Fieldborn

Mist twitched her ear; the outer edge caught on the cliff’s dark soil, and she quickly closed her eyes against the dust. There was nothing to see anyway; she had the cliff on one side and a cascade of greenery on the other. Her barely-hiding place for the last three days. With her eyes closed, she concentrated on her ears. Llama ears, ears that could hear a puma brush its paw against the grass a hundred strides away, listened to the soft sigh of wind across the rocks above her and the gentle patter of water in the tarn below. Listened in vain, for she was alone, the worst fate of all.

Instinct clamped her in place. Three days without her mother’s milk, three days sitting awkwardly with her injured foot in front of her, too painful to fold under her body. Three days of not moving, hardly breathing. Listening to the hunters tear at those they’d killed, the barks and growls as they fought over the choicest parts of the unlucky, the unwary. The only relief was rain on the second night and a few drops trickling down the cliff near enough for her to drink. That and knowing most of her herd had escaped. If they hadn’t, the hunters would be eating still.

The pain had raced up her leg like lightning before at the tiniest movement, but now her puffy, swollen ankle had stopped hurting if she kept it still. No way to tell if it was twisted or broken without standing. She wasn’t thirsty anymore either, and for a moment, she almost caught at that thought before it darted away like a fish frightened by a shadow. So, instead, she sat and listened to the wind.

Night came suddenly as if she’d blinked, and now her head was on the ground. That was wrong somehow, but she wasn’t sure why. Still, she pulled her head back up, and as she did, her head brushing against the friable soil loosened a small rock that dropped onto her ankle. Fire shot up her leg, and a hiss forced its way through her lips despite herself. For a heartbeat, her mind cleared, and she realised she was dying. Instinct demanded she stay still and wait, no matter than no herd would ever come back to a death site. And she found in her brief clarity she wanted to live but with no idea why. The dead were ReBorn; this life was just one of their lives, past and future, and yet. But the pain was ebbing, and her ability to choose with it. Time had run out.

Without a conscious decision, she lifted her foot and slammed it as hard as possible into the cliff. It was like being struck by lightning, her whole body jerking, her leg ablaze with a wave of pain that crashed and broke all through her body. Alert, thirsty, and agonised, she still pushed herself upright and limped out of her hiding place to stand shaking in the starlight. Around her, in the grey tones of night sight, she could see the scraps of fleece, the bits of bone and gristle that were all that was left of perhaps four animals. Somewhere amongst them was the Companion—the llama who’d saved her.

If she hadn’t been running, if she hadn’t put her foot in the hole and twisted it. If, if, if. But the herd was all around, and she was barely a season old, full of life. So she’d been chasing and hiding with the others in the dips and hollows at the base of the tor that rose above them. And it was at the foot of the cliff, barely three strides from the main herd, but cut off by a low rise, old Patli had found her matriarch’s shock-fleeced youngster on three legs, ankle already swelling. There was barely time for her mother’s advisor, protector, confident to begin to think of what to do, to worry if it was broken, to fetch the Herbalist before the hunters sprang their trap and poured down the rocks.

A breath, less, was as much notice as a herd needed to run. They were caught off guard but still wheeled like starlings and fled wrapped around their Heart, her mother. And Patli chose at that moment where her duty lay and pushed Mist behind the bush with a single thought. “Hide!” Then she was gone, one llama pulling the hunters away, her fate sealed, life given. Her fault, yet standing alone under the stars, all Mist could do, all she could do for any of them, was to offer her hope for a swift ReBirth and limp slowly down to the tarn, dragged by her raging thirst.

Cold, clear water cleared her head and blunted her need enough for her to start to think she’d have been better off slipping quietly away. She was heart-born, the last of countless generations of leaders. Strong, but she was hurt and she was weak. Worse, she was young and still reliant for most of her nourishment on her mother’s milk. She looked around her and took a bite of some of the greenery nearby, chewing quickly and swallowing before could taste it. Over the coming shorter days, her mother would have weaned her. Encouraged her to graze and taught her what was good and what to avoid. Reduced how much milk she gave her, but slowly, carefully. Because there were real risks in changing diet too young, too fast. Now, with her mother gone, there was no milk, no time, and Mist had to graze or starve. Hoping all the time that she was old enough to make the leap to solid food. If she wasn’t, her fate was sealed no matter what she ate.

The plants stayed down until the sun appeared on the horizon, at which point she was violently sick. All she could do was drink more water and nibble a bit of something else, not knowing if the plant was poisonous or her body had rejected it because she wasn’t ready. A little way from the water’s edge was a jumble of boulders shed by the tor with a gap between the three biggest that she could squeeze into, half expecting to find something already there. It was open to the sky, but her fleece was night black and blended with the shadows as she sat to wait out the day, thirsty still and with her foot throbbing with every heartbeat.

