Men Aren’t Gods

    “Your ways of communicating are… strange.”

Firedorn glanced at his new partner and then let out a snort, turning back to the spear shaft he was carving. Silence dragged on, a dull scrape scrrrape filling the emptiness of words between them. He shifted and sat up, cracking his neck, then said, “We’re hunters, Dirn. Of course we’re going to use odd bits and bobs that you won’t understand yet. You’re still a softy,” He nudged the boy with his elbow, watching him nearly fall off the log.

Firedorn grunted, that was such a pathetic display. Dirn quickly righted himself, eyes big and blue with shock. He stammered for a moment before saying, “But you use animal calls to let the others know something! No one does that where I’m from. It’s frustrating and hard to understand, I just don’t get it. It isn’t natural. I mean, it makes us no better than them, right? We have the zoos to point and laugh, laugh at those that have never learned the language. We’re the superiors.”

“Humans have been mimicking animals since before I was born,” he rasped, flicking wood shavings off of the spear with a finger. “Since before my father was born. Since before my father’s father was born. Since before we started hunting these primordial beasts of nature. There used to be no fancy language, Dirn. Those animals aren’t lower than us as we were just once like them. Those people in their towers are filling your head with nonsense. You know that?”

“But, Firedorn—” the green began, but the earned hunter cut him off.

“You don’t, I presume,” he shook his head, “They ain’t teaching you younguns anything these days. Higher society, a whole bunch of softies with their fancy historical bull crap and supposedly wise words of power. You want to know real history? Go to a port town that isn’t filled with those overpaid, boot-licking merchants. Fishermans know all the real facts. Used to hunt whales for blubber and oil. Meat too. Now, y’know, they hunt gods. Those sea gods are beasts with their little eyes. Ancient, I tell you. The hardest of the crops. The best of the crops. If I had a stomach for the sea I’d be braving those waves right now, but no. I’m stuck on the ground with a shriveled stomach and a heart of grit.”

Dirn was quiet, looking off into the woods. There was nothing but the sound of crickets for a moment or two before the boy spoke, “How did you earn your hunting name? I know how the fishermen get theirs and the chief has spoken to me on how he received his, but I’ve never heard your story. Your name used to be, and forgive me for the disrespect, Dorn, right?”

Firedorn sighed, then answered, “Indeed it was, Dirn. The Fire didn’t come until later. Typically, hunters get their names after their first kill, yeah?”

The softy nodded.

“Well, mine didn’t. I didn’t receive mine until many hunts later. After a few decades you keep killing the same gods, yeah? They keep coming back and you keep killing them. So long as their breed exists then they’ll exist, that’s how this works. I kept hunting and hunting, even going off on my own, when one time I came across a scary beast. I’d run off from my earned and wanted to take something on myself.”

“What was it?” Dirn asked, cutting into his telling. The man shot him a glare, quieting the boy until he was squirming where he was sitting.

Firedorn sighed, he couldn’t fully fault the boy. He was only excited to learn something new, something about the truth in this twisted world. He could understand, he was once the same. “A fire god,” he could see the boy wringing his hands in anticipation, “One that was higher than the rest. It had six eyes, y’know? One of the good beasts. None of us know the specifics and what not, never took it to a fancy theobiologist or whatever they’re called these days.” He scraped a chink of wood out of the shaft, making a curve in its surface. “I was alone, afraid of what it could do to me. They’re hardy beasts, y’know? It was one that could really hurt me. You remember how manmade weapons can’t hurt them, right?”

Dirn nodded, “No guns. No chemicals. Nothing that is grown genetically by mankind, turned into another form with blacksmithing by mankind, nothing that is altered in ways from its original form, matter, and chemical composition by mankind. Am I right?”

“Mostly. It’s close enough,” Firedorn shrugged. “That’s why I’m hand carving this spear. It’ll fit a head soon and then I’ll have a new spear. You’ll learn to make one yourself if you live long enough.” Before Dirn could speak again and divert the conversation, the earned hunter continued with his story, “I hadn’t had a spear yet. You learn to make one once you have your earned name. All I had was a slingshot and rocks, little more than a pest for a primordial beast like this. When you take down your first kill on a hunt, you typically are the one to somehow injure it enough to grab your elder partner’s spear and kill it. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. Remember, this was out of the ordinary as I was on my own.

“It didn’t see me as a threat. I was just a boy, no bigger than yourself. Maybe a little smaller. I held out my slingshot and rocks and tried threatening it, yet it looked bored. I was just a pest, something that it could either ignore or fight and kill. It decided on the latter, having enough of my insults after a while. You see this?” Firedorn held out his arm for Dirn to see.

