The Totem-Maker (part sixty-five)

The Totem-Maker

Chapter Seven

Winter Alone

(part sixty-five)

Knowing more, I wasted nothing on self-blame for what I had not known. I opened the door to the yard…and surprise; I shed my scarf to a gentle air of spring. Then rounding the corner, chill. Terrific icicles columned the side of my house.

The paths I’d made showed signs of clearing. I might have wandered in such balm, bent to study odd plants, collect pretty stones. But today I asked my question. Where by sunset? With my basins filled, my fire kindled, my bundles of sticks laid out to dry?

Today I took proper advice of myself: Finish these tasks. Do more if you can.

I decided also, being in a speaking mood, to address the gods. Address them as friends, call this melting weather another blessing.

“The Prince…the man, I say, who holds this title in my land, which by our words should be Salo-Harpthok… Though salo has the meaning of to revere, to be revered. We do not feel reverence for our tyrant. But I will call him without pettiness the Prince, who has gathered stories of the Alëenon people, but the time to share them with me he did not allow himself…”

I drew breath.

“My dears, these are not insults, but if you have some name you will send, an envoy to teach me, my ears are open. I will scrutinize every sign for its clue. Please remember I am a fool by profession, a fortuneteller.”

As I spoke, I bundled sticks. With a hearth-broom of twigs I spread snow, heavy wet stuff. I uncovered a waxy-leaved vine, dotted with red berries.

I wanted to eat them; they looked capable of poisoning me.

I took a stone, and crushed one berry against it. I put it to my tongue. The flavor was itself waxy, not sweet. Not bitter. I saw that the vine’s soil was fat-grained yellow sand, flaked with grey rock. The amber tops of my grasses lay twisted like the salt-cured ropes of sailing vessels. I used my knife on the green at the roots, feeling I would steep some tea.

You are dawdling.

The voice (I had not said this to myself) was curious of what I did, what my fate might be. I took my bundles, carried them indoors, strewed them farthest from the hearth for drying.

I ate my seeds and honey, ventured one whole berry. I drank my grass tea, sweetened with the honey on my fingers. I had daylight left…what more?

Hot ashes from below the grate, to my garden spot. I found a shingle of rock to cut them in. That was to advance the cause of food; my kindling would advance the cause of warmth. Water gave me no troubles. My final hour should be to my education—all I could notice about the lay of the land, the wild things that lived here.

69

Winter Alone

The Totem-Maker (part sixty-six)

(2018, Stephanie Foster)