Chapter 1. "The Black Bear"

 Death was disappointing to Donald. No pearly gates, no singing angels, and a surprisingly earthy taste in his mouth. And most damning of all, still needing to breathe and finding that he could not. Donald began to wiggle and squirm in sheer panic until finally he found the white light that everyone was so enamoured with.

His head emerged from the thankfully shallow grave; he was thankful he had chosen the budget funeral plan, though now he had a new respect for old Aunt Phyllis, rest her soul, who stayed after every funeral, convinced that if she didn’t a funeral director would just chuck the body in the hole and reuse the casket.

Dragging himself completely out and flopping on the ground, breathing in deep and slow, he felt as good as the day he overcame the hump in basic training. Donald felt good, better than he had in three very long years. With that realization, he took stock. He was wearing his old military fatigues, and they fit him properly. By God, Donald thought to himself, I have meat on my bones again. His muscles were again lean and strong, perfect for a farmer but still good enough for a soldier.

Beside his shallow, premature grave — heaven grave, or God forbid hellish grave — he saw his army gear and the case containing HIS bagpipes.

“Well, if this is Hell,” he muttered, “at least the horned guy is starting with a bit of false hope.”

He turned his awareness to his surroundings, finding himself in what he could only describe as a forest of giant, thorny roses and spiky, barbed bushes. An occasional tuft of blue-green grass grew between nature’s obstacles. Tuning his other senses to work, he picked up an enjoyable, whistling tune every time the wind blew — one of those minor wonders you only notice when you stop thinking and just listen. But another sound interrupted nature’s quiet symphony. It was a good hundred yards away: an animal screeching in pain, frustration, and, most importantly, despair.

“I know I’m going to regret this,” Donald said to no one in particular, “but if it’s the start of a surprise party or worse, there’s no point standing around.”

He grabbed his field pack and bagpipe case, the fifty pounds of gear a welcome, familiar burden. A small grin appeared on his lips as he trudged towards the sound. He felt happy. Regardless of the situation, he had gone from cancer poster boy to a man in the prime of his life in mere moments, and nothing was going to ruin that for him.

He discovered it was a… well, a something-or-other, tangled in one of the bramble bushes and trying everything short of chewing its own leg off. It looked like a fox with a completely black coat, but it had the body of a small bear. Its irises were startling purple with flecks of gold, the type of eyes a woman would fall in love with.

Donald saw this was no ordinary tangle. Every time the Black Fox attempted to free its left hind leg, slashing at the bush with impressive claws, each as long as his index finger, the thorny tendrils would just grow right back as if in spite.

Donald turned to walk away but stopped. He heard the howls of despair from the Black Fox as it intensified its efforts. He knew that feeling, and he knew what came next: the animal’s cries wavering, then slowly coming to a stop in fatalistic defeat.

Donald McKenzie dropped his baggage on the ground and extracted his standard-issue knife. He didn’t know if he could do any better, but he was going to try. He had second thoughts the instant he took two steps towards the Black Fox and it bared its teeth. That was familiar as well—surrendering to death but still putting up a fight.

He holstered the knife and produced his practice chanter; his full set of pipes would be far too loud. He played, going through the first slow air that popped into his mind and continuing into the next. It took a solid twenty minutes of playing as he slowly edged closer, getting near enough to the bush and the Black Fox.

The creature was calm, far too calm for his liking. He was no snake charmer—and for that matter, snake charming is a scam to begin with—but he took his opportunity. Removing his lips from the chanter, and with his right hand, grabbed the knife. He kept the same slow, steady pace that bore the cadence of his slow airs as he cut. It took only the snap of one bush tendril for the leg to be released.

“This is truly my lucky day,” he breathed.

In a flash, the Black Fox distanced itself from the bush. It had a graceful patter as it moved, though its size gave every fourth step a heavy thud, reminding Donald of a 4/4 time signature. It stopped and stared at him—the stare a wolf gives you after sharing scraps, that of a creature clearly intelligent enough to be a pet but far too proud to ever become one. Still, Donald was on high alert. He had enough experience in hunting and survival training to know a wild animal was exactly that.

After Donald stood his ground, the Black Fox turned, let out a yap, and headed west, assuming the sun still rose in the east. When Donald didn’t immediately follow, it turned, made its opinion known with a growl, and then turned west once more.

He continued to hesitate; his common sense was too strong to follow a wild animal deeper into the woods. But the sound in the air had changed; it was fuller, richer as the graceful thudding of the Black Fox continued to move on. Harmonized with the breeze and the rustling of the roses and bushes.

Donald grabbed his things and moved after it. It was at this moment he realized he didn’t have a rifle.