The bear charged again, but this time Morte was ready. Just as the bear reached him, Morte reared up and brought the bone spikes that surrounded his hooves straight up into the bear’s neck and face. The bear let out a terrible whine as Morte forced him down to the ground and delicately detached his hooves. Morte tilted his head and looked at the bear before he reared up once more and brought his hooves crashing down on the beast’s chest.
Dinah looked away. The creature was now utterly unrecognizable as a tangled heap of white and red. Morte stepped back and let out a bellow. It was a deep, terrible sound, a war cry, and it chilled Dinah to the bone. Morte began galloping wildly around his kill. The bear’s body shifted, and Dinah watched its exposed ribs give a final shudder before the bear gave up his life.
Dinah stood quietly in the grass, her eyes trained on Morte, more afraid of him than she ever had been. Morte didn’t even seem to notice her as he buried his head deep into the bear’s belly and began eating. Dinah felt a wave of revulsion wash over her. She had forgotten that Hornhooves sometimes ate their kills. They were as satisfied with flesh and bone as they were with grass and grain. With her hand pressed over her mouth, she turned away and walked back toward the overturned head of the Yurkei chief. Giant slashes lingered where the bear had ripped its claws across the stone. Dinah let out a long breath, suddenly aware of how close she had come to being maimed and eaten herself. This was the second time that Morte had saved her life.
After a while, Morte had eaten his fill of the bear and lay down in the grasses, nuzzling his wounded flank. Now hesitant to leave his side, Dinah raced to fetch her bag and returned quickly to the Valley of Heads. Inside, she found her old bloody nightgown. The birds in the trees began singing their shrill cries once again as she ripped it into several long pieces. Head bowed, she gingerly approached the Hornhoov. He gave a soft nicker as she grew near, and Dinah took this as a good sign. Using her waterskin, she poured her remaining water over the deep cuts in Morte’s flank and chest. His giant head jerked in pain, but he did not move as she cleaned the wounds using the water and her hands. As gently as she could, Dinah laid the pieces of cloth over the bloody scrapes and used her hands to press them down until the blood dried against the cloth, until they would stay.
She stood and walked toward the dead bear, its chest and head nothing more than ground meat. This would take a strong stomach, she told herself, but it must be done. It was imperative to her survival that Morte trust her, understanding that she knew what he was. He wasn’t a pet. He wasn’t hers. Brandishing the dagger she had pulled from her bag, Dinah leaned over the bear, took a deep breath, and began cutting the bear’s pelt away from its body. It was grueling work—by the time Dinah was done, the sun was setting low in the east and she could see that the night would be lit by a single visible star.
Blood was smeared to her elbows, her hair matted and sweaty, both of her hands trembling with pain. Her two broken fingers throbbed, and the cut in her hand seemed to have opened again, its blood mingling with the bear’s. But finally she had it, she had the pelt. It was thick and soft, the size of a small blanket, shaped into a jagged square. In a nearby creek, Dinah rinsed out the blood.
Cradling the wet pelt in her arms, Dinah brought it before Morte. The Hornhoov sniffed at the pelt and raised his onyx head to look at Dinah. She held her breath as she laid it across his wide back, the trophy from his kill. Hand trembling, she reached forward and placed it just for a minute on his side. She let it linger there until Morte nipped at her arm. Her body weary in a way that Dinah hadn’t previously known existed, she cleaned off the dagger, forced herself to swallow a piece of bird meat, packed up her bag, and took a long look back at the Valley of Heads. The setting sun lay heavy over the misty grasses, and the whole area simmered in a warm glow. The insect that resembled toast strutted proudly past Dinah, no doubt on its way back to the milky tree that gave it life. Dinah bit her lip and began walking east as the forest descended into darkness. She took only a few paces before she heard Morte’s thudding hooves behind her, cracking branches as he walked. Soon, he was barely an arm’s length away. The stench of death was all around him, but to Dinah, he was still a welcome smell.
Chapter Two