The Totem-Maker (part seventy)

The Totem-Maker

Chapter Seven

Winter Alone

(part seventy)

I stopped well back on the slope that fell to the precipice, where earth lay under thicker snow. Safe ground. My mind had no other thought, as I trod the dips and rises of the old trees’ spidering roots.

The bird of prey’s shriek turned my shoulders, angled my eyes to the sky. Uphill I saw a white hare start.

Under my feet the ground gave way.

All of it, everything. Only the tree stood anchored. All my salvation had been in hearing the cry and twisting to follow the hare’s dash. My legs plunged, but my arms flung forward, and my hands seized anchors.

If I had not faced uphill, I would have pitched over the cliff, with no root to catch at. Numb, I used my hips to hunch inelegantly—ahead, and ahead. I let my feet be weights; flailing them after footholds, I sensed…I knew…would harm the terrible precariousness of my balance. I wormed my way onto what felt solid. I hooked toes at last, and walked myself on my belly. I dug with frozen fingers into the snow and found other roots.

By now I could think a bit. But only when I came to where I’d left the sledge, did I push onto hands and knees.

Then I lay on my back and stared at the sky.

My heart was calm. I watched the clouds mass, and told myself, you have work to do, get to it. You will bear the lesson in mind (yes, bhekale). You will not die the death of Mumas. Twice today I’d invoked his name.

And so I stood.

74

Winter Alone

The Totem-Maker (part seventy-one)

(2018, Stephanie Foster)