The boy looked at his arm. “What am I supposed to be looking at?” he asked, his voice holding confused.

The elder hunter sighed, pointing at the huge handprint that swallowed up his arm. He twisted his arms around so his new partner could see the sheer size of the burn scar. Those blue eyes turned into full moons again, making Firedorn smirk.

“It was painful. My arm felt cold from the heat, my nerves dying. It felt like my arm was being pulled out of its socket. I managed to whack its eye with one of my rocks and make it flinch back, dropping me onto the ground. I felt like I could hardly move. I was in so much pain. I kept pelting whatever I could find at it—rocks, sticks, leaves, dirt. Anything. All it did was make it angrier. Most of the stuff melted and burst into flames. I shrieked for help, but no one came. I wasn’t sure if they were still in range to hear me or not,” Firedorn laughed bitterly, recalling memories. “I thought I was going to die right there right now without even earning my name. My mother and father would have a disgrace for a son. Then, by chance, it started raining. The day had been gloomy, but I hadn’t expected it to rain. The god screamed in pain, cramping, and gave me a chance. I found a large stick and hit it against the ground, splintering the tip.

“Using what little strength I had left, I dragged the makeshift spear over and hit it. The water had already weakened it, doing half the job for me, and hitting it made it fall over. I then beat it to death, destroying its skull and killing it. I was lucky that day, even if I’d wasted a lot of good delicacies. I earned my name when I dragged the thing back to camp, adrenaline dulling my pain. The chief called me Firedorn for the god I had killed all by myself, with the help of the rain of course. Now, whenever it rains, I thank it. I don’t think I could ever kill a rain god, not only are they too powerful but I am too indebted to the rain itself.”

Dirn stared at him for what seemed like an eternity before whispering, “You killed a god all by yourself with rocks and a stick?” The boy’s wide eyed expression turned into a breathless grin. It made the earned hunter chuckle lightly in amusement. “I can’t believe it! What do you think I’ll kill when it’s time? A fire god like you? Maybe I’ll be the one to kill a rain god! An earth god? What about an animal god? I don’t want to kill one of those, then my name would be boring. Catdirn just sounds stupid.”

“It isn’t always added to the beginning of your name,” Firedorn shook his head, having barely caught up with the excited rambling. “Sometimes it can be at the end like in Yorboar’s case. It happens with what the chief believes is best. A fisherman I met had the name Rotkrill and another with only the name Kraken. It is different for everyone and is usually a different experience. I was lucky to end up with a name that sounded awesome as the city folk say.”

“Oh,” Dirn seemed at a loss for words, staring off into the wilderness. Then he said, “How did we get so off track from you using animal noises to communicate?”

“That is a good question,” Fireborn admitted. “I think it was something about zoos and that we’re supposed to laugh at the no-brain animals in them. Personally, I think that’s wrong. Should we be laughing at our pets unconditionally because they can’t speak with us? Nah. I laugh at them when they get stuck in a tree or in a hole.”

“You have a pet?”

“Just the hunting dogs we use here at camp. I don’t have one for myself yet, that’ll be when Trig Sweetie has puppies. She’s the best mutt we have. Her puppies always come out strong and intelligent.” He glanced back at the congregation of tents hidden by the trees. A little ways back were the cabins, mostly reserved for older hunters. He hadn’t hit that mark just yet, still too young to be considered ‘older.’

“I like Trig Sweetie,” Dirn smiled. “I like her puppies too. Why don’t you have a dog? Most others do. Did you have one and then it died?” His smile fades as he says that, as if thinking about how that could have happened.

Fireborn sighed, “I think that’s a story for another time, green. It’s getting late and the fire’s running out. I’m going to work on my spear more in the morning. You should go get some sleep before our hunt tomorrow. Who knows, maybe you’ll take down your first god tomorrow. You’ll only be able to do that if you aren’t tired tomorrow, understand?”

“I do, I do understand,” Dirn got up off the log and stretched, rubbing his eyes, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Firedorn. Will you tell me the story then?” He sounded hopeful.

“Maybe, go get some sleep first,” he grunted, turning away to indicate that the conversation was over. He blew on the shaft, spreading dust away. He paused, hearing grass crunch in the direction of the camp. He sighed, feeling a fondness for that boy. Someday the cityboy would turn into a good hunter, he could feel it. Maybe then he’d understand the meaning behind Firedorn’s pessimistic and gruff nature.

I just hope the truth doesn’t break his spirit, the earned hunter thought wearily, setting down his carving knife, I can only communicate so much to him through words alone…