by Jack Dann
‘Father wouldn’t hesitate.’
‘Father isn’t here.’ I draw my cloak around me and pull it tight. We walk to the door, and she pats me down, fussing. She is Mother, after all.
‘Be careful’
‘A caravan of six.’ I open the door. A blast of arctic hate strikes me in the face. ‘Whichever one of us returns, we’ll get through the winter.’
‘Kester …’ Mother raises her hand to my face, holding it there for a moment before letting it fall. ‘He’ll be injured, if he’s not dead. Are you sure — ?’
‘It had to come.’ I smile, hoping it is not the final smile I give her. ‘This is how we go on. The strongest will lead.’
I turn from her, and step out into the storm. I do not even hear the door close.
I am no more than a dozen feet from the house when the wind grabs the edges of my coat and hurls me to the ground. Father would kill me for coming out in this weather. At the least, he would give me a beating that would leave me unable to hunt for weeks. A body lost to the Snow is a waste of hunting equipment, and hunting is all we have to sustain us. A family can breed, but knives are hard to come by.
It takes me half an hour to reach the gate at the far end of the property, and another hour to cross the frozen river into the World. Father is too experienced to be caught in the open. Either Marell is right, and he lies dead amongst the wreckage of her caravan, or he has found shelter. If that is so, then I will die. I am under no illusions. I am young and strong, but Father has led our family for many years. There is no better hunter on the cliffs. Even injured, he will recognise my challenge and kill me.
Marell claims she was on the way to Ealdwic. Her driver would have skirted the cliffs and headed for the inland roads. I turn to the east, straight into the teeth of the wind, and take one step, then another. This journey will be a matter of single steps. I will not count them, simply look for the next snow bank, the next tree, anything I can hide behind to catch my breath and wipe the frozen snot from my lips.
It is more than three hours before I reach the nearest pack road, a distance I would run in less than half an hour at the beginning of a normal hunt. Our family does not stalk this road: too close to home, too high the chance of discovery. Other families have used it, but then, nobody in this region has a hunter like Father amongst them. He is the reason we ere so strong, and why we go hungry on so few nights. Without him, we are a lesser pack. Without his presence standing guard, others may see a chance to take our home. Not everybody has firm walls around them, cooking equipment, cushioned furniture. The wind blisters my skin. I pull the furs up closer to my eyes, bend my head, and push forward, one step after another.
I cross the pack road in a crouch. There are no other families about, not in this weather. But Father has raised me well. I do not take unnecessary risks. I laugh at the thought. This whole expedition is a risk of the highest order. Still, training is for life. I duck and run, slide into a hollow on the other side of the road, unsheath my knife and strain my ears against the wind. No sound comes, no sign to show that my progress has been spied. We families do not attack each other, generally, but anybody abroad in this weather might be hungry enough.
I stay this way for long minutes, senses searching the surrounding wastes. It is a fine balance: stay still too long and I will freeze, and be lost to the family. Move with undue haste, and I might be caught by a stalker, killed, and still be lost. Once I am sure I am alone I straighten, sheath my knife, and expend precious energy upon a few jumps to circulate my slowing blood. Then I am off, running as best I can through the mounting drifts towards where I hope the Ealdwic road is still recognisable.
It verges on dark when I reach the caravan. It rushes out of the gloom, not on the Ealdwic road as Marell had said, but closer, on the lane between the abandoned trading outpost of the older tribes from across the straits. I crest the rise that separates the lane from the surrounding meadows, and stare down at the ruined caravan with a frown, nestling my back against the partial shelter of a fallen tree.
Something is wrong. I scan the remains of the battle. The lane runs between two rises that afford some shelter from the elements. Even so, snow covers the area in a thin layer, obscuring much I would like to see before I venture down to pick at the corpses. The caravan has overturned, its wheel smashed against a marker stone that has been half-pulled from the ground by the impact. This was not the camp Marell had mentioned. Someone attempted escape, and it resulted in their ruination. At least one body lies amidst the wreckage. Snowbound lumps litter the laneway. I tentatively identify half a dozen as human, and mark out another dozen or so as worthy of examination. Father was hunting, and if he is dead, I need to complete the task. That means gathering tools, anything that might be of use to the family. It also means making sure no survivors crawled away to bring the world down upon our heads. If no food is to be found in skins or bottles, I will have to carve the best meat from the bodies of the travellers.
