Gima The Beginning : Gima: Mascot by barkingdog |
Dear Reader: 'Gima' is Fantasy-Adventure. The author notes ' GLOSSARY is included by request. It's not a required part of the reading. It's merely to assist a new audience. Have fun reading. :) barking dogPreviously: Hunter and Asmel are humans who raised Gima, a vertant. Gima met Trell, a vertant, in secret and later had Zee and Blathen who is a vermel. They ran from the Papas because Asmel would kill anything vermel. The men pursued Gima, wanting Zee who appears to be human. Gima persuaded Trell to rescue Hunter from a forest fire. She left to find healing herbs. Hunter and Trell went back in the forest to find Asmel who's been mauled by a black bear. Blathen is developing at a much faster rate than Zee and has Prime One skills-spewing acid is the first to surface. He was a partner in killing the black bear that Hunter eventually shot to save Trell's life. Chapter 27 Hunter and Trell found Asmel injured by a black bear, after killing the bear, they took Asmel back to camp for treatment. Far away in the northwestern forest, Gima has been clinging to life. In the safety of a gigantic oak tree for nearly a week, she’s been treating herself for snake bite and surviving on fruits and roots that she’s stuffed into her medicinal pouch. Chapter 28 Trell’s gift, the deer hide boots, had miraculously protected her leg from the three foot rattler’s initial lunge. She killed it, but when she attempted to sever the reflexively snapping head, its venomous fangs had accidentally pierced her hand. She thought nothing of it, because she’d been bitten many times by baby rattlers when she and Asmel would hunt. Little ones were always turning up in the piles of firewood stored near the Papas' cabin. The bites had less and less effect on her until, finally, they were nothing more than annoying scratches to be treated for infection. That's all she thought this mishap was—a scratch. But this larger snake of a different family in a different area had proven her wrong. Dizzy and unable to focus, she couldn't track her way back to Apple Valley. So, she decided to stay put and attempt to treat the poisonous bite as best she could using the paw-paw tree’s fruit to digest the venom’s protein. The oak gave her shelter, and the paw-paw patch grew in its shade. ****** It's only the second day back at the camp and Asmel frowns, disliking his new status. Accustomed to always creating the loop, making the decisions, he's lost his clout. Here in Trell's valley, he's not the strongest or the apparent leader. He feels threatened and uneasy not being in control. Trell isn’t too sure about Gima’s Papa Azzy. All he does is talk and ask questions: Who? What? Where? When? Why? Is this a human trait? Trell can’t take the interrogation any longer. Without a word to anyone, he sprints away, leaving Asmel’s incessant questions and medical care to Hunter. ”Where’s he going, now?” Asmel turns to watch Trell disappear into the east forest clearing. Hunter shakes his head and continues dressing Asmel’s shoulder. He moves on to treat the head wound with aloe-echinacea ointment, wrapping it with Spanish moss which looks rather like a ridiculous turban. Asmel repeats. "So, where's he going?" “Out for lunch?” “Cute, Hunter.” Hunter smiles and tries to look 'cute', but with his burns still painful he winces. "Oww." Asmel kicks Hunter’s uninjured foot and laughs, “We’re a bloody mess. We are.” ****** Trell enjoys his five mile run in the comparatively quiet forest. When he nears the black bear’s carcass, he hears rustling in the brush and interrupts a bobcat who gives him a menacing stare as it slowly drags off its fresh kill— the smaller of the two cubs. Trell nods, grunts and leaves the cat to its work while he goes back to his. Half-way through the skinning, a narrow beige muzzle with a wet black nose pokes out from the blackberry bushes. It's followed by brown eyes below a wide, fury black forehead and large, rounded upright black ears. It whimpers, looking for its mother then retreats behind the brambles to watch the harvesting. Trell reaches for some berries to quench his hunger and withdraws quickly when a long pink tongue darts out and licks his hand's familiar scent. By now Trell smells just like Mama. The cub steps forward yowling a mournful mumble. Trell draws his knife and is ready to strike when the cub makes two familiar squeals: a lonely cry Trell knows, missing Gima, and a sad one he remembers. These sounds are his sounds, too. Cautiously, the thirty-five pound orphan rubs against Trell's boots and plops down across his feet. Trell kicks him aside. “Go away.” Trell tries to continue his work but the pesky cub keeps coming back, getting in the way; it seems, every ten seconds. Trell’s patience wears thin and he, finally, gives the pest a great shove and growls, “Sit.” That’s all it takes. The cub obeys and one could even say that it smiles. Trell folds the pelt and, slinging a rear haunch over his shoulder, turns toward camp. I’ll make it before nightfall. They’ll be hungry Trell runs through the charred, lifeless forest at a light trot and into the colors of the meadow. Hunter sees him coming and knows the game— ‘monster-attack.’ Hunter sits back on the cougar pelt to watch and enjoy as Trell rushes in, this time with a bearskin over his head and twirls as before in a dance. Asmel is horrified and 'screams like a stuck pig,' according to a later telling of the story by Hunter and Trell. “Damn you, Hunter, you knew all along.” Asmel throws apple cores, his cup, clumps of grass, anything that he can reach, at Hunter who's bent over with laughter and hobble-skipping away toward Trell. “Help, help,” Hunter taunts playfully, “there’s a moss-headed, mad man throwing dangerous nuts and apple cores.” Hunter teases, mimicking bursts of Asmel's high pitched scream, while he and Trell run around laughing and backslapping so hard that they both fall backwards into the stream and begin splashing each other like two frivolous youngsters. “Hunter, what are you doing? Are you crazy? You’ve finally lost it all together ... ass-hole.” Asmel feels left out as he watches the two interact with such freedom and trust. They seem to have the same bond that he's always had with Hunter. He feels their brotherly bond being threatened and doesn't understand where their long friendship stands with Trell, a vertant, in the picture. Then Asmel sees it, lopping forward merrily across the huge meadow sending butterflies lifting from the clover and coneflowers. It gallops sideways, and then, hearing laughter, pauses and looks in that direction. Like a missile spotting its target, it runs lickety-split past Asmel and heads directly toward the stream, whining at something it sees. “Bear,” yells Asmel, incapacitated under the hickory tree, his leg splinted and shoulder strapped. Hunter jumps from the water. “Where?” If bear cubs can fly, this one tries. It seems to glide directly at Trell, and with a playful squeal it lands with a resounding splash. “Get the gun, Hunter. Shoot it!” Asmel’s face is red as he attempts to pull himself toward the rifle. "It's attacking Telly." Trell and the bear roll together, black then white, over and over in the water. The sounds that they make answer each other. Asmel stops where he is, hits the heel of his hand to his forehead, and listens. “Now, you’re gonna tell me he talks 'bear'?” “Shit ... if I know!” Hunter turns his hands palm up and squats down beside his friend to watch what seems impossible. Trell and the black bear cub appear to be catching and eating fish. Eventually, Trell exits the water and the cub, shaking a spray, doddles along behind. The little one’s black nose twitches toward the sweetness of a pile of Johnathans beside Blathen who throws one, hoping to fend off the smelly, wet thing. To Blathen’s wonderment, the cub catches the apple in its mouth. Blathen laughs, "Daddy, daddy watch … Papa, watch." He senses a new game, so, he winds up and lobs another. It's right on target. The cub chomps away apple core and all; juicy slobber of satisfaction drips from his muzzle. “Will ya look at that?” Asmel begins to understand the way of things at this camp and actually relaxes with a big belly laugh which hurts but is a welcome response. Hunter and Trell smile as if to say, ‘shit, finally.’ Eyes sparkling, the cub sits up on his rear haunches, waves his front paws and squeaks at his new playmate. Blathen takes a bite and throws another apple. “Does he know he’s playing with a bear?” Asmel asks. “Beh, Beh.” Blathen points, teasing the cub with another toss. “Guess that’s a ‘yes,’ old pal.” Hunter hands Asmel a cup of echinacea tea. “Good name for a mascot … Beh.” “What is ‘mascot’?” Trell asks, leaning against the willow, feeding Zee. “Telly asks a question?” Asmel, the man of many questions, smiles thoughtfully at the simplicity of Trell’s question compared to the complexity of his own. Beh snuggles next to Trell with Blathen and Zee. Wonder what the hairless one is drinking. Smells good. He nudges the milk pouch hoping for a taste. Trell bats the top of the cub's head and emits a throaty bark. Beh nuzzles his nose into Trell’s lap, and rolling his eyes with disappointment, goes to sleep. You’ve had enough fish and apples, young giant. Trell yawns and begins to nod off. Tomorrow, I’ll milk enough for you to share. He rests his lonely hand on the cub’s heaving side. Where is my Gima? Meanwhile, Hunter is cooking hickory smoked steaks. The aroma travels and curious animals sniff. One in particular, a ravenous young cougar snarls at the north edge of camp. Asmel sees the hunger in her amber eyes and throws a large cut of raw meat in her direction. She dodges in for it, gives it a shake and rushes back into the cornfield. ****** On this the sixth day, weak, thirsty and hungry, Gima decides to slide down from her comfortable oak fork cradle to scout for food and water. Disoriented and still unable to focus her vision, she wanders westward along miles of narrow deer trails until she comes to an expansive, peaceful lake surrounded by beech and maple trees with silky white water lilies flowering along its edge. She collapses to drink, digs five-inch crawfish from their tunnels to eat her fill and at last, wades into the peaceful, green envelope to bathe. Pleased with her progress, Gima sighs and, sitting on the mossy bank, swishes her feet in the water. She enjoys the sounds around her, crappies splashing for midges, green-headed mallards squawk landing on the lake, others on the shore, quack, preening chestnut-brown feathers. Gima hums a simple tune, scoops up reddish bank mud and generously rubs it all over her body for protection and camouflage. Then she pushes herself back from the shore to a dry, grassy area and lies back to rest. A red squirrel, watching from above, dances from limb to limb chattering away. “Silly fellow, what is it?” Blue jays argue and dive bomb around their nest site while a wild canary whistles then stops. Ground twigs crack under step. A blur lumbers toward her. “Trelly?” It laughs. It’s not Trell. Other footsteps rush from behind. A foul, musky stench with a hint of fresh skunk encircles her and she hears familiar mumbling. Fear flashes a warning. Escape, but where? Gima tries to make it into the water. I know they can't swim. Slowed by weakness and clumsy with fever, she slips on the lakeshore's muddy bank and falls forward. With her one good hand, she frantically digs the earth, barely inching forward toward the water's edge.
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