Session 02 How Could You Miss the Beak?

The pair begins making their way east through the forest. Their progress is slow at first. It takes the boy some time to get used to moving through the thick brush, and the hills weren’t helping much either. The breaks he was able to take while his father caught up were his only saving grace. As his father was making his way up a particularly steep hill, the boy took the time to open his water and take a chug. His father had encouraged him to drink as he was thirsty, but the pouch that’d started full was more than half empty. “Shouldn’t we be conserving water? Won't we need to find more soon?” He wondered, listening to the chirping of birds. The birds could be heard now that the clacking of his father’s pack had stopped. “Wait, why did it stop?” He thought, looking down at his father, who’d stopped halfway up the hill. “About time he got tired,” the boy thought, watching his father pant with his hands on his knees.

“Are you alright?” he called down to his father. His father seemed to jump at his call and then looked up at his boy.

“Mark the tree and then come look at this,” his father called, motioning for him.

“Did he find something?” The boy wondered, taking his ax and chopping a mark. “I just climbed there and didn’t see anything.” He cautiously made his way down the slope, careful not to fall. When he reached his father, he examined the ground where his father was looking, but said nothing.

“You see what I see?” his father asked, oddly sure of himself.

“You mean the leaves?”

“No, this,” he says, pointing to an odd stick that seemed segmented and curved.

“What kind of stick is that?” he asked, leaning closer.

“That’s not a stick, it’s scat.”

“Scat?”

“Ya know, animal droppings,”

“Wha?” The boy asked, cocking his head to the side.

“It’s poop, son, animal poop.”

“Eww,” the boy said, pulling his face away. “Why’d you show it to me then?”

“I was debating if I should tell you or not because it means good news and bad news.”

“Why does everything mean good and bad news here?” he asked his father, exasperated.

“Couldn’t tell you,” his father says.”Just tell me if you’d like to know.”

“Ugh,” the boy sighs, defeated. “Tell me the bad news first.”

“Well, the bad news is that’s a lot of scat, meaning that this is either a huge wolf or a decent-sized bear,” he said calmly, looking around the hillsides. “And worse yet, it’s no more than a day or so old, meaning it’s still somewhere in this forest, so we need to be aware of that,” his father explains.

“You seem awfully calm about that,” the boy thinks, as he imagines his arms being torn off by a predator’s gaping maw.

“And what’s the good news exactly?” he asks, crossing his arms and grabbing his elbows.

“Well, the good news is that whatever left this here is obviously well fed, meaning A, that it’s less likely to attack us, and B, there’s enough prey here that we should be able to eat well with a bit of hunting.” His father's words had done little to diminish the image of a bear tearing off his arms.

“And what will we do if they do come looking for us?” the boy asked cautiously.

“Well, if it’s a bear, just yell and make yourself look like more trouble than you’re worth. If it’s that well fed, then it shouldn’t be that hard. If it’s a wolf pack, then just stand your ground. They hunt by chasing down their prey till it’s exhausted; it’ll be terrifying, but just stand your ground, and they’ll leave soon enough.”

“That sounds made up,” the boy said, thinking of the image of staring down a pack of wolves.

“Oh, it’ll be terrifying, but just stay with me, and we’ll be fine. I was afraid something like this might be in the woods, that’s why I have my mess kit clacking.” The boy watches his father shake his back, sending the petal plates, loosely tied to his backpack, rattling like an ill-crafted wind chime. “The noise will alert anything out there that we’re here, and hopefully, they’ll avoid us.”

“So that’s why you did that,” the boy thinks, almost able to shake the image of his bleeding arm out of his head. His imagination is stopped when his father punches his shoulder. He looks up and sees his father smiling.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be fine. The Lord provides, and before we know it, we’ll be back home laughing about this whole thing. Now come on, let’s keep moving,” he says, continuing his climb up the hill.

They continued for what felt like a few hours to the boy, but with no way of telling time, he couldn’t be sure. As they continued through the forest, the boy found it easier to walk through the brush. Was it because he’d gotten used to it? Or maybe the brush had gotten sparser? Either way, the hills had become more subdued, which he welcomed with open arms. “This has to mean we’re getting somewhere,” the boy thought, pleased with their progress. As he waited for his father at the next tree, he reached for his water pouch, hoping that more water had appeared since the last time he’d squeezed the empty pouch. He sighs, wipes his brow, and feels the sweat pour down his face. He licks his upper lip, and it tastes salty like the ocean. He looks down at his arm, and even the salty drops look like ice-cold lemonade to his sandy throat. Once his father catches up, he looks at his boy.

“This is as good a place as any,” he says. “Let’s rest here a minute. Drop your pack and drink some water,” his father says, dropping his pack.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” the boy thinks, dropping his bag and sitting on a rotting log while his father paced back and forth.

