1

 

A cracking noise brings me awake in an instant, my heart pounding. The sound still rings in my ears, louder than the wind and rain. I can see nothing in the darkness. Rain blows sideways into our shelter, hard enough to sting my face. Our deerskin blankets have barely kept us dry, and now that I’m on my feet, I’m quickly drenched.

     What did I hear?

     Another mighty crack! I feel a spike of fear. “Zoan, wake up!”

I scream into the wind and hear panic in my voice, but Zoan remains sound asleep. I reach down to shake him, and he stirs.

     Again it happens, and again—great resonant cracking.

     I feel Zoan struggle to his feet beside me. “It sounds like trees breaking, somewhere down by the cove. We can’t do anything about it in the dark. I’ll try to restart the fire.” I am at the edge of panic, but he sounds calm.

     We forget the fire when we hear more loud cracking, along with a great rending sound. I hear the unmistakable booming blow of a tree falling, and I know Zoan is right.

     A rumbling begins, and I feel it before I hear it, first a fearful shaking underfoot, then a roar that grows until it drowns out all else. No thunder ever produced such noise.

     The end of the world? A giant tearing up the forest? I thought those were merely old stories.

     The shaking of the ground becomes a fury beyond any nightmare. I stagger, unable to keep my balance. I am terrified.

     And then it ends. The shaking stops, and the roaring, and the cracking and tearing sounds. The wind and rain are as fierce as ever, but they are nothing compared to—what? What was it?

 

 

Zoan kindles a fire, but it struggles in the wind and will never be big enough to dry us. We are both soaked. We huddle in the most protected corner of the shelter, wrapped in all our hides—half a dozen from home, and two more from deer Zoan has killed here. The rain slants sideways into our faces, and we’re still wet through, but sitting close together we gradually warm up, and the fire provides some comfort.

     With no moon or stars, we have no idea how long we must wait for morning. Our evening fire had time to die down completely, so it must be past midnight. The fright of the earth shaking is a new kind of fear for me, and I struggle to find strength in Zoan’s calm. There is no question of more sleep.

     “Zoan, what happened?”

     “I don’t know. I never heard anything like it.”

     A new terror strikes me. “Our boat! Do you think it’s safe?”

     “I hope so. We’ll know in the morning.” Does he never feel panic?

     The rain slows and eventually stops, but the wind is still too strong for a proper fire.

     We wait a long time.

 

 

At first light we start down toward the cove, barely able to see the path and with no idea what we will find. We are still soaked. The wind has dropped, but the dawn is gray and cold. We slip and skid down steep wet shale, our feet feeling every sharp rock through our hide shoes. When at last we reach the shore, fog envelops us and storm surf drenches us in spray. The roar of the waves makes conversation impossible.

     I am shivering with cold. Zoan is cold too, but he is too intent on our situation to notice. He looks like an old fisherman standing beside me, with his deerskin cap covering his sodden black curls. I know some part of him enjoys this harsh time. I do not.

     We work our way through the fog toward our boat, which we tied far from the water, beyond the reach of even these waves. We are stopped by an immense boulder that was not here yesterday. We feel our way cautiously along its flank toward the water, only to discover an even bigger boulder at the waterline, with waves breaking around it. We look at each other and try to understand.

     The fog thins slightly, but what we see makes no sense. We are surrounded by rocks taller than we are. They block our path to the boat.

     Only when the sun breaks through do we understand. What we felt and heard—briefly drowning out the storm—was a massive rockslide. Half the bluff slid into the ocean, along with the trees that grew on it. The top of the bluff must have slumped slowly at first, laying the trees over and breaking them. Their remains now wash back and forth in the surf. Hundreds of big trees.

     Rocks from the bluff completely cover what was a peaceful crescent of beach. Our boat lies under a vast landscape of boulders, or perhaps it was smashed and tossed out to sea. We are stranded. Without the boat there will be no return home—not this season. We have a hard winter before us.

 

 

We return to the shelter, which feels drafty and fragile in the cold wind. We build up the fire and sit beside it, but it offers little comfort. Clouds scud across the sky. I dread the thought of yet more rain.

     Our predicament is our own doing. We knew we should start our return voyage before the weather turned, but a succession of warm days seduced us into delay. At the first rain, we decided to leave on the next clear day, but ten days of foul weather followed, culminating in yesterday’s storm.

     By sea, we are scarcely more than a month from home, but even the first half day—the trip back to the mainland—is now impossible. We didn’t store food during the summer, and in winter game will be scarce. We have no winter clothing. The instant we saw the fate of our boat, we knew we would have to struggle to survive.

     We chose this place for its beauty. Now, after the storm, it is glorious. Geese heading south talk about the coming winter as they pass low over the shelter. The trees on the mountainside are red and gold, spectacular against a dusting of new snow.

