The Hunt

Tracking the slightest disturbance of a stalk of dew-shimmering grass. Detecting the sour scents of weakness, sickness, heart-pounding terror. Giving the imperceptible signal to leap, bite, kill. This is my new job as a Hunter, serving my Pack. To live as a wolf is to run free; to howl blissfully to a star-dazzled, raven-black sky. Essentially, to live as a wolf is to feel the thrill of the chase, the joy of the hunt, the overwhelming knowledge that you are serving a beautiful purpose to nourish and strengthen the Pack.

This is the feeling coursing through my bones as I become part of a hundred legs pounding to the beat of a single heart. The spirits of our ancestors hover above us, urging us faster with a breath of exhilaration. The wind whips through my fur, and my legs are a blur beneath me, the landscape rushing by.

The caribou herd ahead of us suddenly veers sharply. The Pack splits in two, both sides driving the herd until it begins to slow. The signal passes to fall back. This is a trick, of course; designed to put them at ease. The caribou slow to a walk and finally begin to graze, ears flicking and eyes dull.

We sink into the long grasses. I peer between the thick tangle of green, scanning the oblivious herd for a weak member. My gaze falls on an old female, flies buzzing ceaselessly around her graying face. She is sick; I can tell by her limping gait and streaming eyes.

I signal to the she-wolf closest to me, my eyes flitting to and from the sick female. She nods, her penetrating gaze trained closely on our quarry. A silent signal flickers through the Pack, and they agree: the sick female is the perfect target. A thrill of pleasure courses through me, satisfaction making me giddy.

We rush forward in a tide of pelts, overtaking our prey and bringing her down. I deliver the killing bite, feeling elated as the pack congratulates me for a job well done.