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When the frigid north winds and frost had retreated and the green things were reviving once more, several rabbit bucks, part of a group known as Owlsafa, were out in the meadow taking siflay in the pre-dawn hours. The sun had just barely awakened when the strange doe appeared at the clearing’s edge.
What appeared to be the pelt of either a juvenile bobcat or cougar adorned her shoulders and had been cut into a hood that she had pulled up to cover her head. Holes had also been for her ears to protrude through. With her she carried a length of sharpened wood that was almost as long as her own body.
The Owlsafa marveled at this. Never before had any of them seen a rabbit who’d worn the hide of one of their foes. And what was the purpose of the stick?
Heedless of their staring, the doe calmly asked to see their chief rabbit. Her request was granted, and she was brought into the warren, called Efafra, before General Woundwort. Nearly the size of a hare, with claws that’d been sharpened to lethal points, the one good eye Woundwort had widened and he leaned forward, looking down at the intriguing stranger from his earthen perch. The hooded doe introduced herself as Hemlock, and explained she’d trekked a long distance to find the fabled general. She had left a community formed by Oren, a rabbit who had mastered the mythical art of metalworking. This caused yet another stir among those present. Woundwort himself remained as silent and impassive as a boulder. Instead, he sent the audience a sharp stare which reduced them to muteness once more.
Not without some pride he’d then shown her around Efrafra and explained how his Owlsafa and the Wide Patrol operated. The rules kept their warren safe and strong. Hemlock was left impressed. She told him how she’d originally believed that Oren was a savior for herbivores. He could've truly changed the world. Then he had suddenly turned around and invited a badger and a marten to dwell among them, endangering them all. It was what led her to seek out Efafra. Among rabbits Efafra was treated as a rumor, a dark legend. Was it a real place? Was there really a rabbit as great and terrible as General Woundwort and his fearsome fighting bucks? Had Woundwort really fought and killed a weasel, a bull snake, and a falcon before?
Sneering contemptuously, Woundwort replied that this Oren must've been a weak, easily deceived leader indeed if he allowed such elil to so freely walk among small ones and does. Woundwort then admitted that he’d previously been brought news of Oren’s existence by his scouts. If Oren held the precious secret of metal arms, then perhaps a trip to see him was in order. Would Hemlock be willing to lead the way to his stronghold for the Efrafans?
Without any hesitation she completely agreed. Anything to spare the lives of the innocents there from the terrible evil waiting in their midst.
From that day on, Hemlock was at Woundwort's side not as a lackey, but an equal, something no one else could claim. Soon she was made a member of his Counsel. She planted the suggestion of inviting non-rabbit prey animals into Efafra. This was met with reluctance. Woundwort believed that rabbit should stick with rabbit, and that other animals should likewise not intermingle in unnatural ways. But Hemlock gradually brought him on board with the idea that many animals all working together to battle predators would be stronger. More animals could be brought in line by Woundwort’s strong leadership. She also introduced the idea of having the Wide Patrol carry spears on their patrols, like the one she wielded. With spears they could become like meat-eaters, fight them on even terms. That was an idea that Woundwort readily got behind.
Whenever she was around, Woundwort found himself standing just a little straighter, squaring his shoulders, making sure he was well groomed. Something else he began secretly desiring was an elil pelt of his own in order to show his own power. If Hemlock could do it, then why not he? After all, he was chief rabbit. He had killed a weasel before.
The onset of dusk bought with it a cooling of the land as a light breeze rippled through the trees and across the meadow. Shadows lengthened. Woundwort was preparing to send out a Wide Patrol consisting of animals such as marmots, squirrels, and gophers intermingled with rabbits. Many of these animals resided in the woods near Efrafa – for the time being, but still answered to Woundwort. Some were unwilling, but most found the idea of strength in numbers as a carnivore deterrent too appealing to pass on.
Woundwort was looking for Hemlock. Hearing her suddenly shout his name and call for help in a tone he’d never heard before, Woundwort hastened towards the forest to see what the matter was. Something had her excited and breathless. He and a handful of soldiers found her struggling with a live bear cub. It was twice as large as she was. Even though there was blood on its face and body, it still resisted Hemlock, who had latched onto one ear and was relentlessly pulling it towards the clearing.
