FICTION: Fever Dreams of the Last Giants

Read Part 1 of this story at this link!

The world seemed to ripple before Tadoda's eyes, resembling the mirage-like effect of heat rising from sunlit stones. 

His body was consumed by fever, while his injured legs pulsed in pain with each heartbeat, serving as stark reminders of his tumultuous journey downstream and his arduous trek through the woods back to his dwelling. 

It had been three days since he had been swept away by the river's current after the mammoth's sudden appearance, and since then, a sickness had gripped him with a tenacity akin to a living entity with sharp claws.

Amid the haze of discomfort and fever, Tadoda found his thoughts drifting between his current state - reclining on furs within his family's abode, receiving care from Naida for his injuries - and fragmented recollections of the hunt that had brought him to this precarious condition. 

The mammoth. Even in his delirium, the colossal image of the aged bull with yellowed tusks, defiantly standing by the riverbank, remained vivid in his mind. 

Yet, there was an unsettling quality about the majestic creature. Its eyes bore a ferociousness that was unfamiliar to Tadoda, a desperate rage hinting at incomprehensible loss.

Echoes of his grandfather's tales resonated through his fevered mind, recounting a time when mammoths roamed the land in vast herds, their steps causing the ground to tremble like distant thunder. 

"In my father's time," the elderly man would reminisce, "one could ascend the tallest tree and witness their brown forms stretching across the horizon like a flowing river." Encountering even a single mammoth now had become a noteworthy event, shared and retold during evening gatherings.

Another bout of nausea swept over him, a consequence of consuming tainted meat before the ill-fated hunt, a lapse in judgment spurred by desperate hunger. Nearby, Naida's movements could be heard - grinding herbs, tending to the fire, whispering healing incantations to the spirits. Her presence acted as a lifeline, preventing him from succumbing entirely to the fever-induced darkness that beckoned him.

Unbidden, a poignant thought pierced his mind: how many more disappointments would he face? As one of the tribe's seasoned hunters, the responsibility of feeding twenty-three individuals weighed heavily on him. 

Yet, with each passing season, the hunts grew more arduous. The magnificent creatures that had sustained their ancestors were fading from existence like morning mist.

The colossal ground sloths that once grazed the valley's heart? Extinct. The enormous beavers whose dams had nurtured vibrant wetlands teeming with waterfowl? Vanished. Even the American lions, once rulers of the forest - fearsome yet predictable in their behaviors - had not been sighted for three full seasons.

During his delirium, memories flooded back to when he was a young boy, accompanying his father on his inaugural mammoth hunt. Back then, the herd boasted over forty members, including playful calves frolicking around their mothers like oversized puppies. 

His father had imparted the sacred customs: approaching with reverence, taking only what was necessary, honoring the spirit of the fallen behemoth.

"Nowadays," his father had whispered as they knelt beside their kill, "every creature that perishes sustains the living. But when the grand ones vanish, what will sustain us?" 

The weight of those words now resonated within Tadoda. The mammoth at the river had been safeguarding something precious, likely the final offspring of its lineage. The anguish in those ancient eyes conveyed a paternal awareness of their impending extinction.

Fever-induced visions cascaded through his mind: boundless grasslands devoid of life, rivers flowing in reverse, skies devoid of avian creatures. He envisioned his son Aiyana maturing into a man, navigating through barren forests, guiding their dwindling tribe towards an uncertain future.

A resolve surged within him. "I must endure," the thought sliced through the fog of delirium like sunlight piercing storm clouds. "I must impart my knowledge to him before it's too late." 

Despite the fire's warmth, chills wracked his body. Each tremor sent fresh waves of torment through his battered limbs. 

The rocks in the rapids had nearly shattered his left shin, and the deep lacerations from submerged branches were slow to mend. Yet, it wasn't only his physical being that was fractured; his spirit also bore the burden of comprehending the demise of an era.

Through swollen eyes, he observed Naida preparing another batch of willow bark tea. Her countenance now etched with new lines of concern and fatigue, not present before his mishap, sculpted by worry and sleepless nights. 

At thirty-two years, she had already bid farewell to two children: one to illness, one to the jaws of a predatory bear. Now, she tended to him with a resolute determination born from enduring profound loss.

"The herbs will provide relief," she murmured, more to herself than to him. Yet beneath her confident assurances, Tadoda detected a trace of uncertainty. 

The ancient remedies that had sustained their people for generations seemed less potent now, as if the very spirits residing in the plants were waning alongside the creatures they once healed.

The haunting question of the world he was bequeathing to Aiyana plagued him more than any physical anguish. In his fevered state, he envisioned his twelve-year-old son attempting to track creatures that no longer roamed, harvesting plants that had withered from the land, leading a tribe through forests incapable of supporting them.

The mammoth's sorrowful trumpeting reverberated in his memory once more. It wasn't the authoritative call of a herd leader, but the lament of the final member of its kind. Tadoda realized with mounting dread that it had been a farewell melody, a dirge for a world already lost.

As consciousness ebbed away once more, Tadoda silently vowed to the forest spirits: if he survived this fever, he would instruct his son not just in hunting the remaining creatures but in preserving their existence. Perhaps there was still a chance to alter the conclusion of this melancholic tale.

The Native Americans who once called Middle Georgia home knew survival techniques that have mostly been lost to time (Photographer Nate Weeks)

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