Session 2: How Could You Miss the Beak?

You and your Father make your way East through the forest. Progress is slow at first. It takes you time to get used to the thick brush, and the hills don’t help. The only saving grace is the breaks you get while your Father catches up. As he grinds up a particularly steep hill, you uncap your waterskin and take a chug. He told you to drink when you’re thirsty, but the pouch that started full is more than half empty. “Shouldn’t we be conserving water?” you think. “Won’t we need to find more soon?” Birds chirp now that the clacking from your Father’s pack has stopped. “Wait… why did it stop?” You glance down the hill. He’s frozen halfway up, hands on his knees. “About time he got tired,” you think.

“Are you alright?” you call, worried he may need help climbing the hill. He nearly jumps at your words, then looks up at you.

“Mark the tree and then come look at this,” he calls, motioning you down.

“Did he find something?” You wonder, taking your axe and chopping a mark. *thock* “I just climbed there and didn’t see anything. What did he find?” you mutter, easing down the slope, careful not to slip. You reach him and study the ground where he’s staring.

“You see what I see?” your Father asks, oddly sure of himself.

“You mean the leaves?”

“No, this,” he says, pointing to an odd, segmented curve on the ground.

“What kind of stick is that?” You lean closer.

“That’s not a stick, it’s scat.”

“Scat?”

“Ya know, animal droppings.”

“Wha?” You cock your head.

“It’s poop, son—animal poop.”

“Eww.” You pull your face back. “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’s it always good news and bad news?” you groan.

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

“Ugh.” You sigh, defeated. “Tell me the bad news first.”

“Well, the bad news is that’s a lot of scat, meaning this is either a huge wolf or a decent‑sized bear,” he says calmly, scanning 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.”

“You seem awfully calm about that,” you think, picturing your arms getting torn off by a predator’s gaping maw.

“And what’s the good news exactly?” you ask, crossing your arms and grabbing your elbows.

“Well, the good news is that whatever left this is obviously well fed, meaning A) 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 reassurance does little to banish the bear imagery gnawing at your brain.

“And what will we do if they come looking for us?” you ask 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,” you say, imagining 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.” He shakes his pack. The metal plates, loosely tied, rattle like a poorly made 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,” you think, almost able to shake the image of your bleeding arm. Your train of thought derails when he punches your shoulder lightly. You look up; he’s 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 up the hill.

You travel on for what feels like hours, but with no way to tell time, who knows? The brush gets easier to push through—either you’re getting used to it, or it’s thinner here. The hills mellow out, which you welcome with open arms. “This has to mean we’re getting somewhere, right?” For a moment, you consider asking your Father, but decide not to, for fear of the answer. At the next tree, you wait for him, reaching for your waterskin, hoping more water has magically appeared since the last squeeze of the empty pouch. You sigh, wipe your brow, and feel sweat pour down your face. You lick your upper lip. Salty—like the ocean. Even the sweat beads on your arm look like ice‑cold lemonade to your sandy throat. The forest grows thicker, but your Father insists on maintaining a straight line no matter what.

“A slight turn becomes a circle before you know it,” he insists, calling for you to push past ivy and bushes. Your short breaks when he catches up are your only respite, which seem to be getting shorter every time. You force a narrow passage through brush, ivy, and deadfall. Limbs snap and leaves rustle. When the forest suddenly seems to open, you nearly fall onto what looks like a thin trail, just wide enough to walk on.

“What’s this?” you think, stepping over leaves and sticks to get a better look when a snap sounds different. “What the?” is all you can think before the ground yanks out from under you.

“Woaaah!” you scream as your ankle whips you upside‑down.

“SON!” your Father shouts. Metal clashes against wood.

*clang‑thwack*

He crashes into the clearing. “WHAT HAPPENED?”

“I don’t know!” you call, pouches and sword smacking your face as they dangle from your belt. “I just took a step and now I’m in the air!”

“How the hell—” He cuts himself off, steps closer, and looks straight up at you. Shock melts to a grin. “Son, this is great,” he cheers, which does absolutely nothing for your annoyance.

“Great, my ass!” You shout.

“Think about it, son,” he implores. “You’re trapped in a snare, which means?”

“I’m only gonna grow more pissed until you cut me loose,” you deadpan, already done with his game of twenty questions.

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

“Thank you, Captain Obvious. Now, why don’t we move on to more pressing mysteries, like the color of an orange?”

“You don’t get it, son.” He shakes his head. “Someone set that snare, meaning there are people here, or at least nearby—walking distance, or four‑wheeling distance. This is probably a game trail too… If we can just—”

“How about you get me loose before we do any of that?” You ask as blood pools in your head; the pressure grows unbearable.