Truly this was preordained by some greater power, Woundwort thought. What better predator to demonstrate his dominance over than a bear, a creature feared by even coyotes and wolves?
By then most of the Efrafans, drawn by the noise, had gathered around. As they quietly watched, the animals maintained a healthy distance between themselves and the bear cub – all of them knew full well that even the smallest bears were best avoided.
This was one of the stinking thousand, Hemlock roared and raged before her captive audience. They all deserved to die horribly for the suffering they’d inflicted upon her – upon them. If one discovered fleas in their bedding, did they not wipe them all out so they couldn't breed any further and infest the entire den?
Drawing a paw back, Hemlock slashed it across the face with her sharp claws. Crying out in pain, the cub tried to flee back into the woods, but was blocked by a rabbit buck and a marmot. That rabbit lashed out with a hind paw, catching the cub in the snout and forcing it back.
Never one to be outdone, Woundwort acknowledged Hemlock’s strength and prowess in catching the cub. Now, the hide of this bear would adorn his mighty shoulders. Then he joined in the attack, clawing, kicking, even grabbing the cub by the face and savagely biting its nose at one point.
The four animals sustained the attack. At different points one or two of them would pause to catch their breath while the others carried on in their stead. Gradually, their audience moved in closer and closer, eyes raptly watching the grotesque scene. Seeing how their leaders had no fear of the bear cub, a few joined in with the abuse, hurling sticks and stones at it. Then more discovered their pluck. Now a crowd of prey animals had closed in around it, kicking, hitting, biting, screaming vile words, scratching.
The hideous, pained squalling coming from the wounded baby bear continued, echoing around the clearing and all up through the trees. It fell upon deaf ears, the animals too caught up in their frenzied hatred and bloodlust.
By the time the group realized there was a second bear among them it was too late.
This was no mere cub either. It was a fully grown bear. She was death given corporeal form. The smaller animals were mercilessly clawed, swatted aside like nothing, or torn apart under powerful paws or between her jaws as she plowed through them.
The fighters that had survived the initial onslaught went for the mother bear with their spears, trying to strike a blow.
Futile. The few sticks that did land home, past the thick dark fur, powerful muscle, and fat didn't even garner her notice.
The sight was akin to watching a boulder roll down a hill, with the way small trees, bushes, and anything else in its path were completely flattened. So it was with the mother bear. Any who attempted to stand their ground and stab at her with their spears, hurl rocks, or otherwise attack were alive one minute, then dead or well on their way to dying the next. Voices which had been previously raised in savagery and anger were transformed into panic and terror. The survivors simply dropped their weapons and, dropping to all fours, fled for the woodland, away from Efrafa.
During the chaos Hemlock had been bodily slapped aside. She was fortunate to not have been mauled to the point of being rendered unrecognizable the way the marmot who’d been beside her had been. Angry red parallel scratches scored her side and flank.
Looking to vent her fury further, the eyes of the mother bear landed directly on Hemlock, the one who'd abducted her cub. She advanced towards her.
Woundwort, who had miraculously survived the bear's charge with little injury, now stood dazed there among the fallen. But not for long. He caught sight of Hemlock's green eyes, huge with terror as she stared up at the enraged behemoth. Spying a discarded lance nearby, Woundwort sprang towards it. Rushing forward, lance gripped in his paws, he stabbed the bear in her left rear paw. Immediately she turned towards the large rabbit, Hemlock forgotten in her rage. Woundwort, still wielding the lance, dove at her.
Jaws like a steel trap closed around his body.
Before shock took him, the very last thing he saw through pain-blurred eyes was Hemlock limping rapidly towards the tree line before being swallowed up by the green.
He opened his mouth to yell after her that it was just one bear, that together they were strong and could hold it off, maybe even chase it away. But his once stentorian voice came out as a weak rasp.
And then darkness consumed the forest.