“Come on, don’t be a tough guy. Drink some water,” he says after a movement. The boy looks shocked, and his stomach begins to churn as he reaches for his empty waterskin. “You’re out, aren’t you?” The boy can only look down in shame at his father’s words. His father takes a step closer, and the boy preps for what may be a knock on the head and some words about being stupid and not saving it. But none comes. “Here,” he hears his father say, and when he looks up, he sees his father’s water skin held out towards him. He eagerly takes it and sucks down a huge gulp.

“I was wondering when you’d run out, was surprised you made it this long, to be honest.”

“I tried to ration it,” the boy says, between chugs.

“Don’t worry about it,” his father says, waving his hand.“How are you feeling? Not too tired?”

“Not really. The hills were a pain, but now it isn't so bad.”

“No blisters or anything?”

“None yet.”

“Good, good, hopefully, it’ll stay that way.” The boy watched as his father continued to pace while stroking his beard and murmuring to himself. His armor clinks as he does so. The boy turned away, not wanting to see his father panic, as it would make him follow suit. He instead looked away and saw a bird chirping in its nest, and began taking in the sounds of the forest. The soft breeze blew through the canopy, the rustling of leaves nearby, and a woodpecker tapping away at a tree. His thoughts are cut very short as an all too familiar feeling sprang to the forefront of his mind. An irresistible urge that no man could fight for long.

“Uh, Dad,” the boy said, looking to his father.

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” his father said, not looking his way.

“No, Dad, it’s… Um, I,” he begins, unsure how to say what he’s feeling.

“You what?” His father says, urgency returning to his voice as his stare penetrates his son's very being.
“I have to pee,” the boy says, looking down a bit embarrassed.

“Oh, is that it?” His father asks, the calm returning to his voice. “If that’s all, then go use the tree.”

“Which tree?” The boy asks, wondering which tree his father could mean.

“Just pick one, preferably one out of the direction of travel.”

“Sure,” the boy says, rising from the log and stepping into the woods. He takes a few steps and looks for a tree. He deliberates for a moment and then decides it can't matter which tree he chooses and opts for a thick one that can hide him entirely from his father’s view. He forces his way through a bit of brush, ivy, and fallen limbs, making a path that makes it difficult to pass. Limbs snap and leaves rustle, he's just about made it when one snap sounds different.

“What the” is all he can think before he’s flung up in the air.

“Woaaah!” he screams as his ankle pulls him towards the sky.

“SON!” he hears his father call, followed by metal clanging against wood. “WHAT HAPPENED!”

“I don't know,” the boy called, looking down at his father, pouches and swords smacking his face as they dangled awkwardly from his belt. “I just took a step and now I’m in the air.”

“How the hell?” his father begins asking before stopping himself. He steps closer and looks directly up at his son. The shock melts from his face and is replaced with a joyful smile. “Son, this is great,” his father cheers, much to the boy's annoyance and displeasure.

“The hell you mean ‘this is great’?”

“Think about it, son,” the father emplores. “You're trapped in a snare, which means?”

“I’m gonna be really annoyed until you get me loose,” the boy answers, immediately displeased with his father’s game of 20 questions.

“That someone had to set the snare,” his father finishes.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious, now why don't we move on to more pressing matters, like what color is an orange?”

“You don't get it, son,” the father says, shaking his head. “Someone set that snare, meaning there are people here, or at least nearby—walking distance, or at least four-wheeling distance. There’s probably a trail nearby here, too… If I can just-”

“How about you get me loose before we do any of that?” The boy asks, the feeling of blood pooling in his head becoming unbearable.

“Nah, I was gonna leave you there till I find the snare’s owner, wouldn't want to damage his property,” the father said, looking at the anchoring line. As his father fiddled with the rope, the boy sighed and waited. The blood pooling in his head became more and more unbearable; he felt the beads of sweat that had been on his cheeks work their way back into his eyes, and the sounds of birds chirping became softer and softer as the sound of his father crashing through the brush became louder.

“Could you stop struggling?” His father called, mild irritation dripping from his voice. “It’s only gonna waste the slack, and the noise is distracting.”

“Wait a minute,” the boy thought, opening his eyes and looking down. “If dad’s not making that noise, then what's making that crashing sound?” He tucked his chin into his chest and began scanning as well as he could. He could definitely hear something, but where was it coming from?”

“Dad!” he called, still trying to turn towards the crashing.

“Just give me a minute,” his father barked back. “I may be out of practice, but I’ll have you down soon enough.”

“No, Dad, the noise is-”

“I said, stop struggling, I almost have it.”

“No, Dad, it’s,” the boy finished, turning toward the noise. Sure enough, in that direction, he could see branches and bushes moving, something was approaching, something big.

