7. Beasts of the Seam's Wild

I can't really understand why anyone would choose to cart around a giant wheelbarrow, but as I ease it into the middle of the woods, the center of my comfort zone, I am sure that borrowing it from one of the farmers in town was the right move. The black bucket of the barrow is wide and deep. And the large wheel on the front, clearly engineered for the rough terrain of the forest, makes it pretty easy to move, although it will be slow going of course. I make sure that it is secured with a rock and then glance around my forest with a deep sigh.

It's around 10 and the sun is just beginning its slow rise to the center of the sky. The wide earthy ground is now covered only sparingly by trees as many died succumbing to the smoke and ash poisoning from District 12. It's a wonder that anything survived the attacks by the Capitol, but I guess they weren't exactly targeting animals. I try not to think about why the forest is still here, only that it is. It's enough for me that I still have this. This one thing that really matters to me. These trees to climb and rocks to lean against and catch my breath. The small springs of water that seemingly pop up from nowhere beneath brown leaves and pine needles. And the lake, my lake, in the deepest part of the forest. And prey. The water always attracts animals and that's one of the easiest ways to find and kill unsuspecting game.

For the moment, I have no interest in traps and instead I find a nice sturdy oak tree. In no time I am sitting on a branch that is up high enough so that I don't attract too much attention, yet low enough that I can climb down swiftly when I need to.

I pull out my arrow, placing it against my bow and wait. The forested silence still gives me just enough noise so that I am not trapped in my thoughts. The focus necessary for shooting gives me enough quiet so that I am only concerned with breathing and waiting. My breathing. The waiting. Breathe. Wait.

Breathe.

Wait.

It's been about thirty minutes when I notice something stepping out into the clearing, and immediately shoot the arrow directly into its eye. It's a rabbit. Brown, medium size, dead. I stare down at the rabbit for a while considering going to get it, when I note that it actually may be the perfect attraction for something else.

I lean back against the tree and wait some more. Breathe and wait. Wait and breathe. The sound of birds chirping high pitched warbles that break the silence let me know that something is coming. It's probably been about an hour since the first kill, but it feels like no time has passed. I sit up slowly, position my arrow again and wait, my eyes searching the wood, my fingers tense against the back of my bowstring. Finally, a large deer makes its way into the clearing. I don't know why, but instead of firing I just stare down at him, and watch.

He is a large brown buck whose coat glistens almost golden in the sunlight. The shiny brown coat, perfectly matched branching antlers, dry black nose, and the large black eyes, signify that this isn't just a deer. This is a beautiful, regal elk and I begin to feel a low shame coursing through me. My fingers freeze over the nook of my arrow. Maybe I shouldn't kill it.

My sentiments catch up to me as I see him step on and then slowly back away from the rabbit, looking alarmed, his front legs lifting slightly as he prepares to retreat. I panic and my arrow slips from its place on the bow. The deer looks up at me in shock and turns to begin its sprint. I quickly drop the arrow from my hand, at the same time pulling another from my sheath and placing it on the bow just long enough to pull back and let it fly. The loud moan escapes the deer's throat at the same time the frustrated grunt escapes mine. He falls to the ground. At the sound of his low wail, I curse myself that I left the knife that I usually bring along to put larger prey out of its misery.

I drop down the branches to collect my fallen arrow and make my way over to him wondering where the poorly aimed arrow hit him. I note that there was no need for the knife after all as the deer is dead. I myself am shocked when I see where the arrow pierced him: straight through the heart.

The two animals barely fill the bottom of the wide barrow, though the deer, of course, takes up a large amount of space. I glance up at the sun. It's already around 1. I don't have time for this, I think and leaving the dead animals, I walk deeper into the trees, loading my arrow and scanning around me. I am moving quickly now, impatient from the waiting in the tree. Trying to make up for almost letting that deer get away. At the sight of a squirrel, I begin and soon I am shooting animal after animal, with no particular rhythm; more rabbits, pheasants, quails, squirrels, a small badger. Determined to fill the barrow. Each time my arms are full I make my way back to the barrow waiting in the center of the forest. Hours pass and more and more animals and birds meet my arrows. At last, I am almost satisfied with the large pile of dead meat almost spilling over the barrow, when I notice that I don't have a single fox.

