Dull green eyes tracked the squirrel’s movements as it flicked its way down the tree trunk, pawing around in the leaf litter at the base. The little creature was a stone’s throw away, but Unatsikanogeni had no stone to throw. He was sure that he’d miss, anyway; his arms shook every time he lifted them higher than at the elbow. Even shifting to snatch the little bugger in his jaws would take far more energy than what he’d get from eating it.
No, I must not, the Tribesman thought slowly. He blinked his absolute and utter hatred at the tree rat then watched it scramble back up the trunk, tiny claws clinging to the bark. Shaking his head, he turned his attention away from the creature to keep himself sane. Or was he sane? He was doing this, wasn’t he?
No again; this is what he should do. It was a part of his culture, his heritage, and he was not going to turn his back on it now, not after he’d turned his back on the Tribe before. It wasn’t as insane a ritual as it could have been, only fasting for a week. He was sure that many wolves had done it before during famines, especially in decades past, and that he might be able to survive such a shortage too. However, the problem with the Fast of the Fruit Moon was that prey was plentiful, and staring him in the face at every turn.
There was a soft footstep behind him, and his big ears swiveled back before the rest of him slowly followed suit. The whitetail inclined her head kindly, her dark eyes gentle and understanding. “Shall we return, Unatsikanogeni?” the guide asked. “There is still sustenance—you may eat, just not of the flesh. Your harvest awaits you back home.”
The red wolf shook his head, his face oddly lifeless, and turned away again. “Utaluli,” he said softly. “I want to sit for a little longer.”
Unatsi did not look back to see if the guide had gone, but her scent faded away, and he was alone with his thoughts and his hunger once more.
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