September Writing Challenge

[annwfyn.livejournal.com]

The raccoon could see the sky.

This was not good. For the last three days he had been tracking the bird through the Hedge. At first the Hedge had been so thick that she could not fly. They she had been easy to follow. She'd left footprints in the mud, claw marks on the tree branches, and stray feathers caught in thorns and twigs. She'd had a good head start on him at first, but at the end of the second day he had actually caught sight of her a few times - a quick flash of colour through the trees.

The raccoon had grinned, showing sharp teeth. The bird might have had a head start, but that had gone now, and he knew that the sun was setting. He was designed to hunt at night. His eyes would be sharp, whereas hers would be dull. She would not be able to move easily in the dense brush, whereas he could jump from branch to branch. Maybe she would be stupid enough to try and find somewhere to shelter. Then he would have her. He would take her light and feathered body between his teeth and carry it back to the place where he would be given meat.

Maybe he had been something else once. He had faint memories on occasion of a world in which everything had seemed smaller, in which he had seemed to be bigger. His size, however, hadn't helped him. He had still become prey.

The second night he had not found the bird. She had somehow eluded him, although he had found marks of her passing again. On one thorny bush he had found blood along with her feathers and he knew that she was weakening. His sharp teeth had been shown again. She was a pretty bird, he knew, but not fast, not strong. Had she been one of the hawks, or perhaps the great Snowy Owl who were kept in the vaulted mews for the hunt, then he would have been worried. He was not a very good predator after all, just a determined one. But this one was not a hawk, or an owl. She wasn't even a swift flying songbird. She was just a noisy little parrot, and now she was bleeding. She would not be difficult to subdue when he did catch her.

On the third day, the Hedge began to grow lighter. This was not good news. The parrot would now be able to fly, and the raccoon had to take to the ground, running across open clearings at times. Up above him he could see patches of blue, and the signs of her passing grew lighter and lighter. Had it not been for the occasional scent of her blood, drifting back on the smoke scented breeze, he would have lost her altogether.

The creatures in this part of the Hedge were odd as well. He had seen a number of small structures erected between the trees, and bipedal things moving between them. A small group had passed quite close to him, bearing with them a cold wind and touch of frost. A little later that day he had come across four long thin piles of stone which looked as if they had once been walls. Who built in the Hedge?

Still he kept going. He had his prey. He was not going to risk returning without her.

He lost her trail for an hour or so, and ran around in circles, his heart beating increasingly rapidly. He could not lose her. He could not lose her. Finally he caught the salty, metallic perfume of her blood on the air. She was bleeding more heavily now, and she was close. Light headed with relief, the raccoon bounded after her.

The parrot was lying on the ground when he found her. She was smaller than he had remembered, and the green of her feathers had been half dyed red with her blood. She was still alive, however, for her entire torso was heaving with terror as he approached. She tried to stand up, tried to fly, but one of her wings hung uselessly beside her and she could only flap vainly. The raccoon did not bother tormenting her, but simply pounced, picking her up in his mouth and squeezing slightly when she struggled. She made an unhappy gasping sound and then went limp between his jaws.

The raccoon was satisfied. He had his prey. Now he just had to prepare himself for the long journey home. It would be a tough journey, and he was not looking forward to it.

He looked about him curiously. Where was he? Far from his Keeper, that was for sure.

He sniffed at the air. Far far from his Keeper and all his Keeper's kind, he suspected. He could smell smoke on the air, and the reek of burning grease. He stepped forward, moving towards the part of the Hedge where the trees seemed to be even more thinly spaced.

The bird struggled a little more in his jaw and he shook it briefly, until it went limp again.

He could smell people. He could smell sweat, and lipstick and chemical deodorant.

He had not smelled anything like that for a long time.

There were memories attached to this smell. He was sure. Sitting, crouched on the forest floor, they began to trickle back, in dribs and drabs.

The wretched parrot was stirring in his mouth. Again. Would the damn thing not just give up? This time he did not bite her, but dropped her to the floor. She almost immediately began flapping, managing to lift herself back on her feet. One wing still hung uselessly, but she began to limp along the ground, dragging it behind her.

The raccoon watched her with mild interest. He could catch her again if he wanted. It wouldn't be difficult. He could take her in his jaws, between his sharp white teeth, and carry her back into the Hedge, back to their Keeper. He would be given meat, and petted and his status as Predator, rather than Prey, would be assured. But it would be a long journey.

He lifted his head thoughtfully in the direction that the parrot was heading, and took a long sniff. She was moving towards the smoke, towards the smog, towards the people. They were close. Closer by far than the Keeper who had dispatched him to bring back the gaudy little bird.

The raccoon tilted his head to one side and thought for a moment.

He had come all this way.

He might as well finish the journey.

Teeth gleaming in the green tinged Hedge light he began to pad after the little parrot, and the gate that led out of the Hedge.