Life for a Life

Word Count: 1256

      Peter’s eyes snapped open and his hand came up lightning fast, smacking hard enough upon his cheek that it would turn red and warm for several minutes.  Sliding his hand down towards his jaw line, he felt the crumpled body of the deer fly scraping against the stinging flesh. His fingers pinched inward and grabbed the lifeless exoskeleton then raised it before his eyes.  For a moment he regarded the insect with a vacant look, then flicked it away before lowering his head once more to the forest floor.  Beneath him was the cool, damp earth littered with leaves and pine needles.  He had grown used to the smell of dirt and decomposing foliage so that it no longer registered in his mind as it had when he had first laid down.
         A few yards away lay his two blue tick hounds, Molly and Rooter.  Molly was getting old and didn’t move as quickly as Rooter during their hunts.  She tended to lag back, letting the younger male barrel ahead with his nose to the ground while she kept Peter company.  Every so often, when Rooters howl would go up, she would lope away, only to stop and look back at Peter and make sure he was still following. 
         But neither dog was hunting anymore.  Instead they laid next to one another, Molly’s head resting upon Rooter’s back, while both stared with large, brown eyes at their master.  Peter groaned and looked down at his left foot; the reason he was laying down in the first place.  Wrapped around his foot and ankle was a sprung bear trap, like the steel jaws of some bodiless monster .  The steel teeth had shattered the bones they had bitten into, sending fragments throughout the meat of his leg.  Several had torn through flesh, soaking his boot and the lower part of his pant leg with blood.
         Molly sighed.
         How long had he been laying there? It had to have been hours, since the sun had been right overhead when he stepped on the trap and now it barely shown through the canopy to the west.  His cabin was a half mile away though rugged mountainside terrain, a traverse nearly impossible even if he could free his foot.  The closest person was miles away in the small town at the base of the mountain.  Peter was something of a hermit, only going into town once every couple of weeks to stock up, which he had just done a few days prior. No one would notice his absence until he had long succumb to hunger and thirst.
         “Please, God,” Peter groaned, staring up into the failing light of the sky. “Don’t let me die like this.”
         Molly and Rooter both turned their heads and looked at the man who stood next to a tree some thirty feet or so away.  Peter followed their gaze and felt his heart begin to race at the prospect that someone had come to help him.
         “Over here!” Peter shouted with a wave. “Hey! Over here!”
         Molly and Rooter looked back and forth between Peter and the newcomer, but remained where they were.  The man stood still, as though he was simply observing the situation.  Peter winced and grabbed his leg, letting out a long groan.  His waving had caused his leg to shift and made the teeth and fragments of bone move around.  The pounding in his head grew worse.
         “It is bad.”
         Peter opened his eyes and saw the man standing over him.  He was old, even to Peter who had just turned sixty-five last month.  A large, sharp, hooked nose stood out from a gaunt face deeply lined by time.  Crows feet made the black eyes seem even more squinted than they already were.  Peter realized the man had no hair, not only on top of his head, but anywhere on his face, neither eyebrows nor facial hair.  His clothes seemed almost comical, a black linen tunic tucked into dark brown breeches.  He wore no shoes or boots and his chalky, gnarled feet were a sharp contrast to the rich dark earth of the forest floor.
         “You cannot open the trap,” the man said with a airy, raspy voice.
         “I know.  You have to help me, please,” Peter said.
         The man turned and looked at Molly and Rooter. The dogs whined softly, averting their eyes for a moment before looking back at the man.
         “They can help you.”
         “Who, Molly and Rooter? They’re just hunting dogs. They can’t go for help,” Peter said.          
         The man looked at the dogs intently, black eyes watching like those of a crow, filled with a dark intelligence.  The dogs whined more, sitting up and cowering with their heads lowered.
         “You wish to be free, yes?” the man asked, his gaze never leaving the two blue ticks.
         “God, yes!” Peter said.
         “Often we must sacrifice greatly to get what we want.”
         Peter laid their silent, not knowing what to say. What was this stranger getting at?
         “Would you sacrifice to be free?”
         “I don’t want to die out here,” Peter whimpered.
         Rooter stood and reluctantly padded over to his master, stopping by the trap and mangled foot.  He whined again, looking up to Peter who stared back in confusion.  Then Rooter began to lick at the bloodied pant leg.          
         “What?! Get away from that!” Peter shouted, kicking out at Rooter with his other leg. White hot pain tore through him and left him trembling as the steel teeth settled in deeper.
         Molly rose and walked over, stopping next to Rooter and mimicking his action.  The two began to tug at the crimson jean cuff, tugging it away to expose the flesh beneath.  Peter could only lay back and sob, his body wracked in pain.  The dogs lapped first at the dried blood, then that which still seeped from around the trap. 
         “Sacrifice,” the man said, his voice barely above a whisper.
         Peter gasped when Rooter first began to chew at the skin, then let out a long cry as both dogs started pulling flesh away from the leg, eating their way down through.  He glanced down for a moment, then felt a surge of nausea at the sight of his leg being eaten.  His fingers dug into the leaves, pine needles and dirt while he continued to shake his head and sob…
         
         Peter sat at the table in his cabin, the only light given by the lowly trimmed lantern resting in front of him.  It gave off just enough light to illuminate the tabletop and himself, but otherwise left the rest of the room in gloom.
         “How long do I have to do this?” Peter asked with a trembling voice.
         “You know the answer,” came the man’s voice from somewhere within the darkness.
         Peter squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw, then reached down and unwrapped the bloody stump where his leg had once turned into an ankle and foot.  Then, he turned and held the leg out.  The two dogs had been sitting nearby, waiting patiently.  He had thought the sacrifice had been his foot.  Now he realized that instead he had given up Molly and Rooter.  Peter no longer felt the warmth from them as he once had.  Molly no longer regarded him with an affection developed over a lifetime with the old hermit. Instead she looked only at the bloody leg, which she now nipped at, pulling away small chunks of flesh while her food bowl sat in the corner with food untouched.