He was only able to do this once a year. Get away from it all, leave the office, leave the city, leave it all behind.
Once a year he was able to get back to the land of his childhood, the land of his forefathers, the land that still, miraculously, remained virtually untouched. He came and he payed tribute. He came and he camped and hiked and lived for awhile in the open air and the brush and rocks and the rare oases.
He came to this particular oasis each time. It was a ritual. Tradition. Never had he even begun to think of it as anything but a place of calm and reflection and meditation.
As he stood and gazed skyward, Scout, his faithful companion of many years, suddenly sat bolt upright. He was snarling, his fur on edge.
His instincts kicked in, and a dread rose in him. What was out there? Why would Scout react so? Then he saw them. The snarling, red-eyed beasts across the water. Fear threatened to take him over then, but suddenly it turned away from fear. Something inside him snapped, and fear turned to anger. More than anger, he was furious. Furious that these, beasts, would dare to disturb his sanctuary.
Pulling a knife from a scabbard at his side, he suddenly dropped into a defensive stance and growled, like some feral animal, a challenge to these outsiders. Scout, following suit, growled with him, and took a defensive stance of his own.
Seeing their prey defy them, the beasts on the opposite bank suddenly let loose cries of anger and hatred and hunger, and leapt across the waters as if they could fly.
At the same time, he bellowed a defiant cry of his own, and met the first of the beasts head on, knife plunging into his flank before they both went toppling down the side of the rock.
He fought for his very life and for the sacredness of this place, and Scout fought beside him, and never before had there been such a ferocious battle. |
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