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Footsteps of Fear
by Lesley L. Smith |
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I cowered in the tall grass, but tried not to look like I was cowering. Males weren't supposed to cower, and I was determined not to lose face in front of my younger siblings. Breathe, Six, I told myself. This is just a hunting exercise. No one will rip you open and gnaw the flesh from your bones. Breathe. The grass made a brittle rustling sound, but the wind brought no scent of prey with it. The prey must be downwind. I shifted on my haunches, wishing I was home safe in my room with my books. "Six," a small voice at my elbow said. I jumped sky-high, totally breaking cover. It was my counterpart in the youngest litter, Little Six. If I was a better hunter I would have heard his footsteps approaching. I should have heard him; he was too young to be a good hunter. And he was too small, a runt like me. "Sorry, Six," he said. His ears were flattened against his head. I crouched down again and focused on him. He hadn't yet grown into his big eyes; I'd been the same way at his age. "Yes, Little Six." "I'm scared," he said under his breath, as if it was an anathema. Such admissions were taboo; fear was forbidden. According to pack decree, we were never frightened; we were always brave and destroyed our prey without mercy. Our pack supposedly dominated all others, but I never felt dominant. "I'll tell you a secret," I whispered. "I'm scared, too." Read the whole story: Footsteps of Fear (pdf) |
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