Rockslide preview

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2

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I wake to a roaring fire that Zoan built before leaving for a predawn hunt. The morning is bitter, and Zoan is glad for the fire when he returns with another rabbit. We all need warmer clothes, and soon.

     Inge feels stronger and is cheerful, although she hobbles painfully. She thinks she has no broken bones. I admire her resilience. I have always thought myself strong and tough, but my life has been far easier than hers.

     Later in the morning, on their first hunt together, Zoan and Sigurd kill a fine buck. They dress him on the spot and must struggle to carry him back. By the time they arrive, the day is warmer and clear.

     Inge and I prepare a feast to celebrate the successful hunt and our new partnership. We will eat fresh deer for days without using even a quarter of the meat. The rest we will cut into thin slices for drying. The men cut saplings, which Inge and I lash together into a drying rack, high over the fire, where the meat will be bathed in smoke as it dries and will be easy to defend against scavengers.

     At the end of our first full day together we are well fed and warm by our fire, but the wind is cold, and our talk turns once more to a cave. Today the men hunted in the forest along the stream, always a good place to find game. “To find a cave we’ll need to spend more time in the hills,” Sigurd says, “farther from here. Those trips will take all day.” He seems confident, but Zoan and I know nothing of caves, and I feel a pang of fear. We are not yet safe. We could freeze to death.

     We are happy to have a deer so quickly. Zoan and Sigurd say it is simply good luck, but I don’t think so. While they were gone I took the deer figure out of my grandfather’s pouch and held it close. I was grateful for my pouch last night when wolves howled in the distance, more and more of them in the still night air. Wolves avoided us during the summer, but game was plentiful then. Wintertime hunger could overcome their fear, and the dog figure in my pouch does not guarantee our safety. We will keep a fire burning and hope the wolves stay away. Wolves don’t come into caves. Bears do, but I will feel safer with the bear carving.

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We start curing the buck’s hide immediately. For ten days we repeatedly soak it in seawater and dry it in the sun. The buck also provides antler for knife handles and bone for needles. We use the sinew for wraps and ties. We waste almost nothing.

     Zoan and Sigurd alternate between hunting and gathering firewood. On rainy days they work in the shelter, making arrows. They also make tools with Sigurd’s handles of bone, antler, or wood, and Zoan’s points and blades. Their knives fit the hand and ease the task of cutting meat and hide. Inge and I begin to sew deerskin into leggings and wraps, slow work even with Zoan’s fine needles and Sigurd’s needle pushers.

     After a halfmonth of mostly good weather, we have two more deer but have not yet found a cave, although the men look for caves on every hunt. The nights are very cold. We all know we must find a cave before the first big snowstorm, which could come anytime. We must also have warm clothing and enough food to last the winter. A cave is our most urgent need, though, and every time the men return disappointed, the tension and fear mount.

     Despite the anxiety, on many days I feel hopeful. We will soon have warm clothing, and the drying rack has enough meat for months. Inge continues to recover, and I enjoy getting to know her as we work together and talk. The color in the trees is more intense daily, and my fear of winter ebbs on days of warm sun and sky as blue as Inge’s eyes.

     We thank the deer that have provided us with so many materials, and offer bits of meat up to our sky spirits in gratitude. That night I dream of a large buck bringing food to us, acknowledging our thanks.

 

 

A month now, and still we have no cave. Zoan and Sigurd have hunted farther and farther afield, but to no avail, and their stony expressions when they return each afternoon make words unnecessary.

     They have killed another deer and many rabbits. We have meat for the winter, and Inge and I have collected several bundles of green plants and herbs. We have dried some late-season berries. We have almost enough warm clothes. But no cave, and I am frightened. Each cold snap is worse than the last, and the storms are windy and wet. Every day is colder and darker. Twice the ground has been snow-covered in the morning, and patches of snow remain on the ground. Winter is coming, we said last month. Now it has arrived.

     Last night around the fire we talked about what we will do if heavy snow finds us still without a cave. The men have found half a dozen shallow caverns­—recesses protected by overhanging cliffs—and believe we should winter in one of them as best we can. The caverns are open to wind and cold but provide some shelter against rain and snow. One cavern had bear tracks.

     I have visions of a disastrous end for us all, of our frozen corpses ravaged by wolves. Have the glorious plans Zoan and I made come to this? I can’t believe it, but our situation seems more dire daily.

     Inge suffers the most in cold weather. She is so small that she can’t keep warm. She bears it with a smile, but when she and I are away from the shelter and its warm fire for any length of time, she slows down noticeably in step and speech. When we reach the fire and she removes her hand coverings—nobody goes barehanded now—her fingers are blue-white. Her hip injury bothers her more in the cold, and she limps severely.

     Today the men have been gone since early morning, and it will be dark soon. The wind comes in ragged gusts. The first big storm is coming. We can all feel it.

 

 

Clothing heavy enough for this northern winter is new to me. At home, fishermen wear hide cloaks and leggings, caps of wool, and heavy boots. The hunters wear even heavier clothes—deerskin with hair, or a wolfskin tunic. Father, though, the village’s most successful hunter until his student Zoan surpassed him, simply waited for good weather. He didn’t need clothes that would sustain him day after day outside.

     Our shoes, cloaks, and leggings are of deerskin, caps and hand coverings of rabbit. We each have a full set of clothes, but we are still cold and miserable whenever we’re away from the fire. Sigurd and Inge say we should line our clothes with rabbit fur. We don’t have enough cured skins for that yet, but dozens are stretched out drying. We will also make double-thick deerskin cloaks for outdoor work.

     Working distracts me from the image of us dying of the cold.

 

 

The men are very cold when they arrive, but excited as well. They huddle up to the fire and accept hot tea. “We saw a ridge today with white cliffs,” Sigurd says. “White cliffs have caves. We’ll need to travel quite a distance tomorrow.”

     “The ridge is beyond these hills.” Zoan points to the north. “We’ve seen it before, but we were investigating closer mountains, and until today we didn’t see the white cliffs.”

     The men leave before dawn, using unsewn deerskin wraps under their cloaks. They say they might not be back until after nightfall. The day is dark, with a solid grey overcast, slightly warmer than last night, and I remember that it often warms before a storm.

     Late in the afternoon we hear wolves, and the wind picks up. I know the men could survive a night in the woods, but as evening approaches I have rushes of panic. Inge is good company and apparently does not share my fear.

     We have plenty of firewood. We build up the fire and silently eat dried venison. I eat because I know I must, but I can hardly taste it. To bring Zoan to me, I hold the man and woman from my pouch. The wind rises still higher.

 

 

I am surprised when Zoan wakes me; I wasn’t aware of sleeping. He is extremely cold. The wind is much higher, and loud.

     At first I don’t realize he is alone.

     “Where is Sigurd?” Inge sounds alarmed.

     “We were together until a short time ago.” Zoan builds up the fire as he answers. “I shouted for him when I saw he wasn’t behind me, but he couldn’t have heard me over the wind. I’ll search for him in the morning. I think he will be fine. We talked about what we would do if we were separated. We did find caves. In the late afternoon we saw several. We didn’t have time to investigate—we feared we could be stranded by heavy snow if we delayed.”

     I am torn between relief and concern. If Zoan were missing I would be sick with fear. Zoan and I stay close to Inge, for comfort as well as warmth. I feel the first icy flakes of blowing snow.

     Inge remains calm. “Sigurd and I have been through worse weather. He has been a winter hunter since he was a boy. He knows how to live through a snowstorm.”