June 15, 1764 - Mende

The first stalking was unsuccessful. Mud and intermittent rains had numbed the limbs and souls of the hunters. Not that it was a cold June, but at night, wrapped in their worn and damp rags, whipped by the wind and the smell of the isolated forest, the two struggled to enjoy the warmth of rest.

In truth, for decades, restorative rest eluded them.

They had started according to the plan. Once in the city of Mende, a few careful questions were enough to identify the largest possessions. There was no need to use coercive methods: the population seemed strangely frightened.

- Poor idiots, - René commented.

- They don't know what's going on. - Fantin had discovered that the peasants had begun to murmur about a strange creature, free in the woods. They had found huge footprints, not belonging to any known wild animal.

- I've never seen such bums so frightened by a native. -

- It must be the one who wanders around the forest. -

- It must be on the ropes, to resort to certain tricks. Shapeshift into unknown beasts. Ridiculous. -

- Do you want to have a chat? -

René looked at Fantin, as if he had cursed. - Do you talk to boars before shooting them in the middle of the forehead? -

His decades of service had given René the opportunity to meet face to face the horrors hidden in the face of humanity. He had hunted down dark and unspeakable forces. The monstrosities had entered under his skin, grown infesting flesh and spirit to alienate him. He would rather die than go back on the trail of some nameless abominations. Fortunately, he felt, the natives were not part of that atrocious host.

- An ancient and primitive lineage, - he had said the first time to the young Fantin. - They've always been in hiding. They watched when we took plains, mountains, forests. They watched us as our cities were born. They never took it well. - He laughed, cleaning the barrel of the gun. - You know what the fuck we care about. -

On his belt, he wore four notches, the count of as many natives. They were elusive targets, and when they became violent they always met death. Boring, from his point of view, if not for the ability to change shape at will.

René had never found out much about their true nature, or their true form. "I don't give a fuck" was his answer to every question. Now he felt happy to have a native protean as his ultimate target. He wouldn't take the risk of dying.

By the afternoon the sky had cleared from the clouds. A shy sun threw warm fingers on the roofs of the houses, on the branches of the forest, and on the ideas of men. Fantin had taken a moment of serious investigation, abandoning René's waiting tactic.

To the south of the city, the closest links between farmers and the wild environment were intertwined. He decided to undertake field research, entering the thick of the woods, following the signs he had learned to recognize over the years.

Silently, he searched for the involuntary traces that prey, every prey, left. In his case, the most absurd that nature had to offer.

The inordinate growth of trees, shrubs, flowers, as well as insects and small mammals were signs of a rabid disorder, produced only by a furious native. The fundamental dualism between those formless people and the planet was transcendent. The evolutionary branch was exactly opposite to the human one.

If mankind destroys, the natives regenerate.

If mankind controls, the natives unleash.

If mankind lives, the natives die.

He found it ridiculous to give such a name to creatures competing with the race chosen to dominate the planet. Yet, even in the persecution, their identity was recognized.

The first to exist, in the Lord's creation, was said to have been them.

Fantin laughed.

Surely they would have faced the day of judgment first.

The tall stems blocked the wide view, also hampered by continuous pits and depressions in the ground. Fantin proceeded instinctively, smelling an evanescent trail, which was lost in every moss.

Yet, perhaps by chance, he came across a lair.

A cave collapsed due to bad weather, on the side of an inexpressive hill. Brittle rock that had crumbled, making the cave a useless full hole.

On the front, a barren clearing of a few meters.

And bones.

Everywhere. Fresh.

The flesh was still attached to the ligaments.

He had encountered far worse scenarios over the years and was not impressed by some predator's refuge. Perhaps a huge pack of wolves, or a bear, might have amassed such a worn feast.

No known mammal species, however, moult.

Fantin approached with terrifying slowness a furry cloak abandoned on the ground. It was bloodied; a sickening smell of wet dog permeated the air.

He touched it with the dagger, turning it over.

In all appearance, it was the hollow shell of a fur animal. It had not been skinned, the skin was torn with the irregular edges facing out.

No teeth marks.

No sign of blades.

Fantin had seen, lived, and experienced oddities in every way. Even without ever having encountered anything like it, he understood.

Something had come out of that skin.

Like a moulting snake, already at least as big as a ram.

Intangible: this is how Fantin tried to feel.

Seldom had he experienced such dismay. What he saw had nothing to do with the prey they were hunting.

The stench of the torn meat scraps had attracted swarms of insects, which feasted and buzzed, infesting.

Fantin moved away. He didn't feel safe.

He left the woods, retracing his steps.

He was sure, something was watching him.