“Got it,” his father cheered, just as he was about to glimpse what approached them. Suddenly, his clear, if upside-down, view was replaced by leaves and branches as he fell unconsciously to the ground. The boy grasped at branches and limbs, desperate for anything to stop his fall, but slowing it was all he could do. He landed on his feet, his knees nearly colliding with his chin as he flopped back on his butt. The fall was jarring, but he wasn’t hurt. Just as he caught his breath, a massive shadow loomed overhead.

He instinctively jumps to his feet, drawing the sword at his side like a long forgotten reflex, but just as quickly, the shadow lets out a terrifying roar and crashes down where the boy had been kneeling a second before. There before him stood a bear, or something like it. Even on all four legs, the beast was as tall as he was, its long legs ending in clawed paws, but instead of brown, black, or even white fur like a normal bear, this one was stark green. Its furry coat resembled a bed of moss more than anything else. Beyond that, its face was utterly wrong. Instead of a protruding snout and nose, its face was flat and had a beak. The creature's strange look startled him. He had no time to think, no time to be afraid before it charged. Breaking into a gallop before he could even turn around. The next thing he felt was a violent *yank* on his back collar. His father, grasping his collar, didn’t so much pull as he did fling his son back, sending him flying with little regard for where he’d land. All the while letting out an ear-piercing “AAAAAAAHHHHHHH” like a Viking beginning a raid, greatsword in hand, ready to strike. The boy didn’t see the first clash. All he saw was the rotating canopy as he began rolling down another side of the hill they’d just climbed. He tumbled end over end, head over heels, until the bottom, when on instinct he managed to right himself and would’ve landed on his feet if the muddy ground hadn’t given way. *Splash* He landed on his butt, the creek quickly drenching his pants and back. He quickly jumped up out of the water and oriented his eyes on the hill above, where his father still was. The bear prodded and swiped with its claws, but each time, his father would take a half step back, let out another ear-splitting yell, and then stab or slice in the bear's direction. Though his father clearly had the better reach, it was also clear that had the bear continued its charge, his father had no chance of stopping it. All the time, his father never turned down the volume on his yelling; he even made it louder when the bear prodded, stomping his feet, banging his metal plates, or slamming the sword into the ground. Each stroke was a raucous display of his power. The bear leaned back onto its hind legs and screeched like an eagle, towering over the father like a giant. The father, not deterred, took the opening and struck, thrusting his sword into the bear's chest. The bear let out another earth-shaking growl, leaning forward and almost landing on top of the father, blood slowly leaking from the wound. The two stared each other down, both panting after their warcry competition but ready to strike should either make a move. Ever so slowly, his father took a half step back, and the bear followed suit, taking a step back. Every so slowly, the pair split away and backed off. Once the bear was out of sight, the father didn’t stow his blade but simply lowered his guard.

“Are you alright?” he called down to his son, who’d been frozen in place watching from the bottom of the hill.

“Yeah,” he called back, breaking from his trance.

“Then come up here, don't want it to come back and charge us down the hill.” The boy did as his father said and made his way back up the hill, almost slipping in his now dampened boots. “Why are you all wet?” his father asked once he reached the summit.

“What else would you expect when you threw me down into the stream?”

“There’s a stream down there?”

“Apparently,” his son says, presenting his thoroughly soaked backside.

“Well, I guess our prayers for water have been answered,” the red draining from his face. “We’ll go down and collect some in a moment,” his father says, finally stowing his blade and collapsing onto the ground, letting out a huge sigh.

“Are you okay?” his son asks, concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine, adrenaline rush is wearing off, is all,” he says, giggling. “Haven't felt like that since the war when I-,” his smile vanishes like darkness once the lights flicker on, and he sits up. “Well, you don’t much enjoy my old stories now, do you? No need to bother with them now,” he says, standing. "Let's go get some water,” he says, collecting his bag.

“Shouldn’t we be more concerned about that… that… What attacked us?” The boy asked, pointing in the direction the beast had run off in.

“Don’t think so,” his father says, nonchalantly. “I’m sure it thinks we're more troubled than we’re worth for now, it should try to avoid us as much as we try to avoid it… Hopefully.”

“Cool, but what about what that thing is?” The boy said, thinking back to the green fur and beaked face.

“What do you mean? It's a bear with some kind of skin infection and a disfigured face,” his father said as if it were obvious.

“Disfigured face?”

“Yeah, what else would you call that?”

“THAT THING HAD A BEAK?” The boy screamed, utterly flabbergasted by his father’s calm demeanor. The father looked surprised at his son’s words, tilting his helmet up to look his son in the eyes.

“What do you mean it had a beak?” He asked.

“Did you not see it?”

