Clack-Clack Across the Great Plains
Clack-clack. The Great Plains of this other world were vast and boundless. Staring at the endless grasslands and the towering sky, it was easy to lose track of where I was or how far we'd come. Without the occasional trees or wild animals popping into view, I might've sworn we were walking in place.
But instead of soaking in that stunning scenery, we were crammed inside the wagon, hollering away at our game. "Ting-ting! Tang-tang! Frying Pan Game!"
"Tamur net!"
"Tamur tamur tamu tama—ah!"
"Ahaha! Tamur lost again!"
The kids were huddled in a circle, slapping their knees and palms in rhythm, totally absorbed in the fun. Just an hour after we set off, they'd started whining about boredom and trying to bolt from the wagon, so I'd reluctantly dipped into my past-life knowledge bag a little.
A drinking game. Stuff I'd learned back then, thinking I'd use it once I hit adulthood. But when I actually grew up, app-based drinking games were all the rage in the city, and more importantly, I didn't even drink, so it never came up. And yet, here I was, finally putting it to use. Guess you never know when knowledge might come in handy.
"Hey! Ursa! Why do you keep targeting me?!"
"'Cause you're the weakest, Tamur. Bears hunt rabbits with everything they've got, y'know."
"B-but I'm a tiger..."
Tamur, the tiger beastkin whose baby teeth had recently fallen out, leaving his speech all lispy. It was fine most of the time, but whenever he had to talk fast like this, his pronunciation always crumbled.
"I-I'm getting hit so much my forehead's on fire... Please go easy on meee..."
His forehead was already beet red from who-knows-how-many hits, and he was trembling as he begged.
"Hehe. Don't worry, Tamur."
"Y-you'll make it not hurt, right?"
I flashed a bright smile and placed my hand on his forehead. Thinking mercy was coming, color returned to his face. A tiger this soft? Can't have that.
"Don't worry. You won't die."
Thwack! No mercy—I nailed a flick right on the spot that'd probably taken the most abuse already.
"Gwaaaaaah!"
Tamur clutched his forehead and rolled around. This was a world of the strong. The weak get eaten first.
"Grow strong, Tamur. I'm doing this for your own good."
Imparting life's wisdom to ignorant barbarians—that's the duty of a civilized soul. Today, I'd given one lazy beastkin kid the motivation to grow.
Was he moved by my example? Tears of gratitude welled up in Tamur's eyes.
...
By the time the sun hung high overhead, the wagon came to a stop.
"Alright, halting here! Eat up, rest a bit, then we're off again."
"Little ones, break time. Get out and stretch."
Short Mane Sets thumped on the wagon, announcing our rest stop.
"F-finally!"
"Run! Away from the flick monster!"
The kids with their swollen foreheads scrambled out like their lives depended on it. It had started as a game where they flicked each other, but at some point, it turned into "Dodge Ursa."
Well, obvious outcome. These mental and physical kids could never beat me—an adult inside, from an advanced civilization. Our worlds of experience were just too different. Greenhorns.
"Nyaah...!"
Streeetch—I hopped down from the wagon and cracked my back. As I shook out my stiff legs and wandered around, the kids who'd fled came running back, dragging someone with them.
It was Frost Fang granny.
"Ursa. You've turned the kids' foreheads into mountains."
Frost Fang glared at me with sharp eyes. The brats snickered from behind her back.
These sneaky punks. Tattling on me?
The smug looks on their faces ticked me off.
"I-it was all agreed upon! They all consented!"
Her eyes narrowed thinner and thinner as I desperately made excuses. Damn. Gotta act confident in times like this, but my body shrank on its own. He who lives by the flick dies by the flick, huh.
Frost Fang raised her hand. Judgment was about to come down. I squeezed my eyes shut.
Tok.
"...Huh?"
No pain, against all odds. I peeked—Frost Fang was chuckling as she patted my head.
"Good job. These little punks need a good whacking now and then. Use this chance to straighten 'em out."
"Uh... so I can keep beating them?"
"Not beating—educating, you brat."
Whack!
"Ow."
Couldn't resist mouthing off and ate one for it. With that, Frost Fang headed off to prep food. Left behind were me and the traitors.
I curled my lips into a grin and approached them.
"Oh dear~ What do we have here? The rope around your necks done snapped?"
"...."
