Me too

Raven's soft shoulder though inviting to sleep against had not been found of late. Instead under what ever wagon was nearest when Me too would begin to wind down in the eves became my bed roll. If he noticed that a 'girl' was hanging around he never let on. He was more attuned to simply surviving.

I never ventured too close to where he was so that I did not interfere in any way with his daily life. He would wake, scratch and meander off to find a scrap of bread, fight for a tidbit of meat or scavenge the bushes for a lizard or a cotton tail frevet to munch on. He was already a good hunter though the poochy little belly told of nutritional hungers just as the poochy little lower lip told of social ones. There was no one wagon that he called home, no waiting arms to tuck him in at night. The scrapes and bruises he would acquire whether playing or scrapping to carve out a place among the other children were neglected. There was no one to kiss them and dry the tears. I can't remember seeing him cry over anything. He was a tough little warrior.

The same scenario I'd watched for many days began to unfold along the outer edge of the harriga today. Me too had his lance in hand, dragging it across the dust and dirt attepting to catch up with the other children and they were trying to find places he couldn't follow. I'd found a small perch on a small bolder and was mending a pair of leathers when the parade took a left turn back toward the camp. Instead of lump bumping behind them he stopped and looked to the tall grass. It was instinctive to do the same, my gaze turning to the same area.

I could see the tops of the golden stalks waving in the breeze. A serene picture of the plains at peace. Then I saw it too. A furrow that moved within them. Deep, foreboding, paralyzing. The little warrior hadn't moved a hort. He, like I, watched as it angled in the direction of the camp and began to pick up speed.

The larl.

My heart raced with ice water and the sewing I'd been inattentive to anyway slid down the side of the rock I'd been sitting on to fall into the dirt next to it. I started running as hard as I could on an intercept path. It was not the movement in the tall grass that I kept in sight. It was my self imposed little charge. Fear never once touched the red fruit cheeks. The end of the lance rose unsteadily even as he stared at me. Our eyes met and locked.

Everything unfolded in a flash of a million moments. Instantly in slow motion. The impact was fierce enough to knock the tiny white feather from my hair. Pain in my shoulder was scalding hot and freezing cold all at the same time. The world became streaks of blinding white. I had to smile as I watched the tiny arm's motion. For the first time the razor pointed pole held perfectly balanced then began to sail through the air with a precision grown warriors would practice a lifetime to achieve.
Had it been one of the tribe's most fierce that had let go the lance, it would have had enough force to pierce the creature to the ground. Instead, it was only enough to startle the beast away from his original prey.

Within the crimson tunnel I was sinking into, I watched Me too bend to gather the little down fluff, twirling it pensively in his fingers. In the next moment, he was swallowed up in the midst of his peers, raucous cries lit the skies hailing the teeny hero and they lifted him to stronger shoulders to carry him off.
The tall dry grasses slipped back in around me in a warm embrace and soon grew still except for their dance with the wind.