But these tasks can wait. I have realised what is wrong. I cannot see Father, nor any trace of him. That means only one thing. He is still alive. Dead men leave more trails than a live man who takes care to cover his presence.
I crouch against the tree long enough for the breath to sting as it leaves my nostrils, scanning for signs of Father. I do not expect to find any. I can hide from even the most determined pursuer, and what I know, Father taught me. I suffer a moment’s depression at the thought. Then it occurs to me: this training is my best chance of locating him. I may not know everything Father does, but I only have to pick up the scent of his trail, the signs that only one trained as I am could locate. My imagination will supply the rest.
I shift my gaze back to the beginning of my search pattern, and, despite the pain of the cold, slowly scan across the ground again. This time, I do not search for Father. I look at the progress of the fight, playing it out in my mind, placing figures against the white backdrop. When my mental battle ends, I replace Father’s image with my own and look once more at the surrounding cover. Where would I go? Where would I hide? What would I do to conceal myself from discovery?
There: a slight disturbance in the rise of a nearby hillock, unnoticeable to the gaze of a pursuer, but affording anyone behind it an uninterrupted view of the landscape below. Once I have it in my sights I discern other signs of Father’s progress: tiny depressions that speak of paused footsteps; a hollow where a body may have rested, or fallen; a branch that bears more snow than those around it. I visualise my progress up that slope. In doing so, I know where Father lies. One question remains. Does he lie so still by choice? I will not find out from my present position. There is no way to delay what must come. I wince as frozen muscles propel me to a standing position, and take care to stretch as I leave my cover and stride down into the centre of the clearing, exposing myself to his view. I turn towards his hiding place, and raise my face.
‘Father,’ I say, my voice clear and empty of fear. ‘I am here.’
No response. I did not expect one. He occupies the high ground. He won’t come down to me, even in voice. I walk up the rise, my hands visible at all times, making no attempt to hide the signs of my approach. I crest the rise. A shallow depression lies between hillocks, a hollow scoured out of the ground by wind and rain, deep enough for an overhang of vegetation to conceal the figure propped up by the edge of the hole. A casual observer would take him for dead.
‘Father.’ I kneel before him, tilt my head to show my open throat. He gives no indication that he is other than the corpse he resembles. I keep my position, eyes lowered. Slowly, an inch at a time, he raises his hand and runs a finger along the line of my throat, from ear to shoulder blade, then lets his hand drop. I exhale and sink backwards into a sitting position.
‘How bad is it?’ My eyes race across him, looking for injury. He opens his arms and lets his jacket fall open. A rash of red stains the side of his shirt.
‘Not my worst,’ he says. I hear the pain he tries to hide. I lean forwa
rd, and peel the shirt away from his skin, exposing the bullet wound to view. He does not flinch or inhale too sharply. He has washed the wound with snow: I do it again, and then he does wince and hiss between his teeth.
‘The ball is still in there.’
‘Not too far.’
I sit back on my haunches.
‘Can you walk?’
‘Well enough.’
‘Then why …?’ I gesture at his hideaway, and the world outside.
‘It was worse when it happened.’ He matches my gaze, hunter’s eyes steady. ‘Why did you come?’
‘Mother was worried. You’ve been gone too long.’
He waits for a long time before replying. He knows my lie. We both recognise it. Finally, he nods, and his grip changes upon his knife.
‘Help me up.’
