Chris Wraight - Dead end

“This is the one!” shouted Orand, gesturing towards the buffalo with the spear in its flank.

The other animals seemed to sense it. The juveniles headed away from the stricken creature as quickly as they could. The herd was still determined to get away. Some of the hunters ran between the body of the herd and the separated animal, waving their spears and whooping wildly. It looked insanely dangerous, but their daring runs did the trick; the herd was splintering, losing its cohesion and allowing the other hunters to have a free run at the isolated buffalo.

A second jar’hram was hurled up at the lone beast. Ronon saw the shaft shiver as it hit, and the razor-sharp blade sunk deep into the buffalo’s heavy stomach. A huge roar went up, and the creature turned to face its tormentor. The spear-thrower, now bereft of his weapon, danced away and shrank back into the snow. With his white furs on, even Ronon had difficulty seeing where he’d gone.

The buffalo was becoming enraged. It reared up on its massive hind legs, before crashing its hooves back to earth. The snow flew up, and the earth shuddered under the impact. Ronon had difficulty keeping his feet. Out of immediate danger, he crouched down in the ice, panting for breath, looking for a chance to get involved.

The bulk of the herd was now moving away. Despite their huge size, the creatures seemed terrified of the hunters. Some of Orand’s group were driving them further off. Others were ensuring the separated animal couldn’t get back to rejoin the herd. More jar’hram flew through the air. Each time they landed, a fresh bellow of pain and rage rose from the lone buffalo.

Ronon rose, hefting his shaft lightly in his hands. Adrenalin had kicked in. Despite the long chase he found he still had reserves of strength. It was time for him to make a contribution. He pulled his spear back over his shoulder and hurled it at the buffalo with an almighty heave. The blade flew in a spinning arc, before clattering uselessly against the animal’s thick hide. With dismay, Ronon saw the jar’hram slide ineffectually down the buffalo’s flanks and into the snow.

There was no scorn from the others. Some of their spears had also failed to penetrate the animal’s protective layers of fur, and the remaining hunters were too busy keeping themselves alive to pay much attention to Ronon’s actions. Despite this, the Satedan felt a burning sense of failure. Without his spear, he was useless to the hunt. He shrank back away from the beast, wondering what to do.

“Stay in the circle!” cried Orand sharply.

The young hunter was to Ronon’s right, and hadn’t dispatched his spear yet. Ronon looked quickly across at the others, and saw that the party had formed into a wide ring. With the bulk of the herd driven off, the isolated animal was surrounded. There was no escape. The lone buffalo seemed confused and weary. Every so often it would make an attempt to charge free of its tormentors. When it did so, a fresh spear would spin up from a hidden hand, provoking a fresh lurch and stagger from the wounded animal. The snow was now stained with dark blood, and the bellows from the creature were becoming strangled and hoarse.

Ronon stayed where he was, watching the buffalo warily. It was a precarious occupation, being part of a living barrier. There were now half a dozen spears sticking from the buffalo’s body, and they swayed strangely as the beast wallowed and reared. Despite its wounds, the vast creature was still on its feet. The bellows rising from its cavernous ribcage now sounded more like pleas for help than roars of aggression. They were not answered. The rest of the herd had been driven some distance away. The hunters who had chased them off were returning. The game was entering its final stages.

The wounded buffalo turned away from Ronon, and challenged the hunters on the other side of the circle. There were few jar’hram left to throw. Then the Satedan spotted something lying in the churned-up snow. It was his blade, miraculously unbroken by the trampling hooves of the buffalo. With a sudden inspiration, Ronon realized he could get it. He stole a glance towards Orand, but the hunter was preoccupied with maintaining the stranglehold on the prey. Without waiting for doubt to cloud his judgment, Ronon sprinted forward. The spear was only a few yards ahead, half buried by the blood-stained slush.

As he did so, the buffalo turned. Its enraged eyes flashed, and it bore down on him. Ronon normally thought of himself as a big man; under the gaze of a rampaging White Buffalo he felt like an insect. This was dangerous. The Runner half-heard Orand’s urgent shout, but there was no choice, he was committed. The buffalo careered towards him, throwing slush into the air like a ship surging through the waves.

Ronon stooped down and picked up the jar’hram while still at full-tilt. He could smell the acrid musk of the wounded buffalo, its fur waving wildly as it careered onwards. Sliding and skidding, Ronon changed direction, scrabbling to get away. The thud of the creature’s hooves shook the ground beneath him.

He lost his footing on the churned-up snow, staggering as he ran. The gap closed. He felt his heart thumping heavily in his chest, he dreadlocks flailing, his furs streaming out behind him as he ran.

He was too close. The buffalo was on him. He could feel its bellowing breath against his shoulders. His legs burned, his arms pumped, but he knew it was no good.

He was going to get run down.

Teyla sat against the rough-cut stone wall, enjoying the warmth of the fire. There were voices all around. The womenfolk and children of the settlement had gathered in one of the larger chambers and were chatting and laughing amiably. The smaller boys ran around with sticks, mimicking the actions of the great hunt. The girls sat quietly, absorbing the deft movements of their mothers as they wove more plains-grass artifacts.

There seemed remarkably little disharmony in the Forgotten, Teyla thought. There were few quarrels, and no raised voices. The entire settlement seemed to realize their debt to one another. Perhaps the harshness of their predicament had forced them to become a uniquely cooperative people. Or maybe the absence of the Wraith had enabled them to lead lives of relative peace and security. But Teyla felt there was something more to it; they seemed almost too passive, too secure in their settled ways. Even during the team’s short stay on Khost, Teyla had seen that their situation was hopeless. If the winters carried on getting worse, then the Forgotten way of life would soon be wiped out.

Teyla watched Miruva laughing and gossiping with her friends as she wove. The girl’s face was alive with delight, and her smooth features were illuminated by the flickering light of the hearth. Teyla knew that she had potential. Not all the Forgotten women were destined to live their lives sewing and darning the furs of their men.

The Forgotten girl seemed to sense she was being watched, and turned to look at Teyla. The Athosian smiled, pushed herself up from the wall, and walked over to Miruva, picking her way past the scurrying children carefully.

“It is easy to lose track of time in this place,” said Teyla. “How long have we been here?”

Miruva looked up at the light-traps in the rock ceiling.

“It is now late afternoon,” she said. “You have seen a typical morning in this settlement. If you want to leave and help your friends, I won’t be offended.”

Teyla shook her head. “There is not much I can do to assist Dr McKay and Colonel Sheppard,” she said. “And it is just as useful for us to learn more about your situation here.”

Miruva put her weaving down. “Is there anything in particular you’d like to know?”