The Hunger of the Mountain

An Achak the Hunter Story

Achak was freezing. The harsh winter wind cut through his bearskin coat and chilled him to the bone. He’d hoped that he could stay in Camp Davis for a while, but the news there was just as dire. An entire supply caravan from New York City had failed to make it to the outpost nestled here near the borders.

Even now there were more Natives and French in Camp Davis than English, but Achak doubted it would stay that way after winter broke. Food was scarce and tensions were high. Achak figured it would be better for him to move along before they started turning on each other. He’d rather face the frigid winter wind than wind up stranded with a bunch of half-starved fur traders.

The rest of his mother’s people had already made the journey north to the winter camps, where they would spend the rest of their time until the spring thaw. Being born of both worlds, their chief Abooksigun had decided that Achak should be the one to go to Camp Davis in search of a missing hunting party.

At first Achak had bucked at the task, thinking that the there was no reason to send anyone after them. They were all hardened hunters and warriors who could survive the elements. There had been several days of hard snow, so it would make sense that they would seek shelter. But now he wasn’t so sure. They were missing around fifteen of their tribe, and now the English colonists were missing at least thirty people if the gossip at Camp Davis could be trusted.

The more Achak thought about it, the more he didn’t like it. There were too many people missing to simply blame it on heavy snows and bad wind.

There had been talk that the French might go to war with the English, a war that would most likely be fought in the colonies. They’d made deals in the past with the English and other colonists when it suited them. Achaks own father had been a Dutch fur trader. But trouble was brewing and Abooksigun thought if something had happened to the hunting party that it had to be the Mohawks, there had been no love lost between their two tribes for as long as anyone could remember. And ever since the settlers’ demand for beaver pelts had risen, the Mohawks had become more and more territorial and warlike.

There was even talk in some settlements that the French were mustering up North and trading rifles and other weapons to the Mohawks. If true, that alone would spell trouble for his mother’s people.

The deep snow that covered the ground made tracking easy, so he didn’t expect it would take long to find either the missing hunting party or whatever was left of the English caravan. His large snow shoes made it easy to navigate the otherwise treacherous terrain.

Achak soon picked up the trail of what had to be the missing hunting party. They traveled light, and their feet were bound in snowshoes, and it looked like they had been following the great Mahicanituck River south. That route would mean they’d been heading to Camp Davis, so why hadn’t they made it?

He checked the pistols under his coat to make sure each one was powdered and primed. The tracks he followed were several days old. At this point couldn’t imagine what could have caused the hunting party to be this late, but whatever it was couldn’t be good.

He walked almost another mile, fighting against the wind with every step before at last discovering their fate. It was worse than either he or the Chief could have expected. They were dead. But, if the Mohawks did it, Achak would have been surprised.

Never in his life had he seen such ferocity. The remains of the hunting party were strewn all across their makeshift camp. Someone had ripped every single one of them limb from limb. Many of the bodies he came across had been partially eaten, and the bite marks were like nothing Achak had ever seen before. He avoided looking at the faces, just in case he recognized them.

Some of the men hadn’t even had time to pull out their weapons, and those that did hadn’t fared any better. Axes, knives, and bows littered and over by what appeared to have been their fire pit was a broken rifle. It didn’t even look like the owner had got a shot off. Whatever had done this hadn’t spared a single soul.

He felt as if he were going to be sick, taking deep breaths. He was only just able to get that feeling to pass.

When he found the prints in the snow, a heavy weight descended on his gut. He’d grown up hearing stories from his mother’s people, his people about the strange creatures that lived high up in the mountains.

The prints were like bears, except bigger. Bigger than any print he had ever seen in the forest and he had hunted up and down the Mahicanituck river since he was just a boy. Achak knew in his heart what the print was, but he hoped he was wrong. He’d told himself that old stories were just that, stories, impossible tales meant to pass long nights around a campfire. But, even he could not deny that the prints in the snow were every bit as real as the bodies in the camp. 

