In the thick, warm air of the forest, amidst the intoxicating scent of the new spring, the massive male Eikthyrnir clash in a battle to the death. They do this every year, for millions of years, in the season when everything blossoms and spreads its seed. The victor earns the right to mate with the female.

 

She watches from the shelter of the moss, her elytra hidden from the gaze of predators. She is much smaller than the males, but her essence permeates everything, detectable from great distances by excited suitors.

 

The Eikthyrnir fight, opening and closing their immense horned mandibles, bristling with spikes, trying to trap the opponent in a fatal grip and send him crashing onto the rocks. They are driven by instinct, ready to fight to the death, asking no questions. The lust for mating robs them of the gift of fear.

 

Finally, the largest of the two males manages to grasp his opponent, crushing his chitinous shell and letting him plummet into the abyss. He then lifts his horns toward the sky, emitting a deep, rhythmic hum—his victory song to the amber crowns of the sequoias.

 

In a flash of light, in an explosion of sparks, the Eikthyrnir's body splits and burns, collapsing among the decaying leaves. The female, disgusted by the stench of molten chitin, takes flight and vanishes into the dense forest.

 

“You idiot!” shouts the pilot of the small hunting craft. “Why did you take the shot so soon? You know I like listening when they sing!” As he yells, he spits out chewed onion and steers the craft toward the smoking carcass of the Eikthyrnir.

 

“And you call that singing?” the companion shouts back, reloading the plasma rifle. “I hate that disgusting noise! It gets into my brain!”

 

The craft lands on the undergrowth, tiny among the trunks and roots of the poison ivy. The words GRIMM COMPANY are emblazoned on its side. The two hunters disembark, as small as wild strawberries.

 

“Nice shot, though,” says the pilot.

 

“Let’s grab the horn,” says the rifleman. “I don’t want any more of these monsters showing up.”

 

They have to climb the carcass to reach the central horn of the Eikthyrnir, black and gleaming. It takes three hours to cut it, and seven diamond blades break in the effort.

 

“Victory!” the pilot shouts, clutching the horn in his hand. “We’re gonna make a fortune with this…”

 

“Ready to be cut into pieces by the best gem cutters of Grimm Company!”

 

“Right! Just imagine all those rich guys in suits, ready to pay millions of bucks to give their wives a ring with a piece of this thing on top!”

 

“And another one for their mistresses, of course!”

 

“And a part of it is ours,” says the pilot, slapping his colleague on the back. “With this, I’m buying that beach house in Costa Rica!”

 

“Not me, buddy,” says the hunter. “With my share, I’m having a gem made for Rosie. I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

 

The pilot chokes on his onion, spits, and laughs. “You’re really obsessed with your Rosie…”

 

“This calls for a drink to celebrate!” says the hunter. He pulls a metal flask from his backpack and takes a long swig.

 

The arrow whistles through the air, and when it lodges in his throat, the tip protrudes from the other side. The hunter coughs, collapses to the ground, dead, still clutching the flask in his right hand.

 

With their war cries, naked, tattooed men leap out from behind enormous purple mushrooms. The pilot flees toward the craft, stumbles, falls on a huge cherry blossom, and gets back on his feet. One of the natives has already reached him and smashes a stone club onto his head. His skull splits in two, his eyes roll around in a final spasm, then swell with blood.

 

The warrior picks up the Eikthyrnir horn and raises it high. All his companions cry out in triumph and start singing.

 

“You have won the horn, young Marawak! You have punished the desecrators who killed the Eikthyrnir, the totem of our clan,” says the oldest warrior, placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “You have passed the trial, and now your initiation is complete: you are a man of the tribe! Let’s return to the village and celebrate!”

 

* * *

 

The trackers find the bones of the warriors on the low hills at the edge of the forest. It is almost dawn. The skulls, picked clean, lie scattered in the grass, pierced right at the top.

 

“Tiger mantises must have attacked them,” says the lead tracker, sticking his fingers into the hole of a skull. “It’s the new moon, they’ve just finished mating. They need a lot of sustenance to develop the eggs inside them.”

 

“I’m sorry,” one of the warriors whispers to a girl with a tattooed face. “Your Marawak won’t be coming back.”

 

She doesn’t cry. “He proved his worth,” she says, picking up the Eikthyrnir horn, abandoned in the grass. “He passed the trial and became a man. He earned the right to take me as his wife. I will marry no one else and will live as a widow.”

 

No one objects. The sun rises. The air carries bees back and forth, delighted by the sweet scent of flowers.

 

“There’s much to do today,” says the elder explorer. The group resumes their march.