“Nah, I was gonna leave you there till I find the snare’s owner, wouldn’t want to damage his property,” he says, eyes on the anchoring line. He fiddles with the rope while you try not to pass out. The birds grow faint; the sound of something crashing through brush grows louder.

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

“Wait.” You open your eyes wide and look down. “If Dad’s not making that noise, then what is?” You tuck your chin and scan as best you can. Something’s out there, something big.

“Dad!” you call, twisting toward the crashing.

“Just give me a minute,” he barks. “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—” You turn toward the sound. Branches and bushes shiver. Something barrels closer. Something big.

“Got it!” he cheers, right as you’re about to glimpse it. Your clear (if upside‑down) view explodes into leaves and branches as you drop. You claw at limbs, desperate to catch anything, but you can only slow yourself. You slam onto your feet, knees nearly hitting your chin, and flop onto your butt. The fall jars you, but you’re not hurt. You only have time to exhale before a massive shadow looms.

Instinct takes over. You surge to your feet, tearing a sword free with a forgotten reflex, and the shadow screeches and crashes down where you just were. Before you stands a bear, or something like it, even on all fours, it’s as tall as you are, with long legs ending in clawed paws. But its fur isn’t brown, black, or even white; it’s stark green, like a bed of moss. And its face is all wrong—no snout, and flat, with a beak.

There’s no time to think, no time to be afraid. It charges, and a violent yank tears at your collar. Your Father’s fist clamps behind your neck and flings you away with zero regard for where you’ll land. He lets loose an ear‑piercing *AAAAAAAHHHHHHH* like a Viking starting a raid, greatsword up and ready to strike.

You don’t see the first clash. The canopy spins as you tumble down the far side of the hill you just climbed. You try to stop your roll with your elbows and heels, but the world keeps rotating. As you roll nd overend, head over heels, the snare wraps itself around your legs, making any controlled landing impossible.

*Splash*

You land on your butt again; the creek soaks your pants and back. You scramble to untie yourself, but decide to cut it with the sword when the knots pile up. You jump out of the water and snap your eyes to the hill.

Up top, the bear prods and swipes. Each time, your Father half‑steps back, roars again, and stabs or slashes. His reach is longer, but if the bear keeps its charge, he can’t stop it. He never turns down the volume—he amps it when the bear probes, stomping his feet, banging plates, slamming the sword into the earth. Each stroke is a raucous display.

The bear rears onto its hind legs and screeches like an eagle, towering over him. Your Father isn’t deterred. He takes the opening and swipes his blade across its chest. The beast lets out an earth‑shaking growl, leaning forward, almost collapsing on him, blood seeping from the wound. They stare each other down, panting after their war‑cry duel, ready to strike if either twitches. Slowly, your Father half‑steps back. The bear mirrors him. Slowly, the pair backs off until the green mass vanishes into the trees. Your Father lowers his guard but doesn’t sheath the blade.

“Are you alright?” he calls down.

“Yeah,” you call back, trance broken.

“Then come up here. Don’t want it coming back and charging us down the hill.” You climb, almost slipping in your soaked boots.

“Why are you all wet?” he asks when you crest the top.

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

“There’s a stream down there?”

“Apparently,” you say, turning to present your thoroughly soaked backside.

“Well, I guess our prayers for water have been answered.” The color drains from his face. “We’ll go down and collect some in a moment,” he says, finally sheathing the blade and collapsing to the ground with a huge sigh.

“Are you OK?” you ask, concern edging your voice.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Adrenaline rush is wearing off is all,” he chuckles, trying to cover his shaking hands. “Haven’t felt like that since the war when I—” The smile snaps off. He sits up. “Well, you don’t much enjoy my old stories now, do you? No need to bother with them.” He stands. “Let’s go get some water,” he says, collecting his bag.

“Shouldn’t we be more concerned about that… that… what attacked us?” you ask, pointing where the beast fled.

“Don’t think so,” he says, casual as ever. “I’m sure it thinks we’re more trouble than we’re worth—for now. It should try to avoid us as much as we avoid it… Hopefully.”

“Cool, but what about what that thing is?” you ask, replaying green fur and a beaked face.

“What do you mean? It’s a bear with some kind of skin infection and a disfigured face,” he says, like it’s obvious.

“Disfigured face?”

“Yeah, what else would you call that?”

“THAT THING HAD A BEAK?” you shout, utterly flabbergasted.

“What do you mean it had a beak?” He tilts his helmet up to meet your eyes.

“Did you not see it?”

“Honestly, didn’t get a good look with this helmet on,” he says, tapping the metal. “I thought it looked strange, but I couldn’t make out a beak while focusing on the paws.”

“How could you miss that?” you yell, volume finally slipping from your control.

