The forest hums with insect noise. The shrill chorus cuts into Arthur’s ears.
He checks his snares as he heads home. One by one—empty.
The last loop hangs open, rope frayed clean through.
“Hmmm.”
He crouches, inspecting the snare mechanism.
“Something’s been cleaning out my traps.”
Sarah’s voice drifts softly from the Void.
“No surprise. We spent all morning on the ridge.”
“I used to hate setting snares,” she adds. “My father made me learn. Said patience was the real weapon.”
Arthur smirks.
“He wasn’t wrong.”
He pulls the last length of rope loose and stuffs it into his pack.
---
The weeks slip by in a steady rhythm.
Hunt.
Fish.
Repair.
Repeat.
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Arthur spears glistening eels from a slow brown stream. They taste almost like Earth fish. He grows used to the faint, sweet tang beneath the meat.
The garden near his cabin thrives—thick green stalks, red-marbled fruit, vines curling around scrap fencing he built by hand.
Every morning, he checks the leaves, wipes dew from the plants, and sometimes mutters grand stories from his past as he works.
Sarah listens from the Void, smiling.
“How come you don’t talk to houseplants too?” she asks.
Arthur keeps working.
“Sometimes I like to talk.”
A faint smile.
“Unlike houseplants, these plants are great listeners.”
Every sound out here—every branch crack, every wingbeat—reminds him he’s still alive.
---
Mid-afternoon.
Arthur dozes high in the limbs of a bent tree, spear balanced across his knees. Sunlight filters through the canopy in broken ribbons.
A call echoes—
“Kreet karoo. Kreet karoo.”
His eyes snap open.
Below, a deer-like creature steps from the brush, its hide shimmering faint blue beneath the light. It moves slowly, cautiously, nostrils flaring.
Sarah whispers,
“Easy. Take your time.”
Arthur crouches, testing the branch beneath his feet.
It groans.
He lifts the spear, breath shallow.
Another step.
The creature lowers its head.
“Kreet karoo.”
Arthur shifts his weight—
Snap.
The branch gives way.
He falls.
The spear drops with him.
Impact—hard. The air is crushed from his lungs.
The point drives through the creature’s neck—the blunt end through Arthur’s chest.
He gasps as he slides further down the dull shaft buried in his torso. Blood bubbles at his lips.
He tries to move. Can’t. His own weight presses the shaft deeper.
Boots scrape against the creature’s hide—desperate, useless.
Finally, the spear tilts and falls, allowing him to slip free.
Arthur collapses beside the carcass, clutching his stomach.
Pain screams—then fades as the wound knits closed within seconds.
He stares up through the branches, chest rising.
“Yeah…” he breathes. “That wasn’t fun.”
He rolls onto his side, grips the spear, and yanks it from his chest.
“Still got him.”
The weapon clatters into the dirt.
Silence.
He waits, half-expecting Sarah to laugh.
“I’m not saying anything,” she says at last, amusement threading her voice.
“I think you’re a terrific hunter.”
Arthur grins despite himself.
“Oh yeah. Real graceful.”
Sarah laughs.
“It’s just—the way you went down. It reminded me of my father. He once tripped on a root, shot himself in the boot, and blamed the rifle for years.”
Arthur laughs too.
“That sounds like him.”
His voice softens.
“He was good to me, Sarah. Always made me feel like I belonged. Like I was part of your family.”
She smiles in the Void, hands folded in her lap.
“You were.”
Arthur hoists the carcass onto his shoulders and starts toward camp.
The laughter fades into quiet.
Above him, birds circle, calling to one another.
The forest settles back into its rhythm—
life, death, and just enough luck to keep him going.
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