‘Yes, Father.’ I lean forward, using the movement to disguise my hand as I draw my knife from its sheath. Even so, he is ahead of me. His thrust causes me to drop my shoulder sideways and barge into him. His knife whistles past my ribs. Father grunts and falls back against the cave wall. I follow him, slamming my body into his. He groans and pushes me away, heaving himself off the rough surface. We fall out of the hollow in an untidy bundle. He reaches for my shoulder blade with his free hand. Fingers tuck underneath it and pull. I scream and thrust my head forward against the bridge of his nose. It crushes under the blow. He reels back, the small respite giving us both time to find our feet and crouch into a fighting stance, balanced upon the balls of our feet, bodies turned to present the smallest possible target for the other’s blade.
Neither of us speaks. Neither offers explanation or question. We both know the why of it, and what awaits us. We circle the tiny depression, backing up the slight rise of each hillock in an attempt to find an angle of attack. For the first time I look at Father not as hunter, or imposing head of our family, but as opponent. He is smaller than I, and holds his injured side as far away as possible, favouring his off hand, his less-used grip. But he is still faster of movement, hard, unforgiving, like a biting snake. And Father always kills without thought or mercy. I am no longer his son. He will not hesitate. He lunges, and I swivel away from the strike, bringing my unarmed fist down towards his wrist. I miss, and he twists his fingers across the knife’s hilt, slicing sideways in a movement I could not replicate without hours of practice. The blade misses my flesh, but his fingers, hard as wood, crack against my forearm, deadening my grip. I leap backwards and risk shaking my arm to drive the blood back along it.
Father smiles, a sharp, humourless sign of satisfaction. He presses forward, his blade nipping at my desperate ripostes. I back up the incline, feet sliding on the snow. He follows slowly, not rushing, using the speed of his arm to keep me on the defensive. I reach the top of the hillock. My foot slips over the sudden decline of the far side, and I slide to one knee. Father steps forward to strike. I continue my movement, letting my chest thud against the ground, splaying my arms out as I hit. My right arm sweeps around, and I feel the drag as my knife bites the flesh of Father’s calf. He yowls and falls backwards, sliding down the hillock on his back. I dive after him, letting the full weight of my body strike him before he has a chance to find his feet. Something cracks. He flings me off in a burst of strength. I land on my hands and feet, and swing round to face him, limbs tense for another rush.
Father kneels before me, head hung low as he gasps in great lungfuls of air. The wound at his side has opened further during his fall. Blood seeps below the hem of his shirt. His knife arm hangs at an awkward angle, and his hand is empty. I wait, but he does not move. I see the handle of my knife under his left leg. He can not draw it out: his shoulder is broken, and any movement to recover the blade will drag the broken ends of bone across each other. I draw myself to my feet and circle him at a safe distance, just outside a body’s length. He makes no move to track my progress. I crouch behind him and place my forehead against his back.
‘Father…’
He raises his working hand to his shoulder. I raise my own, and we lock fingers. He squeezes, and the pressure of his fingers passes on his love, and pride, and his plea to look after the family. We hold the contact for a dozen breaths, before his grip loosens and his hand falls back to his lap.
I break his neck, swift and clean, and close my eyes as he slumps to the ground.
I kneel in the snow until cramps in my legs cause me to cry out as I stand. When I can ignore the task no longer, I turn Father’s body over so he lies on his back, open eyes gazing at a point somewhere beyond my toes. I retrieve my knife from its resting place between his legs. Beginning at his head, I run fingers over Father’s body, removing his clothes and folding them into the satchel I find tucked into the back of his hollow. His knife sheath lies empty against his thigh. I untie it and sling it over my shoulder while I work. A small bracelet of hair and stones circles his wrist. I cut it free and place it amongst the clothes, then quickly move across his skin, checking for any other implements that may benefit the family. I find nothing. His knife lies a few paces away. I pick it up. It is longer and heavier then mine, the most obvious mark of his position as head of the family. I heft it a moment, testing its balance against my grip. Then, looking down at his sightless eyes, I tie his sheath around my other thigh, and slide the knife inside. After assuring myself that nothing else lies inside the hollow, I hang the satchel over my shoulder and drag Father’s corpse over the rise and down to the ruined wagon at its base. I sit him against the wagon, so that his dead eyes watch me as I circle the battle scene, building a pile of resources in the middle of the space: utensils, clothing, skins of food and wine in quantities too big for a single man to carry. The lumps under the snow resolve themselves into men, faces and throats slashed by a single knife, arms caked in frozen blood where they were thrown up in a futile act of protection. Several firearms appear beneath my searching fingers. I examine each in turn, then replace them. Knives are silent, and only need sharpening. Once I have completed looting I turn my attention to the wagon, lying like a broken beast at the outer limit of the clearing.
