A Good Night to Hunt

(The Cliffs of Bamiyan, 2228 A.D.)

Musa shielded his eyes from the light of the slowly setting sun, scanning the skies for the falcons that hunted overhead. Two or three still wheeled lazily, high up in the sky, but they would be settling in to roost soon. He adjusted the leather satchel that he carried near his right hip and smiled as he felt slight stirrings from within. The sun would be setting soon, and Feshar and Kash would be eager to get started; time to go. He had traveled the path to the hunting grounds many times before and his mind wandered as he walked. Wandered where it always did, to Jameela. It made him happy to dwell on her laughter and her smile, made him forget he was trudging through the desert at dusk to hunt pika instead of settling down to supper like the other men; the farmers, the shepherds, and the merchants. This was the life he had chosen, but the young bachelor he had been when he had chosen this life had not known about missed suppers with Jameela or about tired feet and aching bones. The stirrings in the bag evolved into thrashings as the sun went down and the hunters within began to wrestle. He reached into his bag with both hands and extracted a stoat with each one.

“Feshar! Kash! Why must you start each day fighting?” They often reminded Musa of his younger sisters, always together, and always fighting, although there was less biting with the stoats. Stoats, like their cousins, the weasels, are avid hunters. As soon as he set them on the ground near the base of the tall cliffs they began their work, their foot-long bodies scurrying and slinking in turn, searching for their prey hiding in their dens among the rocks. Kash found her quarry first. She dispatched the pika in one lightning-fast move, then called out to Musa in a series of short, chirpy barks. Musa followed the sound to the hunter and prey. The pika was nearly a foot long itself, and Kash hadn’t damaged the pelt; it would provide both meat and fur for the market in the morning. Musa hung the slain animal from his belt just in time to hear Feshar signal that she too had been successful. It was a good night, and they caught many fat and furry pikas.

The night air was cool against his skin as he began his long walk back home, the stoats exhausted and safely back in their sack, Feshar kicking Kash in the face while they slept. The sky was clear and the stars sparkled in the sky like polished diamonds under the jeweler’s lamp, scattered around the great luminous pearl that was the moon.  Experiencing nights like this made up for the tired feet and the aching bones, and sharing his life with stoats made up for having to spend so much of his days at the chaotic and smelly market, but nothing quite made up for the missed time with his girl. He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice when the stoats woke up and began to wrestle in the pouch, but he did notice when they jumped out of their sack and sprinted off towards the nearby caves. He scanned base of the caves for any trace of movement, but the stoats were far too well camouflaged to spot. It wasn’t until he heard their short bursts of chirping that he was able to pinpoint the correct direction. He followed them to the base of the great cavern, where legends said that a great stone Buddha had once stood guard for more than a thousand years before it was destroyed, rebuilt, and destroyed yet again. Feshar and Kash were huddled near the roots of one of the hundred-year-old cedars that grew here now, a tiny white bundle of fur with pink eyes shivering between them. They had found a tiny stoat, barely old enough to be out of its den, not starving, but far too skinny. Albino animals didn’t usually survive long in the wild.

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“Well then,” he said, smiling to himself, “you just might do the trick.”

Musa picked up Feshar and Kash and put them back in their satchel, then picked up the squirming little ribbon of white fur. It didn’t go limp, but it didn’t try and bite either. He put the kit in the bag and it curled up between the two experienced hunters and promptly fell asleep. He whistled as he finished his walk back home, his aches and pains completely forgotten. When he opened the door to their home he could smell the aroma of the lamb stew and Naan bread that Jameela had cooked for supper. He put away his hunting gear and the game he had obtained before finding his old satchel, the one that Feshar and Kash had outgrown. He tucked the energetic little scrap of fur inside. He wrote a note and tied it to the satchel with a bit of rough twine then called to Jameela. She squealed with delight when she saw the little white nose peeking out from the sack and read the note attached.

To Jameela,

I can’t imagine my life without you. I found this little darling and thought of you.

Come hunting with me tomorrow.

Love,

Daddy. 


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Quick note from Lance about this post: when you choose to comment (or share this post with your friends) you help other readers just like you.

How?

Well, see, your comments & sharing whisper a few things to those who come after you:

The first is that this site is a safe place to speak up & stay curious. That it's civil. That discussion is encouraged. That there's no such thing as a stupid question (being a student of Socrates, I really and truly believe this). That talking to one another and growing together is more important than anything we could possibly publish. That the point is growing in virtue and growing together and growing wise. That discovery is invention, deference is originality, that we all can rise together. The only folks I'm going to take comments down from are obvious jerks who argue in bad faith, don't stay curious, or actively make personal attacks. And, frankly, I'd rather we talk here than on some social media farm — I will never show ads and the only thing I'm selling anywhere on the site or my mailing list is just the stuff I make.

You're also helping folks realize that anything you & they build together is far more important than anything you come to me to read. I take the things I write about seriously, but I don't take myself seriously: I play the fool, I hate cults of personality, and I also don't really like being the center of attention (believe it or not). I would much rather folks connect because of an introduction I've made or because they commented with one another back and forth and then build something beautiful together. My favorite contributions have been lifelong business and love partnerships from two people who have forgotten I introduced them. Some of my closest friends NOW I literally met on another blog's comment section fifteen years ago. I would love for that to happen here — let two of you meet and let me fade into the background.

Last, you help me revise. I'm wrong. Often. I'm not embarrassed to admit it or worried about being cancelled or publicly shamed. I make a fool out of myself (that's sort of the point). So as I get feedback, I can say, "I was wrong about that" and set a model for curious, consistent learning, and growing in wisdom. I'm blind to what I don't know and as grows the island of my knowledge so grows the shoreline of my ignorance. It's the recovery of innocence on the far end of experience: a child is in a permanent state of wonder. So are the wise: they aren't afraid of saying, "I don't know. That's new: please teach me." That's my goal, comments help. And I read all reviews: my skin's tough, but that's not license to be needlessly cruel. We teach one another our habits and there's a way to civilly demolish an idea without demolishing another person: just because I personally can take the world's meanest 1-star review doesn't mean we should teach one another how to be crueler on the internet.

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