“Look, son, let’s think about this,” he says, taking his helmet all the way off and meeting your eyes. “We have three options: either I’m right, you’re right, or we’re both wrong. 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?”

“Well, no,” you say, calming a little.

“And in either case, we’re gonna treat it like a bear and avoid it so it doesn't matter.”

“I guess not,” you say, adrenaline finally fading from your limbs.

“Good.” He slips the helmet and bag back on. “Now let’s go see this stream.”

You reach the slow‑wading water and drop your pack. Water spiders skate like punctuation marks. A leaf spins in a lazy eddy. Sand fans pale and delicate at your fingertips—too clean, too inviting. You kneel, cup your hands, and lift coolness toward your lips when you’re yanked sideways and spill it all.

“Don’t just drink water from a strange stream in the middle of the woods,” he snaps. “You have no idea what’s in there, sewage, tapeworms, hell, maybe even industrial runoff.”

“But look how clear it is,” you say, dipping your hand back into the clear stream.

“That doesn’t mean jack till we’ve boiled and filtered it,” he says, pulling your hand from the stream.

“Well then, how do we do that?” You ask, pulling your hands free of his grip. He cocks his lips into his cheek for a moment before saying anything.

“If I remember correctly, we’ll need to cut some cloth, layer it with sand and charcoal… then let it drip through… Something like that. Then boil it for… I wanna say at least five minutes, but ten would probably be better.”

“You don’t know?” You stare at him, exasperated.

“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 needed them.”

“Well then, how do you know them?”

“You can learn a lot on the internet,” he says without the slightest hint of sarcasm. You blink at him. Wondering how you can be so sure if he’s never tried them?”

“OK, then what do we do?” you ask. He tucks his lips into his cheeks, taking a moment before speaking.

“The way I see it, we have three options,” he says, holding up three fingers. “1) We keep heading straight East using the same method we’ve been using. 2) We try following the trail without knowing where it leads. 3) We follow the stream. Which do you suggest?” You weigh his words for a moment. You strike down option one immediately. Given the thickness of the brush, there’s no need to make the trek any harder than it has to be. But between options 2 and 3, it's harder. A trail could lead to a trapper’s shack or nowhere. A stream always goes somewhere, but ‘somewhere’ might be a ravine you can’t climb back out of. You initially lean towards the stream for water, but what good is water you can’t drink? You may get some later, but they would have a better chance of running into hikers or people who could help them on the trail.

“Let’s follow the stream,” you decide, taking the guarantee of water over the chance of finding people.

“Good choice,” your Father says, throwing on his pack. “That’s what I wanted to do. Settlements always need water, so where there’s water, there’ll be people eventually.”

“What, like a town on the river?”

“Exactly.”

“But what if we make it all the way to the ocean without finding people?”

“Then we follow the coast till we do,” he says, offering you a hand up. You take it, and he looks downstream as if planning a route. “Come on,” he says, marching off, following the stream. You wait for him to put some distance between you and, sly as you can, dip your hands in and gulp a handful. The cool moisture dissolves the cotton in your mouth as it slides down your throat. You snatch up your pack and catch up.

You follow the winding stream. Occasionally, while he climbs a hill to see around a bend, you lean down and snag another mouthful. You remember his warning, but the relief in your throat washes away your guilt with your thirst. Tributaries merge, and the stream that was a foot wide and an inch deep swells into a river nearly ten feet across and, by your Father’s estimate, somewhere between knee and waist deep. The forest thickens as you follow it. Sometimes the trees crowd so close you can’t see the water, but you can always hear it through the trunks. The hills return, but the river cuts and weaves between valleys. As you walk, you feel your face grow drier and drier. You reason that you’re just getting used to the heat, and imagine the first refreshing sip of water as you march onwards.

“I should’ve expected this,” your Father mutters after a while. “I should’ve expected the forest to be denser around the river. More water, more nutrients, bigger trees and foliage.”

“Is that why the hills are here, too?” you ask. “From the trees dying and becoming dirt?”

“That could be a factor. More likely, the roots are keeping the dirt in place, rather than allowing it to wash away. Of course, there’s no way of knowing since we don’t know if this is the wet or dry season.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well then, tell me, what month is it?”

“Late November,” you answer, thinking back to your calendar in your dorm room.

“It was November when we left, but I was in Tokyo and you were on the West Coast. Who’s to say where we are now?”

“You think we were teleported across the Earth?”

“Well, at least one of us was,” he declares. You try to think of a reasonable explanation, but nothing comes to mind. Worse yet, the thought has him rambling on. “And if one of us was teleported, then why not both? We could be in the Congo, or Montana, or Lithuania for all we know.”

“What’s that have to do with anything?”

“Not much, just that we can’t be sure where we are or even when we are, because—” His words suddenly stop as he pulls back a tree branch.