of the vegetation a short distance ahead was still green, hopefully because of a creek, pond, or underground spring. All he had to do was get his feet under him.

Movement high overhead distracted him. Shielding his eyes, he stared into the tired blue-gray sky.

An eagle. Coming closer. When the large bird was not quite overhead, it began flying in slow circles.

Is it you, my spirit? Or a mortal bird?

Not sure he wanted the answer, Songaa continued his scrutiny. The creature seemed oblivious to his presence and was focused on the green growth he’d been heading toward. Picking up his possessions and getting to his feet, he strained to make out what had caught the eagle’s attention.

Do you hear my prayers? Do you even care that I am here?

The bird of prey gave no indication it had heard him, forcing Songaa to conclude that this wasn’t a spirit bird. His spirit had indeed abandoned him today.

Trying not to think about his tired legs, he started walking. Even if the mortal eagle’s intended prey was a rabbit or fox, any meat was better than none.

Patient in the way of a man who knows that caution means life, he approached the unknown as he had the doe earlier. At length he found himself staring out and down at wind-dancing grasses that clung to the banks of what had once been a creek but was now little more than a trickle. Rocks and a few hearty bushes shared the space with the grass.

So did a woman.

Disbelief rolled through Songaa. No woman would be out here alone, and yet she was. Her long black hair floated over her shoulders, loose except for two thin braids along her temples held in place with red rope. The style identified her as a Cheveyo, the clan that had been living in this area the last time he’d been here.

He would have gone even more on the alert if the Cheveyo were aggressive, but they were craftsmen and traders skilled in creating canoes, drums, flutes, cooking and carrying baskets, and jewelry. Cheveyo men were artists, craftsmen, and experienced traders. In contrast, the females lived in the shadows.

Relegating what he knew of the clan to the back of his mind, he concentrated on the woman who was kneeling with her back to him. The red rope in her hair proclaimed her as unmarried but spoken for. From the look of her slender neck and straight shoulders, he took her to be young. His cock tightened, and he massaged himself through the soft hide loincloth. He’d fucked one of the Arrio lust-thralls last night, but the mating had been quick and obviously not long lasting. Either that or his manhood sensed something about the Cheveyo maiden his mind didn’t.

He could take her, capture her. Compel her to service him.

Almost as soon as he contemplated grabbing the foolish loner, he dismissed the impulse. He couldn’t devote energy or time to a prisoner, particularly a female without weapons he could use or a fresh kill he could take back to his clan. She’d be just one more mouth to feed.

He’d nearly convinced himself to leave when he realized the eagle had come closer and was circling directly over the woman. If she’d been dead or badly wounded, there’d be more than one eagle, as well as vultures and crows. This made no sense.

Or did it?

Looking up, the woman slowly and gracefully got to her feet. Instead of trying to hide from deadly talons and beak, she stretched her arms toward the great bird. She wore a simple sleeveless deerskin dress that slithered over her lean figure. With her body reaching skyward, much of her thighs were now revealed. Like the rest of her, her legs were long and spare with none of the heavy muscle he’d come to associate with women who spent their lives laboring.

What he could see of her breasts looked full and heavy for the rest of her, ripe and waiting for a man to fondle. Her hips called to him in the same way, rich and flaring, made for giving birth and housing a man’s cock. If she was his, he’d train her breasts, hips, thighs, and buttocks to worship him. Thoughts of the direction he could take the training brought his cock fully to life. It pulsed, insistent. He no longer tried to remind himself that her presence would rob the Arrio of much-needed food.

If he laid claim to her, he’d keep her chores light so her body didn’t bow under work’s weight. He’d order her to regularly clean herself and take care not to injure herself. He’d insist she remain at his side when he was in the hunting camp or Arrio village, ready to service him. And when he had to leave to hunt or fight, he wouldn’t worry she’d try to run away, because he’d have molded her into his compliant lust-thrall. As for what might happen to her once he’d grown weary of her -- what did it matter as long as he sold her for a good sum?

Distracted by possibilities for her use, he was slow to grasp what was taking place between the woman and the bird, but finally the breeze brought whispers of her voice to him. She was speaking to the bird, chanting or praying.

Suddenly angry, he clenched his fists. Eagle was his spirit helper. Eagle and other spirit creatures -- if this bird was a spirit after all -- had been created by the gods in part so they could give strength to generations of Arrio men. Men. Women had no need for spirit protection and guidance and no right to distract a spirit eagle from its Sun God-given responsibilities.

According to the legends passed through countless Arrio generations, Eagle had been the first life-form the great Sun God created once he’d fashioned the earth. Sun God had begun with Eagle because he wanted something that could exist above the earth. Because Eagle’s keen eyes saw things only the gods did, warriors who’d been blessed with eagles as their spirit helpers became great leaders.

And yet this bird was floating above the winsome young female, not him. It was now close enough that Songaa could see the bird’s harsh yellow eyes and open beak. Killing talons were tucked close to the dark body, the regal white head low so it looked as if it was making eye contact with the woman.

Woman. Not a lust-thrall.

Yet. Maybe.

The eagle -- or Eagle -- shifted its attention to Songaa. Then it dismissed him and returned to the unworthy creature who stood on her toes with her head back and arms stretching toward the predator. She continued chanting, and he heard awe in her voice.

With a movement so graceful it stole his breath, the predator bird dipped a long black wing toward her. It looked like the tips of its feathers brushed the top of her head. Gasping, the woman fell to her knees and curled in on herself, either in prayer or because she was trying to protect herself. A long, low cry erupted from the bird. The sound seemed to float over both the woman and himself. They shared its harsh power.

Then with another haunting cry, the bird soared upward. As it did, a feather drifted to the ground next to her.

Shaken in a way he didn’t believe possible, Songaa dropped to his own knees, clasped the eagle-feather necklace he’d worn since his manhood ceremony, and closed his eyes.

A sign, Eagle spirit. A sign.

But of what?

© Vonna Harper, August 2011
All Rights Reserved