Oogh and the beast, Spushkin [good books to read for young adults txt] 📗

The afternoon sun was hot at its nadir, the small rocky canyon still feasting on its warmth, with dust settling down after the passage of wild boars. The air was humid and Oogh-Rin's pores brimmed with sweat. He’d been after that sabre-tooth since the break of dawn. The silence was now overpowering, and only the drum-beat of his heart was there to counteract it. Now, he was getting close. Patience was needed.

Around his neck he wore the hunter's lucky charm, given to him by his mother – the family legacy – his father's father's beast teeth necklace. She said his father had always brought meat home whenever he wore it. There were many kinds of teeth on it: wolf, bear, but none from the sabre-tooth.

Minutes passed in uneasy silence, occasionally broken by the sound of pebbles rushing down the canyon side. Could it be the cat Oogh was looking for? He pulled his feet under him, squatting. The palm of his left hand gave him firm grip on the jagged side of a giant rock, while his right hand clutched tightly at the hilt of his flint-tipped spear. The cat was bound to pass right beneath him since this was the only path through the canyon. He leaned over a bit. The wind had died down an hour ago, only a sudden gust could allow the sabre-tooth to discover the ambush.

He remembered the looks he received while leaving the village, having taken the oath not to return until the beast was dead, sealed with his own blood, in front of the totem of the All-gods, where he cut a straight line across his left shoulder with a sharp piece of flint. He remembered how his mother had shed tears, how Austa-Ahna had looked at him with fear. Most of all, he remembered the shaman's look, oozing contempt. Oogh’s hand gripped the stone edge with newfound vigour.

His mother never talked about it, yet he picked up bits and pieces of the story from nosy neighbours and old men drunk on fermented honey. The shaman and Oogh's father never really saw eye to eye, ever since their childhood days. They fought for the right to lie with Oogh's mother at the age of 14, and the boy who would be shaman ended up with his right leg badly twisted, never recovering, forever shunting his way among the villagers, only but half a man. Learning from the old shaman, he quickly came into power, never forgetting, never forgiving. Some even say that on the night of Oogh's father's death, he was the one who...

Then, Oogh heard it! The soft thud of mighty paws, the tumultuous roar encaged in the heaving chest – it was the cat!

He lifted the spear higher. First, he saw the head of the great beast, ears pricked and nose to the ground, whiskers brushing against occasional rocks. Then the neck came, muscular, strong, bent under the pressure of today’s hunt. The back followed. Oogh waited, mesmerized by the mere sight of the eleven-foot long beast. The haunches next – the haunches! Oogh's spear struck at the beast before his mind realized he had thrown it, splitting the sides of the great cat's back, breaking its spine.

The cat fell awkwardly into the stony dust, breathed a few quick, groaning breaths, its body shivering. Oogh started running towards the beast to let the first blood flow for the All-gods. He did it! The shaman said he couldn't, no-one could, he said only magic could protect the village from the sabre-tooth, yet Oogh...

''Oogh! Oogh-Rin!'', his mother shouted, standing at the cave mouth, ''Come! Eat now!''

''Hwuh!'' agreed Oogh. He picked up his old pine branch make-believe spear in his left hand, collected the ferret fur from the dust with his right, and started for the cave. The little stones of his hand-made necklace clicked against each other, as he glanced left and right at the gathering dusk. It was getting dark already, and Oogh was very much afraid of the dark, as most boys of his age tend to be.

Text: The cover picture is a part of 'Smilodon,' a 1905 painting by Charles R. Knight.
Publication Date: 03-23-2011

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