Short Story: The Bahkauv
There were days when creatures walked the forests that we have forgotten. That doesn't mean they aren't still out there...somewhere.
"I heard you once fought a Bahkauv," he said. Sparks rose from the fire. His voice was scornful as if accusing rumor of a lie, a tale told to bolster a reputation.
Cara was silent, staring into the fire, watching the flames dance. The man sat across from her in his full flush of youth. Young men were built of muscle, with a good measure of bluster and arrogance that made up for their lack of experience. He had joined the fire tonight on his way through, asking if he could share its warmth and safety. Cara had no reason to deny him, and so there he sat.
His jacket was thick, holding off the winter at his back, the leather quilted and lined. The stranger's path to the fire was marked by footprints from the heavy boots that had stamped his arrival like travel papers. He had taken his hat off once by the fire, and Cara had a good view of him in the amber light. He was maybe in his early twenties, with a square jaw and unruly black hair that he had tamed with the woolen hat, whose earflaps had protected his head against the cold.
Cara's skirts were hitched up at the front so that her shins were exposed, and the heat warmed her. The wool skirts kept the cold in or out, depending on the conditions, and she had been settled for a while before the youth had arrived. She saw no reason to lower them; it was not an invitation. He seemed to have heard of her, if only through a reputation he questioned, cautious perhaps.
"I have," she told him, watching for his reaction. "It is not something that I would care to repeat, but I am more than capable of defending myself when I have to," she said, a clear warning against any ill intent. She watched his eyes dart to the sword next to her, point in the dirt, hilt on the log next to her so it was within easy reach.
Embers crumbled on the fire's edge; an intense orange that was dulling to red as they toppled away from the center. She had been sitting here for a little while, setting up camp before the sun dropped with her traveling companion in the back of the wagon. She was sure he would be out once he sorted himself out.
"It was a rescue," Cara said, breaking the silence. "The Bahkauv had abducted a boy from the village. I wasn't going to let him die."
"You would fight a Bahkauv for your child?" he asked.
"He wasn't mine, but yes. To save a life, if that's what it takes." Cara threw a log onto the fire, and the sparks rose in a mass, sending red stars toward the sky, illuminating the tall, dark trees that surrounded them briefly.
The stranger sounded incredulous, "He wasn't even yours? Why, by all that is holy, would you do that?" he asked in disbelief.
"He may not be my child, but I am a woman, and we know the value of life. I didn't go alone. There were others." Cara shuffled in her seat, finally ready to share.
"Winter is the most dangerous time in the forest here," she told him, her gaze back on the fire. "Bahkauv usually rest through the winter, but occasionally one will wake early, thinking it is spring. First thing they always want to do is feed, replenish their energy, and restore themselves." Her eyes were blank as she started to retell the tale of her encounter with the Bahkauv. "That night…"
***
The snow filled the air with a white haze that stuck to the side of the buildings like sea salt from years of spray. A wind blew almost horizontally, driving people to walk at the tangent to their destination so that they may eventually arrive, walking twice the distance against the force of the wind. These were the days you didn't want to leave your home, but the tavern was occupied anyway.
Men sat at old wooden tables fashioned from forest wood, some with cracked tops that had split as the green wood had dried. Steins filled with foamed ale were lifted and dropped as the contents drained. There was little to do in the forest during the winter; it was too cold to cut trees, and the weather was too bad. If enough game hung to eat, then all that was left was to sit in the tavern, drink, and tell each other tales by the hearth, and these men were experts at it.
Storytelling was interrupted by the cold rush of air and the snow that intruded on the wind, which was finally starting to die down but still putting as much effort as it could into the storm. A woman in heavy black skirts, partially covered by an apron secured at her waist and white balloon sleeves billowing from the bodice, stood wildly in the doorway.
"Shut the damned door, Imogen!" the men shouted at her in protest, and they turned their shoulders to the fire in the cold air.
Imogen pushed the wooden door back into the frame, the snow falling to the grubby wooden pine floor. "It's Thomas!" she cried, "Thomas has gone!" Breathing heavily from the effort of the short run from her house to the menfolk in the tavern.
"Where? Where has he gone?" asked one of the men, standing with his stein still in hand. He was annoyed that they might have to raise a search party for the child in this weather.
"A Bahkauv," she told him, moving closer to the group. "A Bahkauv has taken him. I sent him out for a few logs for the fire. He didn't come back from the shed, so I went to check on where my logs were. I found the logs, laid, scattered, and the prints of the Bahkauv. It's taken Thomas." Her voice had an urgency and a call to action, but the men weren't moving.
"If a Bahkauv took him, then he is as good as dead already," one of the men said, his large black mustache coated with foam from his ale. "There is little use going after him now, especially not in this weather; we wouldn't stand a chance."
"You won't help? None of you?" Asked Imogen, panicked.
"There's nothing to do," replied one of the others, drawing on his ale.
We'll look for him when the storm has died in the light, but we are no match for Bahkauv, even in the spring. If it's woken now and is hungry, we'd have the fight of our lives. There's a reason even bears stay clear of them," he told her.
