Everything exploded through Jak as the animal ran straight into him, Jak’s body flying backward and slamming into the trunk of a tree as the animal let out another war scream and kept coming.
Jak hurried to his feet, fighting to fill his lungs with the air that had been knocked out of him. He jumped to the side just as the animal came at him again, the sick smell of it following him, even though its body went to the side. Jak rolled and hopped to his feet, just as it came up too short and turned back, charging at him again, its eyes crazed, spit flying from its mouth.
Jak held up the knife and rolled again, a deep yell coming from his chest as he rolled away from the pig and stabbed his arm forward, the blade ripping across the animal’s shoulder. It let out another demon scream, this time of pain.
“Come on, you dirty beast!” Jak yelled. “That’s all? That’s the best you can do?” He felt as crazed as that pig looked. Nothing mattered. He would die, but first, he’d get in as many good jabs as he could. The boar wanted to kill him, but Jak would make it a fight that nasty thing would never forget. That ugly monster would be telling his ugly grandkids about Jak someday. Jak figured he had balls big enough to make at least a hundred ugly kids as sick smelling as himself. He laughed crazy-like, spinning as the huge pig rushed him again.
Jak went the other way quickly, but he didn’t move fast enough this time. As he threw his body forward, his foot caught on a tree root and he went down hard, the wind knocked from his lungs again as pain rattled his bones. He cried out, the hurt making him curl into himself as the pig head-butted him where he lay, the edge of its tusk slicing down his arm. Jak grabbed the beast, squeezing big handfuls of hairy meat as the animal shrieked, its heaviness coming down on top of Jak, crushing him, his air whooshing from his lungs.
He wrestled with the animal, fighting with all his leaving strength. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe, was the only thought rushing through his dying mind. The forest around him blinked out for a second, dark spots coming in front of his eyes as the stink of the animal filled his nose.
I’m going to die.
His head fell to the side as the pig kept up his shriek, its hoofs digging into Jak’s body, its tusks scraping across his flesh, the wounds he’d opened gushing blood. Jak opened his eyes to see the glint of shininess. He was still holding the pocketknife loosely in his fist.
The dark-eyed boy from that very first night showed up in his mind like he was right there beside him.
Why are you here? Jak asked, and the boy didn’t answer, but he looked down at the pocketknife still held barely in Jak’s hand as the boar continued to tear at his body. What happened to you? Jak wondered. The boy looked down at the knife again as if to say, I gave you that knife. My dying gift. Use it.
Jak’s final boom of strength came from nowhere, from everywhere, from the memory of that other boy and the way he’d held his hand, and Jak had told him to live. Jak raised his hand, and with the last of his might, he let out a battle cry and swiped the knife across the pig’s throat.
Later, he would remember only feeling nothingness as he dragged that dead pig body through the wilderness, his wounds tied with torn pieces of his clothing, but still leaving drops of red in the melting snow. The gaping one at his side burning like fire.
Driscoll was outside when Jak turned the bend, and he stared at him with wide eyes, his jaw loose. When Jak made it to where he stood, dropping the dead boar at Driscoll’s feet, Driscoll threw his head back and laughed. He’s as crazy as that pig.
Jak tilted to the side, catching himself and pressing his fingers to the gaping tear at his side. “Iwantmybowandarrow,” he said, the words running all together.
“Oh, you shall have it,” Driscoll said. And with that, Jak turned and walked away.
The next while was spent somewhere between life and death. The dark-eyed boy did not come to him again, but his baka did, telling him he was strong boy and not to give up. Jak wanted to give up. He was tired of living. Tired of fighting. Tired of surviving. And most of all, he was tired of the never-stopping empty aloneness.
But Jak’s body didn’t agree that he should give up. It kept on fighting, even though his spirit did not. There were no whispers inside, no deep-down life. Only silence. His soul had died. Along with Pup. He cleaned his wounds and laid clean cloth on them, changing through the pieces he had, washing them in water from the pump behind his house and drying them in the warming wind, to go back inside to sleep again. He woke only to gulp down water from the pump, clean his wounds, and eat the small bit of food he had.
**********
Many, many days passed. He didn’t know the number, but on one morning, he woke, noticing he felt better, less sore, less achy. For many minutes he lay there, staring at the wood ceiling, a beam of sunlight from the window, dancing and sparkling before his eyes. Maybe I am dead, he thought. Maybe those dancing lights are tiny angels, and I’m in heaven.
A twist of hurt in his side spoke up, telling him he was wrong. No angels, just dust pieces, and two things could not be more different than those.
His belly spoke up next, telling him that it wanted breakfast. He pulled himself from bed, cleaned himself up, dressed, and picked up his hunting knife.
Another day. Many more to follow. He walked in a different way than he usually took when hunting. Maybe it was toward town, maybe not. Maybe he would walk right into the middle of enemy territory. Maybe they would kill him on sight.
Maybe . . . he didn’t care.
He’d thrown himself in front of a huge, wild, crazy pig with sharp tusks and lived. He’d laugh, only it would open his wound back up again, and he didn’t have any clean cloths.
He didn’t know if he could do it anymore, the constant suffering. The winters always coming, the hunger, the loneliness that felt like darkness carved deep into his bones. Why should he fight? For what? Why should he survive? He understood the look in the blond boy’s eyes now. The happiness that it was finally over. Jak should have died on that cliff that night, with the other two boys, maybe three. But he had fought to live. Why? He didn’t want to fight anymore, and there weren’t any pigs nearby.
You could find a bear with cubs. A mother bear would rip you to shreds if you went too close to her babies.
But that would take too long. He didn’t think he wanted to live, but he didn’t want to be torn apart by a bear over a whole day either. Plus, he liked bears. He didn’t want to make one mad.
He came to a canyon and stood at the edge, looking down. He could jump off a cliff. But not this one. This one wasn’t high enough to make sure he died, but there were lots of others that would.
As he stood there thinking about the ways he could make sure of his death, sunlight blinked off something shiny through the leaves at the bottom of the canyon, blinding him for a second.
Curiosity made him pause, the fog that had been hanging over him clearing for a quick minute, the need to know what large shiny item was hiding underneath the leaves, a spark of . . . life. Jak climbed down the canyon slowly, not