That night he got the chance to find out for himself. When he was sure his mother was sleeping Mouse snuck out into the night, along the path that led away east from the city, the one that no-one travelled without a pressing good reason. The beast wasn't howling any more, but from time to time let out little whimpers that Mouse felt wash over him, through his mind and down his spine, like being plunged into a pool of ink. He kept going.
The knots on the gate were intricate, especially in the dark. But Mouse had a tiny flashlight he had stolen from one of the strangers while they weren't looking, and this he held in his teeth as his nimble fingers undid them, in the order he remembered from his uncle.
He slipped inside the gate, and the beast roared at once, as if it could smell him. The second the roar hit him the flashlight went out and in his fear Mouse gasped, dropping it to the floor where it rolled uselessly away in the dark.
For a few seconds he stood stock still, fighting to control his breathing and his panic. The sound of his heart in his chest was like a hammer falling on rocks, and up ahead he could sense the beast staring down at him.
Within a few seconds, the darkness seemed to clear, and the cave became visible once again. Mouse's breathing slowed as he looked around, and realized slowly that he was seeing by the light coming off the beast. As soon as he realized, it became impossible not to stare right at it.
It was a curious thing, many times the height of a man, and shaped like a lizard, except its jaws were closer to those of a deep-sea fish, and indeed it had a luminescent lure that dangled above its head, and it was this that cast the light in the cave. It looked like something left over from a previous draft of the world, Mouse thought, and as if in response it whimpered, sending another wave of static across his vision. There was something wrong about it.
Mouse had come too far to turn back now. Stepping forward fully into the cave, he raised both hands, crossing them and uncrossing them above his head. "Hey!" he shouted, then clicked with his tongue.
The beast's head whipped round and it stared right at him through milky, sightless eyes. Mouse realized that this was why it had not noticed his presence in the cave: The beast was quite, quite blind.
Mouse had run with larger animals before, most often the forest cats, leading them in the long circles that tired them out until they could be duped into running onto the village's spears. This experience almost helped with luring the beast, but not entirely: Rather than running in silence, letting his scent bring the animal on, the beast required constant noises of encouragement to follow him down the path. At first this terrified him: Who knew what other predators shouting and waving his arms would bring out? But they met no animal life on the long journey down the path towards the strangers, and he realized the scent of the beast was enough to keep them away. It smelt like brine and saltfish, deep-sea things again, and he wondered how it had come to be locked in a cave deep in the forest for ages.
By the time they reached the strangers' camp, it was dawn, and the beast was tiring, often pausing to sit back on its haunches and moan. Every time it did Mouse took a deep breath and steadied himself against a nearby tree while the dizziness washed over him.
But finally they were there, and at the scent of machine-oil coming from the strangers' equipment the beast seemed to quiver and grow in stature and alertness, bounding down the trail towards them. Mouse half-smiled, an ugly, angry expression, and ducked into cover behind a tree. He had done his part, and soon the strangers would be gone or worse, he knew.
He cried out as a pincer-like grip enveloped his arm from behind. "What have you done?" His uncle demanded, his eyes blazing.