He took one of the bows, and a bundle of arrows that lay littered on the ground. Looking around, he also grabbed the powder for the musket after checking that it was still dry. He hoped he wouldn’t need the additional weaponry. Yet, he didn’t want to take any chances in case he ran into the same creature the hunting party did while he was alone in the mountains.

Looking around the strange print he found, he knew that whatever had done this would soon be back. The tracks clearly showing that it was coming back almost daily to feed. Grimly, he also realized that he could track it back to whatever cave it called home. Achak knew he could head to the winter camp and be done with it, but another part of him wanted to lay eyes on the creature, to see for himself what had caused such devastation.

Before he could make up his mind, he heard a twig snap in the surrounding woods. He turned, drawing one of the flintlock pistols he carried under his coat, only to find himself staring at several rifles and bows all pointed at him.

“Drop it.” One of the Mohawks called out in English which was the language everyone in the territories now used for trade, his hard eyes, halfway hidden under the veil of war paint making it clear he would hesitate to pull the trigger and send Achak to the next life.

Stubbornly, he did as he was told.

They swarmed him, there were about ten in all, they quickly forced him to the ground and stripped him of his weapons and bound his hands with leather straps. While he was down there, he palmed a broken arrowhead, slid it into the sleeves of his coat.

“What did this?” Their leader asked as the others stripped the hunting party of their gear.

“Great Bear.” Achak told him,

The other man smiled, “Save your legends for the English Mahican, but you’ll give me the answers I want.”

They took him then further into the woods. It surprised Achak to find that the trail they followed had been cut through the forest and the path paved down by wagon wheels. Wagons that seemed to be loaded by a heavy burden.

The leader whose name Achak learned was K’or lead them to a clearing which was filled with large white tents. In the middle of the camp, tied to a small tree, was the French flag. Achak shook his head. So the rumors had been true all along. The French and the Mohawk were on the warpath and now he was caught right in the middle of it.

They paraded him in front of the camp, proud to show him off to the French commander, a small red faced named Jean-Michael. With him, he had around twenty soldiers, though a quick glance told him a couple of them were nursing recent injuries.

On the other side of the camp were several other prisoners English from the way they were dressed. Achak had a feeling he’d just discovered what happened to that supply caravan.

“What’s this?” Jean-Michael asked as K’or brought him forward. His English not as good as Achak’s or K’or’s. Which, to Achak, meant the man might not have been in the colonies long. Were the French landing ships? If that was the case he needed to get out of here and warn his mother’s people before they got caught in a larger war than the Abooksigun had imagined.

“A Mahican part of a large war band that we killed.” K’or said lying.

“Fine. Let the paymaster know how many and you’ll get what’s coming to you.” He said easily, looking Achak over carefully. “Tie his bindings tight and put him with the others.”

“K’or didn’t kill any Mahicans, and there aren’t any war bands.” Achak told him calmy.

Jean-Michael smiled it wasn’t a pleasant smile. “I’m sure, if K’or didn’t, then who did?” He asked,

Achak looked to K’or who regarded him angrily. “We call them the Great Bears, but I’m sure K’or’s people call them something else. They killed a Mahican hunting party, ask K’or and his men how their bodies looked. Something ripped them apart.”

“Right, well, I’m not afraid of bears. We got rifles.” Jean-Michael said in a clear dismissal.

Before Achak could say another word, one of K’or’s men pushed him forward, causing him to stumble. “No more stories Mahican.” K’or told him snidely. “You’ll find the French don’t believe old superstitions as easily as other colonists.”

“What are they paying you in, K’or?” Achak asked him as he was led across the camp.

“Rifles, of course. The English outlawed trading rifles to the tribes, but as long as we have a common enemy, the French have no problem with it. When the smoke settles, we’ll have the valley and French will have the ports and the fur trade.”

“They’ll turn on you in the end.”

“They’d be lost out here without us.” K’or said, though he seemed unsure.

The other prisoners were an unsightly lot. There was three in all. They were scruffy and bearded, all of them wearing a mixture of animal skins and colonial garbs, clearly marking them as men who spent a good deal of time outside of the walled colonies.