"If you won't help, then we will do it ourselves," Imogen screamed at them, referring to the other women in the small village. "Call yourselves hunters? Call yourselves men?"
"You can use my bow!" shouted one of the men, as they all laughed on her departure, leaving the door open and the wind blowing until one of the men was forced to leave the comfort of the fire, complaining, to close it.
"I suppose we'll have to find her too in the morning if she is fool enough to go looking for the creature," he said.
"Don't worry," another said, "even she's not that stupid, though I'm not sure about her sisters..." There was another outburst of laughter. "She's never been the same since those wolves killed Frederick."
***
It was an hour before the three women were ready to head out into the dark of the forest. The wind had died down, but the ground was thick with snow and crunched underfoot as they marched, single file, following the deep prints of the Bahkauv. The footprints were long, terminating at the head with score marks from the large claws that the beast could only partly retract. The claws made formidable weapons and, while being useful for traction over short sprints, hindered the creature over distance.
Each of the three was equipped with what they could lay their hands on. Imogen had taken the bow that had been mockingly offered, stealing into Jerak's cabin and retrieving it. Cara, her elder sister, had the long sword that was their father's when he was alive. She was the only one of the three strong enough to wield it properly, and when he had died, it passed to her. The final sister, Alamia, bore a spear, strong, straight hickory capped by a sharpened head of steel, grey and terrible.
Their torches guttered, handheld towers of flame as they walked, dragging flame behind them like comets streaking through the air. The three shield maidens slogged heavy in their winter coats, weapons in one hand, flame in the other so that they might have stepped out of myth, ready to slay dragons, although it wasn't far from what they were attempting. Each of them resolved to track the beast to its lair, each tense with the apprehension of what they would do when they found it, but Thomas was Imogen's son, and she had called on them – and they answered her - the bond of family, stronger than the threat of death, marching into the unknown.
Even though it was already night, and there was no moon, the forest seemed to get even blacker as they trekked into it; the trees crowded together as though they were watching to see what would happen, long decades of boredom lifted by this amusement. The smell of loam and needles filled the air now that the wind had broken, and the ground was free of snow; the tree cover was too thick for it to penetrate the black forest. The prints still led away from them as they followed the unmistakable score marks from the claws. From the darkness, yellow eyes watched them pass; the strength of their resolve and the force of their march kept these predators at bay, not wanting to risk the feel of those weapons each carried.
Little was said as they marched, each collecting their thoughts of what they might find at the end of the trail, and it was a question soon answered as they reached the rock outcrop. The grey stone thrust itself into the air, violently breaking the ground, a relic from the old times, maybe the remains of a battle of the gods. The trees around it stood back as though in fear. The outcrop was split asunder, cracked diagonally with a cleft that created an opening that the torches couldn’t penetrate from here.
The rocks threw out a challenge. They must trade caution and safety for that answer if they wanted to know its secrets.
“I don’t know about this,” said Almaia, the youngest. She was hesitating, her spear tilted at the ground.
“If we aren’t going in, what are we doing here?” Asked Cara as she pushed past her to stand in the mouth of darkness. The torch threw its light further back but couldn’t penetrate beyond the curve in the rock, and they would be forced to enter the cave proper if they were to make a stand. They all knew what was in there before they took a single step.
The ground was soft and less trafficked than the forest. Cara cautiously made her way into the cave mouth, and as she rounded the curve, her sisters close behind, it opened out into a small cavern. The smell was overwhelming, and Cara gagged at the rich, thick odor so strong she might cut it with the sword that glittered in the torchlight.
There was nowhere for the creature or them to hide in this chamber, and as they passed fully into it, they could see the creature nestled at the back, laid over its prey. Thomas was not moving, unconscious, and unaware of their presence, which Imogen was grateful for, but she didn’t know if he slept or was dead. At the approach of the light, the beast turned its massive head toward them, its eyes black stones set in its scales regarded them, and it moved, placing itself more fully over its prize.
“How do we get it away from Thomas?” Imogen asked.
“You have the only ranged weapon,” Cara answered, “We can maybe bait it away from him and circle back to the entrance if we can keep it in the center.” She waved with her torch, “Alamia, once it starts moving, you need to get between it and Thomas to prevent it from returning, and I will keep it occupied.” The sword was heavy in her hand but would provide the best chance of keeping the creature engaged while Imogen tended to the boy.
Cara took Imogen’s torch while Imogen drew an arrow from the quiver and notched it, taking aim. Imogen had to be careful not to hit the boy, but her father had taught her well: you had to be able to hunt your own food out in the forest, if need be, and everyone could use a bow. The creature recognized a bow and hissed at her. Imogen let the arrow loose, and it flew, hitting its mark.
