My legs were beginning to yelp at me, every ropey muscle straining and aching from the deep crouch I’d been holding since early morning. Every sound that echoed through the underbrush of the forest was met by a flick of my ears as I strained to find the right noise. My fingers adjusted their tight grip on the handle of my deer-bone knife and I sunk lower, ignoring the screaming protests and bunching even tighter in anticipation.
There. A rumbling snort. I licked my whiskers.
Red and yellow leaves and several frightened birds were kicked up as I sprang out of my bushy hiding place, my paws and hands hitting the ground with enough force to fling me straight into the shrieking form of the wire-haired bush pig. My tail streamed out behind me like a victorious banner, heralding the triumph of the kill as my knife sunk into the hind-quarters of the hog.
Squealing and bucking, the pig took off, ripping itself free from my blade’s grasp, splattering my fur with rich and heady blood. I licked my whiskers again, smirking as I took off after it.
Fall colors streamed around me, blurring until the only object in focus was the fleeing bush-pig. Even the crisping leaves lost the sound of their crunch as I whipped through the underbrush, breathing deeply through my nose. Each breath brought the metallic scent swirling through my head, which only served to sharpen my eyes. The pig was slowing and, as I gained, I once again readjusted my grip on my knife.
I came down on the creature with blade and claws and teeth, holding it down and making a quick, clean swipe across the neck. Thick, red blood poured out of the hog’s gasping throat and I hurried in to lap it up before the earth drunk it all. I unhooked my claws and let the animal slump to the ground where it lay in its last death throws. I collapsed too, falling back on my haunches, my face and hands gleaming crimson and ruby. My tail twitched with satisfaction.
Quietly I began to clean myself off. The pig let out a last wheeze, then fell silent. The more daring of the birds cautiously chirped back into existence, until the only sounds left from my hunt was my soft licking. My rough tongue combed the blood out of my marbled gray fur, slowly bringing the silvery sheen back. I rubbed my face and whiskers, painstakingly placing every hair back in place.
When I finished, I set to work on the pig, tying the feet together with a couple of strips of rawhide , threading a sturdy stick between the legs, and hefting it up to my shoulders. My legs protested yet again, but this time I paid even less attention. The wet mud I was leaving behind; the heavy, bristly weight on my shoulders; the racing, pumping beat thundering in my chest and ears: these were the symbols of my victory. I was full of the thrill of the kill.
Slowly I let a smile creep onto my face and my eyes gleam with excitement. My tail couldn’t keep still, twitching in untamed joy, wrapping around my ankle, jumping up to brush the still-warm form of the bush pig, leaving a wavy trail in the dust of the forest floor.
Deep in the back of my chest a deep purr started, rumbling the happiness I couldn’t express.
I returned to my hiding place, digging out the make-shift sled I had previously prepared out of branches, sticks, leaves and grasses. I let the pig fall heavily upon it, quickly lashing it down and heaping the rest of my supplies on. I slipped into the woven-fiber harness. It was loose around me, but wouldn’t be for long.
I shuddered, closing my eyes as I harnessed a part of me that was more wilderness than cultivation. My shoulders moved and popped, becoming larger as my arms grew longer. My haunches also shifted , straightening out my back until it dipped parallel to the ground. My fingers shortened, losing their nimbleness in favor of thick pads and sturdier claws. My face—the transformation of my face I hated the most as my cheekbones moved around and my delicate features became a muzzle. I settled into my feral form, a few last bones and muscles snapping into place. Now the harness fit snugly around my chest, not tight enough to suffocate, not loose enough to chafe: a testament to the months of preparation I had put into this moment.
I took off running. One advantage to this form: all my senses were sharpened. I could smell strongly the mice fleeing through the underbrush, hear clearly the chattering squirrels arguing in the tree tops, plainly feel the taller grasses brush up against my soft belly fur.
Soon the empty smell of neutral territory was replaced with the warm, familiar scent of home. The feline smell grew sharper as I traveled inward toward Callowae, until I became accustomed to it and it curled inconspicuously in the corner of my mind. The trees became sparser and the grasses thicker and greener. I broke free of the tree line and stepped into the outskirts of the town.
Callowae had started as an outpost, the furthest reaches of feline territory, but as more and more cats moved down from the mountains and inward from the seashore, the village grew. It now was the center place for forest activity, and was the main trade post for those felines who found more comfort in trees than in rocks or sand.
My padding turned into walking as I shuddered my shape back, tightening the harness as I lost the larger form of ferality. Dragging the small sled behind me, burdened as it was, became a much more difficult task as a bipedal. However, I was glad to have my hands back, flexing my fingers and enjoying the ability to grip.
Signs of early afternoon were evident. Kittens rumbled in the streets, giggling in their fighting play or honing their skills by stalking a younger child or snapping at a butterfly.
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