Two of the men looked over at him as the guards left. The other was passed out, whether from exhaustion or wounds. Achak couldn’t tell. From the looks of him, he had a bullet in his leg. Someone had tried to tie it off, but Achak doubt he’d last more than a few days. And even if he did, he’d have to lose the leg or the infection would kill him, anyway.

“Welcome friend.” The man closest to Achak said he had a long grey beard and piercing blue eyes. “I’m Francis Smithers and this tall blonde bloke next to me is my trusted companion, Augustus Heinman, he’s Prussian but don’t hold it against him.”

Achak nodded and smiled. “I’m Achak Njororson.” He told them,

“Aye, strange surname, Dutch or Danish?” Francis asked him.

Achak nodded, “Good guess, my father claimed the Dutch, but his kind claimed many of the north countries as home..”

The man laughed, “In another life, I was a sailor. I’m pretty good at placing people with the ports they hail from.”

“A tough life then. What’s our third friend’s name down on the end?”

“I think it was Thomas something or another, he signed on pretty late, and to be honest I don’t think he’s going to be around long enough to tell us.” Francis said, to which Peter grunted in agreement.

“Then it’s safe to assume that you’re the lost caravan that was headed to camp Davis?”

“Good to know they’ve taken notice of our absence. Not that it’ll do much good.” He confided. “The French and their friends fell upon us killed most of us, though they took some losses too. Now that puffed up Captain has got in his mind that were prisoners of war. Which means we’ll either be held or hanged depending on how that war goes for him. Even though I ain’t a soldier by a long shot and I’m pretty sure banditry isn’t what he was taught when he got his commission.

Achak grunted in way of reply.

They left them alone until it was well into the night. They’d made a large central fire and the French and Mohawk drank and talked amongst themselves. Achak was careful not to look into the light of the flames. Instead, he kept his eyes peeled against the darkness. Waiting for any sign of movement. If the stories were true, they would come back. They wouldn’t be able to help themselves.

Carefully, without drawing attention to himself, he worked the arrowhead out of his coat cuff and began to saw at the leather throngs which bound his hands.

“Don’t forget about us.” Francis whispered. Clearly, he’d been paying more attention than Achak had thought.

“Wouldn’t think about it.” Achak whispered back. He was just through the first of his bindings when he saw something creeping out of the woods. His breath caught in his throat. At first, he’d thought that they were scouts returning to the camp. Perhaps part of him was just wishing that was the truth.

The creatures coming into the camp were too big to be people. They were wide and gangly, with long arms that almost touched the ground as they moved. If they could stand straight, they’d be taller, but they stood only around 6 feet hunched over as though in a constant lunge. They all had large hunched backs, with their heads dropping precariously because of it. In the dark they were almost comical in their movements, but he was sure in the light they’d be misshapen monstrosities.

Achak was thankful that they were further away so that he couldn’t see their faces. What he could make out was enough for him to have chills going up his spine. He could see as the firelight seemed to reflect on their otherwise dark eyes. He was careful not to attract their attention.

“Mein Gott.” Peter exclaimed in a hushed whisper.

Apparently, he and Francis too could see the creatures approaching the camp.

Achaks arrow head snapped through his binding and freed his hands.

“What are those things?” Francis asked him, as Achak untied them.

“Yakwawiak, the Great Hump Bear. A monster from the mountains.” He told them. Just as he finished and was about to untie Peter, he felt someone tackle him to the ground. It was one of K’or’s men. He raised a knife high, but before he could bring it down, Francis hit him in the head and he dropped to the ground with a loud thump.

Someone was running towards the fire to raise the alarm, but before he made it, the Yakwawiak descended onto the people gathered around the fire. And several people screamed their death screams as the creatures rended into them with their claws and teeth. Faster and stronger than human could ever hope to be.

Suddenly, the entire camp was scrambling, but they were already on the move. Francis and Peter deftly stole supplies from a tent and Achak soon found himself in possession of a pair of pistols, a good hatchet, and a French Sabre. Though the weapons did little to make him feel better, as he doubted that they’d have much effect against the savage beasts. No one tried to block their escape as together they fled from the camp.