Each day after that was the same, blurred in her purgatory. She dragged herself out of her hiding place at sunset to try and slake her thirst, nibble on some plants, and convince herself that her foot was getting better. It wasn’t and now was so swollen that she could hardly see her toes. Diarrhoea had added to her misery, and now her back legs were streaked and crusted with brown, green stains she’d stopped trying to clean long since. She wasn’t dead, but dying in increments, slowly, painfully. Heart-born determination wasn’t enough to offset the crushing solitude. No llama could live by itself; they were as dependent on the herd as a bird on its wings or a bee on its hive. She was as alone as any OutCast, thrown from the herd to die, and why it was such a terrible fate. The lack of others was pressing on her bit by bit, like a weight on her back, getting a little heavier each day, a little harder to carry. As the sun rose above her little cave again, she settled down as best as she could, lying on her side to ease her aching belly, and wondered how much longer she could bear it.

It was such an odd dream. She was standing by the tarn, her ankle still swollen, still painful, and all around her a morning fog so thick she could barely make out the water-side plants at her feet and silence as complete as her ears had ever experienced. Ahead of her, the grey swirled and billowed as if a brief wind had caught it, but then it formed into a llama walking towards her, half real, half swirling tendrils; it was the Companion. Even in dreams, it seemed thoughts couldn’t reach very far, and they were barely a stride apart before she heard, “I didn’t save you so you could kill yourself slowly, heart-born”. 

Mist didn’t know what to do, and besides, the Companion was dead. Still, a part of her rejoiced to see anyone from her herd, another animal of any sort, even a dream one. So she wasn’t expecting the swift nip on her rump that had her hop back a step as the sharp pain briefly eclipsed her ankle. “Ow! Companion!” her thoughts arced out as her reaction played across her fleece. All the Companion did was fold her ears with, “The fact that you are here and we are talking tells me that you have shown as much sense as a rabbit. Now tell me everything.”  All Mist could do was arc her tail over her back into the sign of respect and reply, “Yes. Companion”. That at least got her a huff as with a swirl of mist, part of a leg coming into focus, a shoulder dissolving as if she was being made anew with each heartbeat, Patli folded her front legs under her and then sat back into a cush with a last shake of her fleece that was so ordinary it was painful. “I’m waiting,” she said.

At least in a dream, she didn’t get tired, though it was odd her foot hurt there. Still, she had little time to think about it as the Companion questioned her. “How much have you eaten? What does your cud look like? What do you mean you didn’t….?”  Mist kept her tail over her back and answered politely. At least, sitting, her tormentor couldn’t reach her rump again. Her ears were another matter. Finally, and it seemed like days later, even Patli ran out of questions and sat for a moment before letting out a long, huffed breath. “Don’t think I’m not glad to see you alive, heart-born, but you are in trouble and have done little to get yourself out of it. If only your mother had weaned you quicker…”  Her head came down, and she looked in Mists’ face, ears up, not threatening, just earnest. “First foot. Understand this. You’re hungry, not thirsty. I know it might not seem like it, but all your young body can tell you is to find your mother and drink. It knows nothing of grazing. So stop drinking and eat because that is your only choice. Eat from the moment the sun sets until you cannot eat anymore. Chew your cud. Eat again. Your body will fight you at the start, but you must not give in. Eat, chew, eat, but do not drink. Do this for five days.”  Her head went back up, and her fleece flickered uncertainly. “You are weak, heart-born, but you are alive, days after your mother left, so I do not think is hopeless. Five days is all I ask, and I know you have the will. Remember, eat all you can and do-not-drink. One path or another, Mist, eat and live or be ReBorn”. Mist didn’t have a chance to respond before the Companion dissolved with one last thought: “,.. and make sure you put your foot in the water. The cold will help.”. That thought was still in her head as she woke, warm in the last rays of sunset.

What could she do in the face of a command from the dead? She stopped drinking and fought her own body, using the only thing she had, her will. Thirst burned in her like the sun. The food she ate wracked her, and still, she did not give in. Her instincts screamed louder and louder that she was dying of thirst. She ignored them and ate instead. She ate until she felt she would burst, ate despite being sick, despite the ache in her gut. Then she pulled whatever was left back up her throat and chewed on it more, despite the foul taste and the undigested stalks making her gag. After two days, she could barely stand, barely see, the only bright star in her sky; the pain in her ankle was starting to ease after several long sessions in the cold water she otherwise avoided. 

And during the day, hiding, exhausted, she dreamed.