December 21, 2003
Before he took the name Duskwater, he was a shy and dreamy stripling misunderstood by his sire. Here is how he found himself.
Part 1
The incessant roar of the river echoed in his ears and a faint flicker of moonlight reflecting off the rapids through the underbrush drew his eyes. A small smile played across his face as he turned his full attention to the water. Listening to the various splashes and gurgles was like hearing a song. The river was beautiful whether it was blue and sparkling under the daystar's light, dark and mysterious at night, or when it was brown with mud and roiling with debris after a storm. He sighed. His grip tightened on the shaft of his spear unconsciously as he imagined the fish he would catch.
A sharp pain in his left ear jerked his attention back to immediate surroundings. Clapping one had to his aching ear, he guiltily slid his eyes back to meet the scowling gaze of his sire. He could not meet that intense stare for long. His eyes drifted to the ground as he mumbled. "Sorry, Father."
Darkthorn let out an exasperated sigh. "You aren't a cub anymore, Mothcall, despite putting off your soul name search until you've seen five hands worth of season turnings. You should be able to pay attention long enough to hear my advice. But, instead, you have your head stuck in that river." The older elf threw his hands up in the air and turned away from his son. "I don't know what else I can do to prepare you for this trial!"
Mothcall looked up, blue eyes flashing with excitement. "Don't worry, Father. I heard your advice." Darkthorn shot a sharp glance at his errant offspring causing him to flush and quickly amend his statement. "Most of it anyway. I'll be fine. I'll be back before you know it. You'll see!"
Darkthorn frowned at him and seemed about to say something more when Mothcall's mother, Smoke, moved forward and placed her hand on her lifemate's shoulder. "I'm sure you will be, Son." She drifted toward her child to cup his face lovingly. "Your father and I wish you a safe journey and quick return."
Mothcall grinned hugely at his parents and turned to leave. As he slipped into the underbrush, he heard his father sigh again. It sounded disappointed.
Darkthorn paced around the clearing. Mothcall had only been gone a little while but he was worried already and anxious for the stripling's return. Smoke climbed a nearby tree and reclined on her stomach on a branch with one arm dangling idly. Blue eyes watched her lifemate's restless movement with vague amusement. Finally he stopped and turned to look up at her. "Why does that cub never listen to me?" he asked.
"Now, beloved," Smoke said. "You know he usually does listen to you. But he has heard you give him that same speech about safe solo hunting for the past two cycles of the moons. He could probably repeat it to you verbatim." She stretched and rolled onto her back. "You were ready for him to go on his soul name search long before he was."
Darkthorn grumbled. "He is two-eights and four turns of the season. It is past time for him to go."
"He's always done things in his own time. He won't be rushed."
"Yes. Thought that cub would never get a wolf-friend." He snorted. "Takes after you. The wolf blood is a little thin in him."
She smiled softly. "Yet he is your cub too."
Darkthorn shook his head, frowning. "I doubt looking almost exactly like me is going to confer some mystic ability to hunt on Mothcall."
With a laugh, Smoke flipped over the branch so that she was hanging by her hands and then dropped to the ground. "I meant he has your determination. And you temper if pushed to it. He'll do fine."
"But he could be a good hunter if he wanted," Darkthorn said looking wistful. "Have you noticed how quick his reflexes are? The other night I saw him catch a yellowfin. I can't remember when I've seen a spear move faster."
Smoke raised one white eyebrow. "Careful. Someone might figure out you are proud of your gentle fisher son." She wound her arms around Darkthorn's broad back and pressed her cheek against his spine. "Honestly, though, you said it yourself. He doesn't want to hunt. He hears the call of the river and that seductress doesn't give up her lovers easily."
"But-"
Smoke interrupted. "Besides, we can't all be hunters. Everyone has his or her place in the tribe. When game is scarce everybody will be grateful for the meat the fishers bring in."
His shoulders sagged and his head drooped. Shaggy brown hair hid Darkthorn's face. "I know that," he said. "But I'll never truly understand my son."
Part 2
Trudging through the undergrowth away from the holt, Mothcall racked his brain to come up with ways to make his sire proud of him. But, other than somehow magically becoming Hunt Leader, he didn't think it was possible.
"Only an average hunter," he muttered, kicking at a rock. "Barely able to track...merely passable at fighting unless I'm mad and then I catch it for losing my temper. What does he want from me?" Mothcall picked up the rock and slung it into the bushes.
Throwing his arms wide, he looked up through the tree branches at the little patches of night sky. He yelled.
"High Ones! What am I supposed to do?"
He stood there a moment with his chest heaving angrily and all he could hear was the rushing of his blood in his ears. Then, as he calmed, the sound was replaced by the normal night sounds of the forest and an entirely new rushing sound. Surprise crossed his angular features. When he had begun this journey he had headed away from the river but, now he was only a few wolf-lengths away from it. Apparently he had started to parallel its path, drawn subconsciously to it while his mind was on other things. He stomped through the bushes, impatiently shoving branches out of his way, until he stood numbly at the bank of the great Rushwater River.
There it was.
There was the reason his father didn't understand him. Anger started to burn within him, flushing his face red and tickling the back of his throat until it boiled out of him in a wordless scream of rage. He stooped to pick up rocks and sticks from around his feet. He hurled an endless stream of them into the water, yelling and cursing incoherently. Finally, when his throat was sore and his voice cracking, he stopped. Panting heavily, he picked up his fishing spear and cracked it in half over his knee. As his breathing returned to normal, he let the two pieces slip from his fingers into the churning river. Resolutely, he turned his back on the water and walked calmly away from it, letting the forest swallow him.