The Hunter and the Tracks

A young hunter, armed with a machete, walked fiercely through the overgrowth, cutting aside prickly brambles and looping vines alike. The hunter kept a keen eye on the animal tracks that punctured the loamy jungle soil. The tracks made by the huge beast that had been terrorising the village since anyone could remember, stealing sheep and making a great big nuisance of itself. These tracks were newer, at least a foot and half wide, with three deep claw marks at the front and a large pad at the back. It had been raining for an hour or so, but the canopy kept it at bay and the tracks stayed fresh. The tracks that were to be kept in sight at all times. A howl tore through the jungle. This one was closer, probably less than a hundred feet northwest. The noise vibrated in the hunter’s spine as he steeled himself. He was yet to see the beast in its entirety, still only rumours of it circulated the village. Monstrous teeth, hideous eyes, the works.

Before the hunter had left, the village elder – a former hunter herself – had informed the young man he must, under all circumstances, remain within the boundary of the animal’s prints. To hunt, one must track. That was the key. The hunter may use any tool at their disposal, but they must stick to the tracks. All the hunters that had gone before our young hero had veered from the beast’s tracks, becoming lost for hours, days, even a lifetime. The young hunter’s best friend had been found upside down in a log during a recent expedition. A second howl rattled the jungle, followed by a yelp, the beast’s former deep resonance replaced with a higher pitch. A pitch that indicated a pain so great it could only have come from something as painful as stubbing its toe. Time to strike.

Follow the tracks and the beast will be slain.

The young man’s grip tightened on the machete. There had been murmurs and side-eyes when the hunter chose the weapon, but he preferred it to the spear or the bow and arrow. It was faster, agile. It suited him, and anyone who chose the spear was obviously overcompensating. The great beast’s tracks darted left then right as the hunter followed them deeper into the jungle. A stagnant pool of water exploded in a swarm of bugs as the hunter surged through it, wiping the insects from his face. After a few more seconds of breathlessness, the prints led past a pinkish rock and into a small clearing. There, in the centre, was the beast.

The hideous thing was lying prone on its side, yet it was still at least a foot taller than the young hunter. The animal had trapped itself, its front-right leg jammed under a fallen tree that had rolled onto its thigh. Its toes looked awfully stubbed. The beast spotted the hunter and snarled; yellowed fangs bared in a mixture of intimidation and self-preservation. The hunter’s posture tensed, his grip on the machete slick with sweat. He kept his eyes locked to the beast, feeling the animal’s tracks with his toes as he circled it, the beast occasionally yelping as it clawed at the fallen tree, forcing it off its leg inch by inch as the hunter continued to circle the beast until he realised —

He was back at the pinkish rock. The hunter cursed his luck as he broke eye contact.. He scanned the tracks surrounding the beast, realising they formed a loop under the cover of the jungle. The tracks in the clearing that should have led to the animal had been washed away by the rain. The young hunter cursed himself for not overcompensating with a spear. The beast was trapped and here he was, just watching it as it wriggled closer to freedom. What was he to do? To approach the beast was to veer from the tracks, like all unsuccessful hunters before him. He had followed the tracks religiously and they had led him here. He just needed to trust the process. Plus, as he looked at the beast, he realised just how huge its claws were. And each tooth was the size of the young hunter’s machete. Perhaps it was for the best that the tracks had been washed away, after all— The beast interrupted the hunter’s thoughts with an almighty roar as it tore itself free from the trunk and thundered into the distance. “Phew.

The young hunter crept back into the village under twilight. His friend was snoring, neck still covered in bark, as the hunter crawled into his tent.
“Young hunter.”
The hunter jumped at the voice outside of the tent.
“Uh, ahem. Me?”
“Yes, you, young hunter. Come outside, please.”
The young hunter gulped, shuffling out of the tent and coming face to face with the village elder in her ancient glory, wrapped in worn sheepskin leather. The hunter bowed his head in respect.
“I am sorry, O’ great leader,” said the hunter. “I have failed both you and the tribe.”
The elder smiled, her teeth pale in the moonlight. “Nonsense my child. You have—”
The elder was cut off by a giant roar and a distant crunching of bone.
“It seems as though the beast has gotten into the pen again, child.”
“I was close to slaying the beast, O’ great elder, but its tracks did not lead directly to it. I circled and circled the beast, but alas I was unable to get any closer with my damned machete.”
The village elder raised a weathered finger, shushing the young hunter.
“What is the village wisdom?” said the Elder.
“Follow the tracks and the beast will be slain,” replied the young hunter.
“Indeed. Now, go and rest my champion, for you have followed the tracks. The first to do so in centuries. We need not worry about the beast any longer.”
“But, uh. Well, I don’t wish to overstep my mark but, um, the beast isn’t actually dead, O’ wonderful elder. It’s eating the flock again, you said it yourself.” “Did you follow the tracks?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then, by the wisdom of the village, the beast is slain.”
The elder waved goodbye and retired to her tent. A frayed slither of sheepskin leather fell from her shoulder as she ducked under the canvas. The young hunter stood bemused for a moment, before another great roar frightened him back to bed too.