The creature snapped at her as the arrow rattled uselessly against its scales, as hard as dragon scale, and they scrapped, producing a high scratching sound as it rose to the bait. It lumbered forward a little; its bulky shoulders rippled under the scales that covered its body so that it looked like a massive pinecone. Black eyes piercing her soul stared at her as the creature snarled and snapped, large yellow teeth held in pink gums, the jaws crashing into each other with each snap so that spit flew in droplets to the ground. It took a step forward and reared, a good nine feet tall and covered in impenetrable armor, rattling and clattering as it shook. The roar tore the air, echoing from the cavern's walls like a demonic bell calling all hell to it.
Alamia edged against the wall, trying to get to the boy, the spear's shaft jabbing to keep it at a distance. “Another Imogen!” cried Cara as the creature fully extended its claws, daggers that shone with death as the Bahkauv waved its short legs in agitation. It wasn’t used to being challenged; no one had dared in years, preferring to let it have the sheep or goat it took rather than risk death.
Imogen notched another arrow and let loose the thing. The arrow struck the creature's chest, bouncing from it to lay uselessly on the ground, having achieved nothing but to distract and annoy it. The creature leaned forward with another roar in anger, but Cara saw as its legs thrashed. The creature was entirely armored in scale – except where the creature's legs joined the body, the space beneath the legs was bare. To armor the area would have resisted its movement, and the skin there, while hide, was not scaled.
Imogen drew another arrow from the quiver, readying on the string and holding the tension. Cara stepped forward, her sword held out, laterally, in front of her with both hands on the large hilt. The Bahkauv swung at her, claws clattering on steel as it made contact and glanced off, forcing Cara to one side with a stagger at the force. “Aim at where the leg joins body,” yelled Cara, and Imogen let the arrow fly, but it missed the mark and hit the outer edge of the Bahkauv’s leg, defecting and hitting the wall with a ping as it dropped.
Imogen notched another arrow, trying to get a better view of the weak spots, while Cara took another stab at the creature to bait it into exposing itself. The beast lurched, and the sword was knocked from her hands with the force, landing with a thud on the earthy floor close to one of the torches. Alamia waved her brand to ward the creature back as she was stranded, still pressed against the wall and unable to make her way around the monster. Alamia was the only one of the three who still held a torch now; Cara had been forced to drop the two she had held to wield her sword.
The air smelled of soot from the pitch of the torches, and black smoke rose from the dirt that hissed and sizzled as the black substance burned, flickering. Cara considered that perhaps she would have been better served to use a torch as a weapon instead of the sword, but there was time while they still burned. She made a drive toward the torch closest to the sword. The monster struck, raking claws across Cara’s thigh, pain searing through her body with the wound. Her skirts, now shredded, was soaked with blood. Sensing her weakness, the monster lumbered toward her, dropping onto all-fours and straddling over her, and Cara’s hand fumbled for the torch but met the sword's hilt.
Imogen’s arrow flew as she tried to give Cara the time she needed to reach a weapon. Cara finally gripped the sword, clasping it tightly, and with a mighty thrust channeling what might be the last chance into it, she pushed the sword forward, making contact with the spot she sought, sliding the blade deep into the creature. The creature screeched and thrashed at the air, forgetting Cara for a moment at the torment of the blade that was buried almost hilt deep in a last effort at survival before collapsing heavily on Cara.
Both Imogen and Alamia pulled at their sister, freeing her from the weight of the beast. Alamia continued to tend to the woman while Imogen was now able to get to the boy, who lay lifeless on a litter of broken sticks that the beast had slept on. He was covered in blood, and she clutched him, reaching for his neck to feel. “He’s still alive!” She screamed, part exhaustion and part relief fueled by adrenaline.
***
The stranger sat back, putting a little distance between himself and Cara now that he had heard her story. Unsure if he wanted to share the fire with her after questioning her reputation or whether he should be grateful that anyone willing to take on a Bahkauv would be more than willing to deal with wolves if they dared approach the fire. There were rustlings from the dark of the forest; wolves ranged these areas frequently, especially in the winter, for the shelter of the trees. Now, he was questioning if the noise could be a Bahkauv. He thought they always slept through the winter, and he would be safer traveling these lands during the cold season – now he wasn't so sure.
"How did you know the boy wasn't dead already?" The stranger asked, "That the Bahkauv hadn't killed him immediately?"
"Cara!" The woman's name was shouted from the wagon. She ignored the question, going to the back of the wagon and out of sight. There was the sound of scuffles and the effort of lifting something, and then she returned, retaking her place and lifting her skirt again as he settled herself back into a comfortable position.
The stranger could see the white scores of three deep scars that cut across her thigh that he hadn't seen earlier, her skirts being a little higher now. He knew she had no fear of him, tolerated him at her fire, and was far safer than he here.
"The thing you should know about Bahkauv," she told him as the squeak of wooden wheels on a shaft approached, and a boy in his mid-teens wheeled himself toward the fire, "Is they don't eat their catches all in one go, and they prefer their prey alive."
The stranger looked at the boy sitting in the cart. He was bundled in a blue woolen jacket, buttoned at the front with horn buttons through their loops, but as the stranger looked him over, he noticed the boy was missing his legs.
"Isn't that right, Thomas?" Cara said.
© Emma Steel