“Honestly, didn't get a good look with this helmet on. I thought it looked strange, but I couldn’t make out a beak.”

“How could you miss that?” The boy yelled, no longer able to control his volume.

“Look, son, let’s think about this,” his father said, taking his helmet all the way off and looking his son in the eye. “We have three options: either I'm right, you're right, or we’re both wrong. Now, there’s no way to know without tracking that thing down and getting another look at it. I don't want to do that, and I don't think you wanna do that either, right?”

“Yeah,” the boy said, calming down a bit.

“So, since there’s no way to know either way, we can use Occam's razor and determine it was probably just a bear with a strange coat and a deformed face, strange, but nothing to worry about, okay?”

“Okay,” the boy said, feeling the adrenaline finally fade from his body.

“Good,” the father said, putting on his helmet and bag. “Now let’s go see this stream.”

Once they reach the edge of the slow-wading stream, the boy drops his pack. He kneels, cups his hands into the river, and moves them to his mouth. The moisture is just about to reach his lips when he’s jerked to the side, spilling the water from his hands.

“Don’t just drink water from a strange stream in the middle of the woods,” his father shouts. “You have no idea what’s in there, sewage, tapeworms, any number of bacteria or disease, hell, maybe even heavy metals, or industrial runoff.”

“But look at how clear it is?”

“That doesn't mean jack till you’ve tested it.”

“Well then, how do we do that?” The boy asks, pulling his hands from his father’s grip. He looks up, pondering for a moment, and gesturing with his arms, trying to work out a solution.

“OK, I know a few ways,” his father says, snapping his fingers. “But they require more water than this… I think.”

“You think?” The boy asks, looking up at his father with an exasperated sigh.

“Yeah, truth be told, I’ve never actually tried them.”

“What do you mean you’ve never tried them?”

“I’ve never been in a situation where I’ve needed them.”

“Well then, how do you know them?”

“You can learn a lot on the internet.” The boy again looks at his father, utterly baffled. How can he be so sure if he’s never tried them? He thinks.

“Ok, then what do we do?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” he says, standing up. “We just follow the stream.”

“Why?”

“Well, think about it. All flowing water heads downstream, right?”

“Yeah, and?”

“What do you think we’ll find at the end of it?”

“I don’t know what?”

“One of two things,” he says, holding up two fingers. “A lake or the ocean. Maybe even a bigger river,” He says, cocking his head. “Which I guess will then lead to either a lake or the ocean, but either way, what might we find on the shore of any of those?”

“.... A beaver dam? I don't know.”

“People, son. People need a reliable water source to live, and a river is one of, if not the best, reliable water sources.” He stands and throws his pack back on his back. “It was good that you found the stream. Now we can just follow it, come on,” he says, stepping off. The boy watches for his father to get some distance before he dives his hands into the stream and gulps down a handful of water. The cool moisture dissolves the cotton in his mouth as it slides down his throat. He quickly grabs his pack and follows after his father.

The pair continued following the winding path of the stream. Occasionally, as his father climbed a hill to see around a bend, the boy would lean down and snag a mouthful of water. He’d remember his father’s words, but the relief in his throat would wash away his guilt along with his thirst. As they walked, the stream would occasionally merge with another until the stream that had only been a foot wide and barely an inch deep had become a river nearly 10 feet wide and, by his father’s estimate, somewhere between the knee and waist deep. As they followed the river, the forest began to become denser and denser. Almost to the point, they had to move around the trees. At some points, they could no longer see the river but could always hear it through the trees. Their problem wasn’t helped when the hills returned, and the river seemed to cut and weave between the valleys. “I should’ve expected this,” the father says. “I should’ve expected the forest to be denser around the river, more water, more nutrients, bigger and more trees, and foliage.”

“Is that why the hills are here too?” the boy asks. “From the tree dying and becoming dirt?”

“That could be a factor; more likely, the tree roots are keeping the dirt that is here in place as opposed to it washing away from the river. Of course, there’s no way of knowing since we have no idea if this is the wet or dry season.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well then, tell me, what month is it?” His father asks.

“November,” the boy answers.

“It was November when we left, but I was in Japan and you in Washington. Who’s to say where we are now?”

“You think we were teleported across the Earth?”

“Well, when you wake up in a strange forest in strange clothes, anything is fair game, I’d think. We could be in the Congo, or Montana, or Lithuania, for all we know. And how long was it before that flash of light and you woke up?”

“A couple of seconds.”

“You remember a couple of seconds. Who’s to say you weren’t asleep? It could’ve been months or even years between when you closed your eyes and when you woke up.”

“What’s that have to do with anything?” The boy asks.

“Not much, just that we can’t be sure where we are or even when we are, because-” the father suddenly stops his explanation as he pulls back a tree branch.