They ran off into the night. Behind them, gunshots rang out, but they ran on, confident that none of the shots were aimed at them. The woods were dark and Achak would have been lying if he’d said he knew where he was going. In fact, he just picked a direction and hoped for the best, confident that if they got far enough away, they’d be able to find their way back to where they needed to be.

Before long, Francis was pulling at his arm to stop. They’d perhaps gone a mile, but it was clear that the older man couldn’t go much further. He and Peter took shifts guarding throughout the night while Francis took his rest. Achak seriously doubted he was going to sleep for quite a long time after seeing those things.

“We can’t go back.” Francis said as he came too.

“What?” Peter asked, turning towards his friend.

“Those things they won’t stop, will they?” Francis asked Achak.

He shook his head. “No, they’ll keep coming again and again. They see us as prey, like wolves that haven’t been taught to fear man yet.”

“Can we kill them?”

“Yes, at least in the stories they could bleed, and if something bleeds, then it can die.” Achak replied solemnly.

It didn’t take them long to find the Yakwawiaks trail. There were only three of them. Though that thought did little to comfort Achak. He remembered vividly the hunting party and the devastation last night. Three of them were more than enough to take out their ragtag hunting party.

The tracks were easier to see in the daytime, and though none of them relished the idea of walking back towards the camp where they’d been prisoners, they each knew they had to. This evil had to be stopped, before it could do anymore harm. Now that they’d gotten a taste for people, they wouldn’t stop coming, more hunting parties and traders would go missing.

The French Camp was in complete disarray. Many of the tents were shredded, and those that were still standing were in tatters. Dark reddish stains on the folds suggested some soldiers had attempted to take shelter in the tent as though that could stop a creature like the Yakwawiak, only to find out too late it would be the last thing they ever did. They didn’t walk through the entire camp, only coming close enough so that Achak could once again pick up the trail.

It headed off back up into the mountain. They followed it up to a smaller trail. Achak figured they were halfway between where the hunting party massacre and the French camp. Up ahead there was a small overhang in the rocks and they could all make out what seemed to be the mouth of a cave.

Crouching low and slowly climbing up towards it, he could hear the fairly unmistakable sounds of deep breathing coming from inside. The stories were right; the creatures slept during the day. He signaled for the other two to make their way up.

Peter stood at the mouth of the cave and passed his rifle over to Francis. The inside was dark, but they could make out the three grotesque forms now curled up in restful positions, though they knew all too well how dangerous these creatures could actually be.

“Just a little closer.” Francis whispered, the rifle perched up on his shoulder. Achak nodded, a pistol in his hand. He went for the one on the right while Francis took the closer one over to the left.

Achak’s heart lept into his throat as the Yakwawiak’s breathing pattern changed for a minute. Fearing that they were about to wake.

After the moment had passed, they continued. Francis, close enough now, sighted the rifle down to the Yakwaiaks skull, his finger on the trigger, ready to give the coup-de-gras.

Achak, too, was ready. His finger was steady on the trigger.

They nodded once to each other and pulled the triggers at the same time. There was a loud boom as the cavern was suddenly filled with the acrid odor of sulfurous powder smoke. Achak, however, had only been rewarded with a dull click. The Yakwawiak opened its malicious yellow eyes and locked onto his as he deftly pulled the other pistol from his bandolier.

He sighted it quickly, ready to send this beast to hell. There was another gunshot this time from outside followed by a cry at the mouth of the cavern. The Yakwawiak in front of him rose and Achak pulled the trigger, watched as the lead ball blew through the creature’s shoulder but otherwise left it unharmed.

He turned and ran, meeting Francis at the cave entrance at the same time.

The man had lost his rifle and clutched a large knife in one hand. “That other one rose quick.” He commented as they stepped out into the light of day.

Peter was on the ground, his hatchet in his hand, with a nasty red stain spilling out across his shirt. As they breached the mouth of the cave. Achak locked eyes on K’or just as he pulled the trigger on his other pistol.