     “Look.” Zoan points up into the hills. “Something moving.”

     I see it too, but so far away that we can’t guess what it might be. After a time we make out two figures, the first people we have seen since we arrived here. As we watch, we realize they are coming toward us.

 

 

Zoan and I have spent most of our lives together, first playing as children, and later hunting together. We were only fifteen when we embraced for life. The village elders counseled us to wait, but they had known us as rebellious youngsters, and when we refused to part they were unsurprised and allowed us to marry.

     A year ago we asked permission to leave for the summer to seek someplace else to live and raise our children. To leave the place whose lore and traditions framed our childhood years was a big step into the unknown, but we knew if we were to escape the village’s protective shell, it would have to be before we had children. The elders explained that the village depended on its young people and asked us to reconsider. When we remained firm, they gave us their blessing even though they knew we would leave permanently if we found what we sought.

     After that we spent every free moment together, planning our journey. We sat facing each other holding hands, knees touching. Sometimes we didn’t even talk, but the trip was always on our minds. We prepared and stocked our boat, and as soon as weather permitted we made short trips to test ourselves.

     Late winter was mild, and we set out in early spring. I cried when I said farewell to Mother and Father, because some partings turn out to be final, but after we had planned for months, neither of us considered changing our minds.

     We sailed northward along the coast, which was rugged and mostly uninhabited, with only a few small villages. We chose deserted places to beach our boat and make camp. In some places we stayed several nights. We ate well—fish and small game, along with roots, leaves, nuts, and berries.

     The coastal wind is usually from the north in springtime, but not this year; in the first month the sailing was easy and fast, with the wind surprisingly behind us. When the wind resumed its normal pattern, our little boat met the roughest seas we had seen. We continued north even so, into a land much different from home. Entire mountains were covered with evergreen forests that swept almost to the water’s edge. We saw unfamiliar birds, and once dolphins swam beside our boat for an entire afternoon. The air felt different, with cold mornings and evenings in late spring.

     We had come much farther north than we expected, but the farther we went, the more we loved what we saw. We told ourselves the return trip would be speedy and smooth, with wind and swell at our backs.

     Finally, past midsummer, we reached a natural turning-back point. The coastline we had followed turned eastward and continued that way as far as we could see. But to the northwest, only a half day away by boat, we saw hills rising out of the sea. An island, we thought, and decided to visit it before returning home.

     A fateful decision.

     We landed at the cove, made camp on the bluff, and explored. The area was beautiful and deserted, and by no means an island. From the tops of the hills we saw range after range of mountains, with snow-covered peaks in the northern distance.

     Thinking we might have found the place we’d been seeking, we decided to stay the rest of the summer. We built a light shelter on the bluff beside a clear stream and carried rocks one by one from a nearby hillside to make a magnificent hearth, where we have spit-roasted deer and rabbit and brewed many a bowl of tea.

     

 

The days were long then, with light until late evening, but winter comes earlier this far north. Already the nights are longer and much colder than at home. The trees are turning. Soon they will be bare, and snow will fall.

     I move closer to the fire and wish its warmth could reach inside. Just a few months ago, I found the village suffocating. Now I long for the wisdom and guidance of the elders. The silence here—once so welcome—seems oppressive, and I crave the noise and bustle of home.

     Mother was anxious about our trip from the beginning and will be frantic with grief when we don’t return as planned. The entire village will grieve. We could have stayed nearer home. What brought us so far was our shared love of the unknown. With the boat gone, our behavior seems as reckless as Mother said all along.

 

 

As the travelers draw slowly closer, my anxiety grows, because they could be hostile. Zoan checks his weapons. We relax when we see that one is a woman. They are hunters, and in trouble. He carries all their weapons—in fact, all their few possessions. He helps her, but still she stumbles often, and they are no better dressed for cold and rain than we are.

     As they approach, we raise our arms in welcome, and I feel relieved when he returns the gesture. She slumps before the fire when they arrive. We offer them root tea in our crude cups, and she accepts with shaking hands. He removes his pack and stands before us. They are roughly our age, but light skinned and blond.

     He is a powerful-looking man, shorter than Zoan but heavier. “I am Sigurd,” he says. “My wife is Inge.” I strain to understand; at first I hardly recognize the words.

     “Welcome. I am Zoan, and Quitana is my wife.” Zoan gestures to make the meaning clear. He extends his arms, and the two men stand face to face, arms clasped in the traditional greeting. “Thank you for your kindness,” Sigurd says. Zoan smiles, and my tension vanishes.

     Inge lies down before the fire and quickly falls asleep, her tea almost untouched. Sigurd covers her with a deerskin blanket we offer. He looks silently at her, his concern plain on his face. Eventually he sits, cup in hand, and tells their story. When he says they come from the North, Zoan and I exchange a glance. They must know how to survive the northern winter!