Fox meat is some of the choicest, leanest, tastiest meat. Although it must be soaked overnight just to be tender enough to eat, it would be a shame if I didn't have even one. I look up into the sky and see that the sun is now fairly overhead. It's probably around 4 now. I have time. Once again, I make my way into the woods this time walking diagonally from my barrow, careful not to make any sound with each step.

Gale taught me how to spot fox dens. They are always messy, sometimes beneath what may look like just piles of leaves and debris, always nearby water, and usually behind small mounds of gathered earth. Always just where they hope you won't notice them. But we noticed Gale and me. We learned to "think like the animals" as Gale would say. So, it takes only 30 minutes before I find one. I just lean against the rock across from the entrance and wait. Soon the fox emerges timidly, sniffing. Before she can do much more than that, my arrow is piercing her eye. I immediately grab her by the tail and run off. I don't wait to see if any cubs will emerge. I don't want to know.

I am about 50 feet from my barrow when I notice that there is something wrong; the unfamiliar scent, the birds screeching through the silence. The forest is stilled. This means that there is danger, that something is happening, but I can't imagine what. I feel silly with the fox wrapped behind my neck, but I place an arrow against my bow and move forward. It's not as if there is anything else to do. As I make my way towards the clearing with the barrow slowly, stepping very quickly but silent, I see the problem: standing there, chewing on my rabbit, maybe the very first one that I shot today, is a large, black bear.

My heart begins pounding in my ears. A bear! I haven't seen one in years. I know that they're out here but in general, I pay no mind to them. I guess after two Hunger Games and a war, bears have been the very last thing on my mind. Literally.

I quickly step behind a large tree, hoping that he hasn't seen me. I wait, my breathing steady and slow. No odd sounds. No movement. He didn't see me. I crouch down and glance around the tree at him. He has made a mess of my barrow. No, oddly he hasn't eaten much more than a few birds maybe, but he seems to have tossed out much of the meat to find the rabbits. Now the kills lay scattered around the barrow and the bear sits on his haunches chewing hungrily on one while the others await similar fates beneath his large belly. A bear with a preference for rabbit. If this situation wasn't so infuriating, it might be a little funny.

I find myself growing angry at the bear. The nerve of the giant, hulking creature, to steal my meat and then sit down calmly eating the rabbit. My rabbit! My first kill of the day. I sit down and quietly remove the sheath, then begin pulling out the arrows one by one. There are the wooden ones, a few silvers and then the blackened one that Minanaya gave me. The one that belonged to her husband. I don't want to use that one. Not now. Not for this bear. I choose one of the silver ones. It's just sharp enough that it can pierce him right through his eyes. I can't chance aiming anywhere else, with all that fur and fat. I load the arrow; think about the bear and all the rabbits he's eaten. He'll more than pay them back, I think menacingly and whip around the tree planning to aim for his eyes…Only, he's no longer in the clearing.

I glance around and see no sign of him. Now I panic and push quickly away from the tree, spin back to the clearing and land on my bottom and just miss the quick swipe of the bear's paw that surely would've torn me in half.

I roll forward on the ground and jump to my feet running towards the barrow, hearing the creature roaring behind me. Knocking the barrow to its side, I leap behind it and peer ahead. The bear is lumbering toward me on all fours. I lift up on my knees and let the arrow fly. But the bear is moving too fast, and I am too nervous, so the arrow only pierces his shoulder. He barely breaks his stride and is almost on me. I put one hand against the edge and quickly flip the barrow over so that I am beneath it, and possibly in confusion the animal barrels right into it, tumbling over me and the barrow until I am thrown onto the ground, and we are both strewn in a mixed heap of fur and dead animals.

If I can just reach my sheath, I think, before the bear, angrily grunting to my left, struggles himself upright. My hands grip the arrow just as he is leaping toward me. I pull myself smaller, so that I am out of the reach of his front claws and without thinking, I point the arrow straight up, plunging it so deep into his fur that my hands are almost inside of him. I shiver slightly as his body rumbles against me with his loud, pained cry. His body lying atop me, I quiver as blood from his heart pours down over my hands. With a low growl, the bear quiets his struggle, lets out his death moan and I feel the full weight of his body enshrouding me in heavy, total darkness.