Achak grunted as something slammed into his left shoulder, burning as it punched out his back. He spun and fell on the ground just as the other two Yakwaiak burst out of the cave. Charging K’or who stood there with his smoking gun still in his hand.

The Mohawk warrior didn’t hesitate. He threw down the pistols and pulled a long curved knife from his belt. Parrying the sluggish swipes of the creatures, slow from their last meal.

Francis pulled Achak back up to his feet. Then, opting to pick up Peter’s hatchet, he charged the creatures, sinking the axe head deep into the already injured Yakwawiaks back, causing it to roar in pain. Before he could do anything else, it turned and caught him with one of its massive paws, sending the old man flying into a tree. Where he hit with a sickening crunch.

Pulling the sword and hatchet from his own belt, Achak too ran down the hill, trying not to think about the pain in his shoulder. K’or was barely fending them off, and any opening would surely be his last. Using the point of the sword and his momentum down the hill, Achak thrust out with blade, sinking it into the armpit of the already wounded Yakwawiak.

The creature turned to him, a confused expression on its grotesque face. Using one of its large hands, it pulled the blade out. Sending a rush of bluish black blood cascading onto the forest floor. Then it crumpled to its knees and collapsed.

As K’or watched the beast fall, the other saw an opening and rent three large claw marks across his chest. Achak watched as the proud warriors’ blood splashed across the snow. As the creature raised its claw for a finishing blow, Achak charged it, slashing it across the side with the axe. The Yakwawiak roared and turned to face him.

He barely dodged the creature’s claws as its left hand swiped out at him.

Even slow and groggy, it was faster than they could ever hope to be. Achak spun as another claw came. This time, he struck out at it. The beast snarled as the sharp blade of the hatchet took off three of its fingers. Before Achak could swing again, the thing’s foot hit him square in the chest. Knocking the wind out of him and sending him cascading through the air. He came down with a heavy thump into the cold snow a few feet away.

The Yakwawiak charged towards him at full speed, his hands thrust out for a weapon in the snow. Searching for anything he could use against the creature. Finally, his fingers wrapped around something and he held it up in front of him just as the creature’s mouth opened wide and it pounced down on him. The Yakwawiak let out a startled cry as it impaled itself on the French officer’s sword.

The massive body of the Yakwawiak slid down the blade until it was resting right on top of him. Its teeth were close enough to bite into him, but the light was forever gone out of its savage eyes. Using all the strength he had left, Achak pushed the massive beast off of him and climbed to his feet.

Peter was gone, but he went to check on Francis. As he walked towards him, Achak knew it was the same. The older man’s back had broken against the tree and he sat on the ground at an unnatural angle. His eyes looked unblinking up at the sky.

As he walked down to the path they’d come up on, K’or slowly got to his feet.

“Not bad.” K’or told him as he caught his breath. Achak looked at the man’s wounds. He’d carry those scars for the rest of his life, but they wouldn’t kill him. Not unless they got infected.

“Hopefully it will be a long time before any others make it down the mountain.” Achak told him, though he was sure that K’or probably knew the legends as well.

“That’s why your people should side with the French. They only want furs, but the English want gold. What else do you think they’ll find if they dig in these mountains? What old monsters will descend on our both our peoples?” K’or asked him as he leaned heavily against a tree.

Achak shrugged, but in his heart, he remembered the older darker legends and didn’t want to think about it. “Maybe, maybe not. It’s not my place to decide.”

K’or looked at him and nodded. “The next time we meet, I don’t think there will be much talking.” He said as Achak turned away from him and headed down the trail. He knew that K’or was right. This was a reprieve next time, only one of them would walk away.

He buried Peter and Francis away from the cave and near a small outcropping of trees. After saying a half remembered prayer Achak headed back towards Camp Davis. He’d stop only long enough to bury the hunters and then give them news about the hunting party and the convoy. Nursing his wounded shoulder, he hoped they’d have a surgeon in camp, between his wound, the French and what else might be lurking in the forest. It seemed they were going to have anything but a peaceful winter.

He just hoped they’d survive it.