David Farland: Beyond the Gate

After his recent adventures with Gallen and Maggie, risking his hide on half a dozen planets, Orick felt that his life was somehow charmed. A few weeks ago, he couldn’t have imagined sitting here, a hairsbreadth from winning the title of Primal Bear.

Along the banks of Obhiann Fiain the bears had gathered by the hundreds for the annual Salmon Fest. The icy waters of Obhiann Fiain thundered through a gorge, and many a cub was perched on the large rocks, waiting to swipe at any salmon that tried to leap past.

The older bears had gathered near the dark pines that morning. Fires burned low along the hillside, and salmon skewered on stakes were cooking slowly so that smoke crept along the ground.

But Orick the bear did not have his mind on fish. After over a week of athletic competitions and feasting, Orick felt as sated as he’d been in his life-or at least as far as his gustatory appetites were concerned.

But now came the final athletic event of the Salmon Fest-the much anticipated pig toss. After all the contests-the tree-climbing, the wrestling matches, the log pull, and the salmon-catch-Orick lacked only five points to take the lead in the competitions. The pig toss would make or break him.

Orick’s nerves were frayed. He watched dozens of younger bears toss the “pigs”-burlap bags filled with forty pounds of rock. Legend said that in the old days, bears had actually tossed live piglets, but Orick couldn’t imagine his ancestors engaging in such brutish activities.

Anxiously Orick waited for the toss of old Mangan, an aging bear with an especially large snout and a blaze of white on his chest. For five years-since before Orick was even born-Mangan had held the title of Primal Bear for the twin counties, an honor which allowed him the privilege of selecting ten or twelve mates a year. Orick had matched him in nearly every competition.

The competitions proceeded. Each bear snagged a pig and then took it to the tossing ring-a small circle of stones. The bears in the crowd would cheer and jeer in their deep voices.

Orick watched the first few throws, his heart pounding. He wanted to win, could taste victory. He looked out over the crowd, scanning for the females he’d most admired during the past weeks. He particularly liked one big she-bear, one with a thick, glossy coat, long, shiny claws, and large teeth. Certainly there were some fine specimens in estrus, and their scent left Orick dizzy, reeling. He met the eyes of one young she-bear but the undisguised lust in her glances left him feeling empty, hollow. Am I nothing more to her than a breeder? he wondered. The boar that might sire her cubs?

And he knew it was true. She-bears did not form strong attachments. God had so fashioned them that they desired but one thing from a male, and after their sexual appetites were sated, they would become irritable, chase him away.

Even now, many females huddled around Mangan, the favorite to win the games. They tempted him with their scent, gazed imploringly with their deep brown eyes.

And Orick, watching those she-bears, suddenly felt empty, desolate.

If he won this contest, what would he win? A few nights of frolicking with she-bears who would hold him in contempt a week later? It seemed an empty prize. For months now, Orick had considered entering the priesthood, giving himself into the service of God and mankind. It seemed a noble thing to his mind, yet here he had let his gonads bring him to this Salmon Fest to engage in these bestial contests.

If he bred widely, he would perhaps gain some form of immortality through his offspring. But if I give myself into the service of God, he told himself, wouldn’t I gain a more sure form of immortality?

And so Orick was at war with himself, disconsolate. Before he knew it, old Mangan marched up to the circle with a burlap “pig” in his teeth. The she-bears in the audience called out, “Hurl that pig! Make it fly, Mangan!” Many she-bears cast him demure glances. Some stood on all fours and arched their backs, raising their tails seductively.

Old Mangan turned to Orick, a calculated gleam of malice in his eyes. “Looks like you’ll be taking second pick this year,” he shouted.

Mangan stood on his hind legs. He was tall, over six and a half feet at the shoulders. This gave him a real advantage in the toss, for he could swing with a long arc. And he had a great deal of muscle in those shoulders.

The old bear reached down with a contemptuous swipe and snagged the pig. Then he stood majestically, a sudden gust of wind rippling through his fur. He swayed back and forth, swinging the pig in long arcs, then with a snort that was almost a roar he swung one last arc and tossed the pig high. It sailed over the playing field, far past the longest mark from the younger bears, and slammed into the gray trunk of a pine tree. The burlap bag split on impact, spilling red clay dirt down the side of the tree.

Around Orick, bears hooted and cheered, shouting Mangan’s name. But Mangan looked at where his bag had landed, and his upper lip curled into a snarl. Obviously, he had not counted on hitting the tree.

The other real contenders for the tide of Primal Bear hung back, waiting to see who they would have to best. But Orick was suddenly tired of the games.

He rushed forward, looked at the “pigs” in their pile. He doubted that he could toss a burlap pig as far as Mangan had. Throwing was never his strong point.

So he would have to gamble. He found a bag that was halfway torn open, giving it a little more length so that it could be swung in a wider arc and would come free without snagging into his claws. Still, the bag could also rip halfway through the toss, losing mass so that ultimately Orick might not get as long a throw as he hoped.

Orick bit the thing in a fit of frustration and carried it up to the circle in his teeth. He was dimly aware of the cheers from the females in the camp behind him, and he looked out over the field. He needed five points. He would have to beat Mangan’s toss by more than five feet in order to win the title, and even then Orick would have to wait to see if the other contenders would best his own mark.

He had never tried throwing a bag underhand the way that Mangan had just done. The only advantage Orick might really have was that he was younger and stronger than Mangan. But Mangan, having a long reach, had thrown his pig in a long arc that Orick could not march. Which meant that he would need to hurl that pig with a sidewise toss.

Orick took his well-ripped bag back to its pile, found one that was still new. He carried it to the circle, closed his eyes, twisted a three-quarter turn, and roared in frustration as he threw with his might.

The pig sailed toward the same tree Mangan had hit, and for one moment Orick thought he would repeat the older bear’s performance, but the bag missed the tree trunk, lofted past it a few feet and tangled in the branches, then fell to the deeper grass beyond. Orick could not tell how far the pig had gone.

A dozen cubs rushed up with the measuring rods in their teeth, and a moment later they announced that Orick had beat Mangan’s mark by twelve feet. For the moment, Orick was leader in the race for Primal Bear, and roars of delight came up from all around, from males and she-bears alike, for now it marked the end of Mangan’s reign. This year, there would be a new Primal Bear.

Still, at least two other bears could possibly beat Orick, and as he walked back to the crowd, he listened to the deep cheers, and for one moment, just one moment, he wished that Gallen and Maggie could be here to see what he’d accomplished. But they were off in Clere, planning their wedding.