They shivered. Betrayed by the Frost Fang they'd trusted, all they could do was tremble pitifully.
"Peak."
"U-Ursa...!"
"What'd you say when you ran out earlier? Flick monster?"
"N-no... misunderstanding. It s-slipped out by mistake."
"Words carry the heart. You must think of me as a flick monster, or it wouldn't have come out."
"...."
"...Peak."
See you later? I whispered, and Peak's eyes went dead.
...Did I go too far?
After eating, I took a stroll around and returned to the wagon. Inside, the kids who'd scarfed down their meal were tangled up together, snoring away. It was pretty cute.
Peak's faking it, huh? Unlike the others curled up in balls, he lay stiff as a board. Probably pretending to sleep in case I came for him. My words from earlier must've spooked him good.
I'd just said it in the heat of the moment for laughs. Already forgotten. ...But that's that, and this is this. Time to mess with Peak today.
I nudged the fake-sleeping Peak with my foot. He flinched noticeably—hilarious. Everyone else out cold, and he's the only one awake? Guess I'll crash too.
I squeezed into the spot next to empty Sonya and lay down.
...
Five days since we left. Shockingly, nothing had happened. We'd stop midway to pick fruit, fill up at ponds to wash, all smooth sailing.
"Nothing at all..."
Couldn't take the boredom; a mutter slipped out. I was sprawled on top of the wagon, staring blankly. Kids' laughter rang out from below.
After racking up too many wins over the past few days, I'd finally "graduated" from the booze-free drinking game—earning the title of big sis from every kid in exchange.
So now I was up here, idly taking in the view.
"Nothing's good, Ursa. Stuff showing up on the plains is what scares you."
Short Mane Sets, driving the wagon, chimed in. He must be bored too.
"Still, it's too empty. Used to be all sorts of sights, but now it's just~ our sheep and cows way out there."
The Great Plains our beastkin tribes had roamed were huge and wild. Filled with grass, fruit trees, and peaceful critters like wild cattle and rabbits.
But since we started moving, those beasts had vanished. Now it was just green and sky. Felt like I'd stepped into an old PC wallpaper from a museum in my past life.
"Makes sense. We're leaving the plains, after all."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"When nothing's visible, that's the plains for ya. Means it's not bothering to show off to folks leaving. Opposite of before. It's not that we can't meet beasts—beasts can't meet us."
What? The plains deliberately separating us from the animals? Sounded like the plains had a mind of its own.
"That make sense?"
"Why not? It's the plains."
What were the plains to this guy? He said it so matter-of-factly, now I felt wrong.
"What are the plains, then?"
"Hm... dunno? Just goin' off what the elders say."
"Aren't you an adult now, Short Mane? You got your Trace Name. Short·Mane·Sets."
Beastkin from barbarian tribes get recognized as adults after their rite of passage, usually after fifteen. They earn a second name—a Trace Name.
"Hey. Be real—what kinda trace is 'Short Mane'? They just named it after my whiskers. Call me by my regular name. I'll leave a real trace someday and earn a proper one."
Trace Names come from deeds or marks left behind. But in these peaceful plains, what traces were there to leave? They just slapped on something based on looks.
Sets, with his impressively thick whiskers for fifteen, suited "Short Mane" perfectly.
"But Black Mane didn't complain."
"He's just not showing it. Bet he gripes tons when we're alone. Every beastkin dreams of a cool trace like the elders'."
"Like Rippling Earth?"
"Deer Elder's is awesome, but she's no warrior. Tiger Elder or Hawk Elder's traces are what we aspire to."
Smoke-Eating Scales, Sky-Piercing Feather. Bite-Crushing Fangs Ragnar. Two of the five elders still leading warriors somewhere, their Trace Names always brought up in the tribe. Never seen 'em, but must've earned 'em with epic feats.
"Short Mane Sets says Rippling Earth Serian's Trace Name sucks. Memo..."
"You punk! I never said that! Don't twist my words!"
We cracked up at how well he took the teasing, then headed back inside. The kids were deep into a game of 31.
Looked like Basha was getting wrecked. Sonya, watching, spotted me and scooted over.
I sat quietly, mulling over what Sets had said about the plains. Maybe this world's Great Plains weren't what I thought.
Curious, but...
I pondered a while, then just erased "plains" from my mind. We were leaving anyway. What's the worst that could happen?