     Zoan speaks for us. “We have been here since midsummer. Now we cannot leave, because our boat was destroyed. We have no choice but to winter here.”

     Sigurd stands. “We might be wise to winter together. The storm destroyed your boat?”

     Zoan leads him to the edge of the bluff and points out the collapsed cliff, the rocky rubble covering the beach, and the trees bobbing in the surf. The two men stand there talking for some time.

 

 

Inge sleeps most of the afternoon and seems stronger afterward, but her hip is painful. As the four of us talk in our limited way, I brew more tea and mix a poultice I learned from Mother, who is a healer. The tea revives Inge, and she says the poultice helps. She is exhausted, her young face lined and haggard, her skin grey. Her hair, in a braid, is extremely fine, long and straight, a light golden blond. She and Sigurd have the bluest eyes I have ever seen.

     Sigurd and Inge intended to return northward to winter in a place they knew, but an outbreak of violence in that area changed their minds, and they turned south to seek a winter refuge. Yesterday’s storm caught them on an exposed hillside with no shelter. They didn’t sleep at all, and today traveled cold, wet, and hungry. Inge fell and was hurt, but they pressed on. They were happy to see our fire. They did not know how we would receive them, but they had no alternative. Inge could go no farther.

 

 

This is our first cold night—the first of many. The men gather wood for a fire, and I roast a fat summer rabbit. Sigurd and Inge haven’t eaten real food for days. We have berries and root tea, and the rabbit tastes good. We talk as we eat and long afterward.

     Sigurd is twenty-one; Inge is fifteen but looks younger. She is slender and small, with a warm and friendly smile despite her pain. She points to Sigurd with her piece of rabbit. “He has been my hero since I was a child. Raiders killed my family and burned my village. They would have stolen me, but he fought fiercely and saved me.”

     Sigurd was then all she had. He had been a warrior for years, since his family too had died in a barbaric raid. As Inge grew up he provided for her. He became her husband only last year, a change neither of them had expected. That was a time of renewed raids from the North. They set out southward to escape the violence and have traveled ever since.

     Our story is so peaceful in comparison!

     “Quitana,” Inge says. “Zoan.” Our names are obviously strange to her. She pronounces them carefully and smiles at us. “I am grateful for your kindness. I might have died.”

     The talk turns to the upcoming winter. Sigurd gestures toward the hillside. “We must seek a cave. Inge and I spent last winter in a cave and were never cold.”

     “Food will be difficult in winter.” Zoan finally voices the concern we have felt all day.

     “Deer and rabbit are out all year,” Sigurd says, “and winter hunting is safer, because the bears are asleep. We need deer for meat and hide. I will hunt tomorrow. I must make arrows. I have only a few.”

     “I have many.” Zoan brings one of his arrows to Sigurd, who examines it minutely and admires the point. They go to Sigurd’s pack and compare arrows and knives. They even draw each other’s bows. In their animation I see that among men, hunting is a common language.

     “It is no accident that we meet the same day you lose your boat,” Inge says quietly. “We are in the hands of fate. We are meant to winter together.”

     Earlier I feared they might be hostile. Her trust surprises me, when we know so little of each other.

     Inge senses my feelings and responds as if I had spoken them. “I saw in a dream that Sigurd and I would join with others and would be safe.”

     Sigurd overhears her. “A fire for two needs as much wood as a fire for four,” he says. “Together, we will all have a better chance.” Already I understand Sigurd and Inge’s speech better. Many of their words are the same as ours.

     We build up the fire one last time, and they bed down across the hearth from us. We hear them whisper together. Their presence comforts me.

 

 

Inge is younger than I, but she has known horror and violence that Zoan and I never have. Our village has not been attacked by raiders in living memory. We thought of them as nothing more than an old story. Still, when we planned our trip, we realized we might have to defend ourselves. We have knives, spears, and arrows with Zoan’s superb flint points. We hope we never have to use them for fighting.

     I am sorry to learn that bears are a threat; we know them only from paintings on hide. Protecting ourselves against a bear might require more than weapons. Zoan, the master carver, plans to make a tiny wooden bear for my pouch.

     Mother gave me her father’s pouch four years ago, when I became a woman—fourteen, in our tradition. I remember my grandfather well even though he died when I was small. I never knew my grandmother, but my pouch also holds a dog carving that she carried for safety from wolves.

     Tonight I lie awake, the spirits on my mind. Without last night’s storm and the rockslide, we would have left for home and would never have met Sigurd and Inge. Even if we had, how would we have received them? Would we have trusted them if we didn’t have to? Inge is right: fate allied us with them. I am grateful for that and for this place, whose spirit I have felt since the day we arrived. Zoan and I were not intended to leave.

     Our first task as a group is to find a cave. Inge says bears often use caves for their winter sleep. In the morning I will remind Zoan about the carving.