The Totem-Maker (part sixty-four)

The Totem-Maker

Chapter Seven

Winter Alone

(part sixty-four)

The gods seemed set to storm again, conjuring clouds, the low sun himself cowed, shining pale in colors not his own. First to the yard, to collect all that might be burned.

I burst out, eager.

I had startled something. Feathers touched my face; I shrank, covering my eyes. When I looked, the yard was empty of hawk or eagle. But I heard its cry dwindle to a place among the cliffs…

The hunter must watch my own predation, or by the deities of nature, my fair claim. The poor prey was like a rabbit, short-eared, the fur white, the body warm. Warm, and I dreaded that it was not dead—again, I doubted I knew these matters well. And that my knife, skinning it, would do cruel harm.

If in conscience one can think of harm, already the choice is made. There are few harms we do in innocence. But I tried the blade, the tip of it along the belly, the creature seeping blood and cooling all the while.

I took it in my hands and walked to where the mountains stood in sight.

Snow fell, and I held the dead thing high. Mighty Ones, Great is your Blessing, humble my gratitude, and boundless. The prayer ended, as with every prayer, forgive me that I am ignorant. Show me, if I err, what is your will.

I felt better for this, and finished my work indoors.

Now I had meat for a meal, and was able to stretch a lovely, small pelt…to save, as I had no use for it. The storm was on me, my plan to gather firewood traded for this other boon.

I bedded under skins and blankets, a maelstrom howling round my house, and framed my problem. Here was a day on which I’d had a chance. Chance, not I, had won. Tomorrow I would pay attention, make no choice until I’d asked myself: By sunset, where will I be, if I do this thing?

Four days went by. I brought Cuerpha in, letting him make manure. I was not lucky with my fires, my hands too stiff, the winds down the chimney snatching my flint’s spark. I found the snows, piled over the very roof, kept the wind off at last…without it, my cave was tolerably warm. And bedding against my pony’s belly, I did not suffer.

Chance had won four tosses anew, since I’d lost the last. I had won back some of my store of firewood, for being unable to use it. I had won back some of my fodder, as the sheep were gone sheltering to their place in the cliffs. I’d arrived to thoughts of the War-Maker’s game. Champions moved pieces every idle moment, as Stol had told me. I had many ways to advance mine, and where my stratagems led to folly, raise new ones, until I had a handful of possible victories.

I talked these out, Cuerpha pleased to hear my voice. On the fifth day, sun again.

This was weather, not the passing of winter.

68

Winter Alone

The Totem-Maker (part sixty-five)

(2018, Stephanie Foster)