It sits on its side, the far wheel buckled and broken where a place marker has shattered the rim and caused it to topple against the old rocks that litter the edge of the rise. Personal effects lie scattered beyond, boxes thrown clear to smash open upon impact. I spend a minute or so sorting through them, picking out a hand mirror and some hair combs and a straight razor. The rest I return to their boxes, dusting them with handfuls of snow until only the most dedicated search would reveal any interference. By the time the Ealdwic authorities realise the wagon is not going to arrive, it will be the middle of the Snow, and the wolves will play havoc with the wreckage before searchers ride out in the Thaw. Even so, that is the future, and it does not do to discard habits of care and caution. I make the site safe, then move on to the wagon itself.
I find the woman at the back of the wreck, under a tangle of boxes and farming implements. She lays face up, arms outflung as if some great blow has struck her chest, hurling her upon the ground like a dead calf. Her throat is a ruined hole, and I do not need to see the teeth marks to know who tore it out, or how. Frozen blood coats her fingernails. The fresh scars I spied upon Father’s back as I undressed him were proof enough. This woman is more than just another corpse to be stripped and ransacked. I finish wiping the snow from her face.
Even through the blood and the carnage of Father’s feeding, I recognise her. I have seen these eyes before, the bridge of this nose, the cheekbones, now bitten by frost and slashed by an errant stroke of Father’s knife. I have seen this face alive. Younger, fresher, but most definitely this face. I inhale with the sudden shock, turn my gaze away and blink my eyes back into focus.
‘I will tell your daughter that you fought,’ I say, and lower her eyelids with my hand. A thin band of silver circles the base of her throat, preserved amongst the damage. I lift her head, reach round the back, and unclasp it. Placing the chain on my thigh, I sever a lock of he
r hair with my knife, then wind it and the chain together until they form a wristlet, twisted tightly together and held in place with a quick knot. Later, once I have reached safety, I will melt a small measure of wax over the knot to seal it. For now, I slip it around the handle of my knife and sheath it, pinning the memento between leather and flesh.
‘I will make sure she knows,’ I say, and take care to cover her body with reverence. I return to the centre of the clearing and the pile of materials I have salvaged.
I am large, and strong, and on a day of perfect weather I can carry almost double my body weight into the loping run we use when hunting. But I am tired and injured. No amount of wishing will let me bear the plunder I have accumulated. I work quickly, separating those things which will benefit the family from those that will merely prolong my comfort. I discard everything not useful to more than one member of the family. In the end, I take a skein of wine to sustain my journey homeward, and load myself with clothing, utensils, and two snares of solid metal from the back of the wagon. Several empty jars constitute a rare prize, and I spend several minutes considering ways to carry them. Preserving what vegetables we grow will help immeasurably next Snow. I choose a dozen, and thread the fastenings of Father’s jerkin through their clasps, hanging them from my shoulders like a tinker’s wares. The rest of the salvage I return to their original spots, as best I remember, save a haunch of dried meat and several packets of seeds which will be a blessing, come the Thaw. For long moments I contemplate taking my knife to one of the corpses. Fresh meat is unheard of at this time of year, and my knife marks would soon be covered by the teeth of hungry wolves. In the end I decide against it. I have neither the strength nor room to carry a worthwhile burden of meat, and should I fall and die, and be discovered in the Thaw, what I have will mark me as a solitary looter, dissuading any rescue party from searching further afield. If I stop to satiate my hunger now, I may never find enough strength in my legs to leave. A tightening belly is the greatest spur.
