An Account from Reinette

They hunt trees on the world of Reinette.

You know, trees. Those big plants rooted to the ground that are not, as a rule, difficult to catch? Well, the nomadic peoples of Reinette are masters in the practice of hunting them.

Obviously when I learned of this little factoid, I had to see it for myself. My hosts were quite gracious in accommodating my desire, allowing me to accompany them on their next hunt, provided I stayed out of the way. No issue at all thanks to the magic of observation drones.

Through them, I watched from a nearby hilltop as everyone slowly crawled on their bellies through a field of long grasses. There was no clear reason for this, no predators that I could see, nor creatures of any kind for that matter. It looked for all the world as if they were in fact attempting to sneak up on a grove of trees.

Very nice trees I’ll grant, a wild apple orchard grown of stock brought from the homeworld by the original colonists. They’d taken well to Reinette’s climate, as even without drone assistance, I could see the branches were heavy with the ripe red fruit. A bountiful crop that could be easily gathered with a few hours work and a stepladder.

The hunters had only one of those things, foregoing baskets in favor of long metal harpoons and lengths of sturdy rope. The hours they spent inching ever closer to the grove, freezing at every errant sound, the group displaying a patience to be envied.

After three hours of this the trees had been thoroughly surrounded, hunters spaced every ten feet or so, harpoons braced and ready. They held, waiting in absolute stillness as the huntmaster advanced even closer. When she had come within mere strides of the grove, she drew her slingshot and loaded a clay pot into the saddle, waiting as her companion set the wax seal aflame. Not ten seconds later she fired, the pot shattering as it hit the base of the nearest tree and bursting in a hissing ball of flame and smoke.

That was the moment, fellow travelers, which it became clear that I had been the victim of sensationalism. For you see while the trees were quite immobile, the large land crustaceans upon whose shells they grew were very much not. Six of them rose from where they had lain perfectly camouflaged, half buried in the earth they were now shedding in a flurry of movement.

The fire drove the brood away in a panicked frenzy, the trees on their backs shaking as if rocked by strong winds. This was the cue for the other hunters, each of them springing from cover and tossing their harpoons in a great volley. Their aim was masterful, each weapon finding its mark in one of the creature’s shells, barbed tips ensuring they stuck fast within. Firm anchor points for the lengths of rope each harpoon trailed like a long streamer.

Of the six, two of the crabs were singled out and hit the most, clearly the targets of some plan. How the hunters coordinated such an effort I have no idea, but that is why I was spectator and not participant. Working in two teams, they used the ropes to haul their catch to the ground. Both crabs thrashed mightily as they fought for freedom, but their legs were quickly entangled in large nets, firmly pinning them in place.

It was the huntmaster and her companion that struck the final blow. Each rushed a crab and leapt atop their heads, dodging the gnashing mandibles that hissed in fury, trying to bite their captors as they approached. Neither hunter was so easily caught, instead stabbing long needle daggers between the crab’s eyes. Less than a minute later both creatures began to slow, the fight going out of them until at last they fell still, crashing to the ground and giving the trees one final shake.

A successful hunt, celebrated by a collective cheer, to which I enthusiastically added.

But there was one last surprise in store, my fellow travelers. For you see, coy as they had been with the truth, my hosts had told me no lie: we were here to hunt trees. The crabs were simply a means to that end.

Remarkable creatures. Much like their homeworld cousins, save their colossal size and bowl-shaped shells. The latter they use to carry dirt on their back, their bodies naturally infusing the soil to form the ideal seedbed for all manner of floral passengers. In exchange, the crabs gain a perpetual source of food from which they can feast at their leisure. A perfect, symbiotic relationship.

One which the hunters sought only to contribute. Rather than being killed, as I had initially thought, the crabs had simply been sedated. A potent blend of their own making, completely harmless while still disabling the crabs long enough to harvest a portion of the apples. No more than needed, they explained. Better to leave for tomorrow than to take needlessly for today.

The crabs received much the same attention, the hunters scraping parasites and invasive land corals from their shells. Each harpoon was carefully extracted and the wounds slathered with medicinal salves to prevent infection. A helping hand that the crabs might also continue to grow and provide ever more bountiful hunts for a generation to come.

Masterful hunters to the core.

We celebrated that night with a grand feast. Laughter, drink, song, and of course, all the apples we could eat.

They were, fellow travelers, quite delicious.

END