Chapter 17
ELLIE
The rhythmic scrape of stone against hide had become meditative.
Back and forth, back and forth, working the caribou skin until the membrane peeled away in translucent sheets.
My hands had learned the motion over the past two weeks.
Firm pressure, consistent angle, following the grain.
The elder women no longer watched me with quite so much scepticism.
Well. Most of them didn't.
I caught myself putting weight on my injured leg without thinking, then marvelled at it.
The scar tissue pulled when I shifted position, a tight reminder of how close I'd come.
But the pain had faded to background noise, and the stiffness only bothered me in the cold mornings.
Daska truly was an incredible healer. He'd gone off earlier looking for roots to replenish some of his supplies and I smiled at the thought of the big, tender man with those deep brown eyes, wondering when he'd be home.
The thought caught me off guard.
I paused mid-scrape, stone tool hovering over the hide. When was the last time I'd thought about my apartment? My job? The coffee shop on the corner where I'd gone every morning for two years, where they knew my order before I opened my mouth?
It felt like remembering someone else's life.
"Ida."
I looked up. One of the children—Mika, a gap-toothed girl of maybe six—grinned at me and pointed at the skin I was working.
"Ida," I repeated, testing the word. Hide or skin, I presumed. "Yes. Thank you."
She giggled and ran off, braids flying. Three other children followed her like ducklings, their laughter bright against the constant backdrop of camp noise.
I'd been practicing with them every day. They were relentless, enthusiastic teachers, delighted by every mistake I made.
"El-lie!" Pym, a boy who had the look of Jarak, came barrelling toward me with something clutched in both hands. "Ika! Ika!"
He thrust the object at me. A carved bone, smooth and polished, with markings I couldn't read.
I took it carefully, turning it over. "Ika?" I repeated.
The children collapsed into giggles.
Pym's older sister Sera covered her mouth with both hands, shoulders shaking. She leaned close and whispered a correction, slowly and clearly. "Ikka."
The difference was subtle. A longer vowel, a harder ending.
"Ikka," I tried again.
More giggles, but approving ones this time. Sera patted my shoulder like I was a promising but clumsy student.
I didn't know what ikka meant. Probably something mortifying, judging by their reactions. But I grinned anyway, handing the bone back to Pym. He grinned back, then looked up and nodded.
I looked up to find Daska standing near the meat racks, a long strip of venison forgotten in his hands. He was staring at me with an expression I couldn't quite read, soft and hungry all at once.
Our eyes met. Heat crept up my neck.
He smiled, slow and wondering, then went back to his work. But I caught him glancing over twice more before one of the woman approached me.
"Mora," Vessa said, not unkindly, and adjusted my grip on the scraping stone.
I'd been doing it wrong for the past ten minutes and she'd finally taken pity on me.
Vessa was one of the elder women, maybe fifty, with iron-grey hair and hands like tree roots. She'd corrected me half a dozen times since I'd started working the hides, always with the same patient expression, as if teaching a slow but willing child.
She demonstrated the proper angle again, her weathered fingers sure and steady. Then she handed the tool back and watched while I tried to replicate her technique.
Better. The membrane came away cleanly this time, and Vessa made a small sound of approval.
She said something else—too fast for me to catch—but patted my shoulder before moving on to inspect another woman's work. The touch was brief, maternal, and it made my throat tight.
I bent back over the hide, blinking hard.
Don't cry over a shoulder pat, Ellie. Get it together.
But it had been so long since anyone had touched me with casual affection. Since I'd felt like I was doing something right, something useful, something that mattered in a tangible, immediate way.
Nathan's voice echoed in my head: You're too sensitive. Not everything is about you.
I shoved the thought away and focused on scraping.
Daska found me as the afternoon light turned golden.
“Ellie, food is ready at the main hearth. Will you come?”
I could now understand most of what he said, and though I couldn't speak nearly as much as I understood, it was making life here so much easier.
The only downside was that Nathan, having heard about my newfound language skill, was constantly calling me over to translate when someone tried to talk to him.
I'd been happy to at first, but it was getting trying now, especially as he and Megan had made no attempt to learn even a few words of the language.
At least Dev had basic words and manners.
Nathan seemed to think they were beneath him, and I had no idea about Megan.
The woman didn't speak a word when I was around
"Thank you, Daska."
He smiled at my pronunciation. It was getting better, I thought. The words didn't feel quite so foreign in my mouth anymore.
He gestured at the ground near the fire, and I followed him over.
The central hearth was enormous, always burning, the heart of the camp.
People gathered here in the evenings—talking, working, eating.
I'd started to recognize the rhythms of it, the way bodies moved through the space with comfortable familiarity.
We sat. Not touching, but close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him.
Daska ladled stew into a wooden bowl and set it before me.
The smell was meaty and earthy, undercut by the lemony tang of wild sorrel.
He handed me a crude wooden spoon and waited, watching my face as I tasted the first bite.
"It’s good," I said, and it was. The meat was seared with hot stones so there was a faint smokiness to it, and the broth was rich. But it was also… simple. No salt, no pepper, none of the layering of flavor I’d learned to crave since I was a child. Just food as fuel, pure and honest.
"You do not like?" Daska frowned, genuine concern creasing his brow.
"No, I do! It's just… back home I cook a lot. Food important for… um… for comfort, happiness." I poked at the chunks of meat with the side of my spoon. "I miss.”
Daska thought for a moment, then pointed at his hearth. “You cook here? Enjoy cook here?”
I nodded, smiling at the thought of cooking for Daska and myself. I'd love to make him something nice.
“I love cook here. Eat you…no,” I blushed. “Cook for you. You eat.” I could feel my face heating but Daska just laughed. He took my hand and brushed his lips across my knuckles sending a flutter somewhere further south than it should.
“Bowls in my hearth for healing, I get you some for cooking. Just yours.”
‘Oh, don't want cause trouble,” I said hastily.
Daska looked confused. “Not trouble, just bowls. Ellie cook, Ellie happy, so I get bowls for Ellie.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling at him, feeling that warmth I always did when we sat this close.
Since the moment in the clearing, Daska had kissed me again, but only once, and I wasn't sure what to do about it.
As I spoke to him, I couldn't help but watch his mouth, remembering how his lips felt on mine, and I noticed his eyes kept slipping down to my mouth as well, like he wanted to kiss me but never tried.
Maybe he didn't want to in public. Even in Ice Age cultures, people talked.
Daska said something, slow and careful, and pointed at the mountains in the distance.
I caught maybe half of it. Something about... direction? Travel?
He tried again, using his hands this time. A sweeping gesture, then a pointed question, his dark eyes searching mine.
“Where are you going with your pack?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. I honestly didn't know what to say. How did you explain time travel to a man who had never even seen a clock face
He waited, patient and still, and I felt the weight of his hope pressing against my ribs.
"Far," I managed finally, the word thick in my throat. I gestured vaguely toward the horizon. "Danger. Home." None of those words were quite right. I didn't even know if "home" existed anymore, if I'd ever find the way back to
I tried to draw a map in the dirt with a stick, but how do you map time?
I sketched a rough approximation of the mountains, then made marks for the camp, for the valley where our team was camped, for the direction we'd been traveling before everything went wrong.
I dragged the stick along, trying to show we'd been moving east, and he nodded slowly but I could tell it meant nothing. Explained nothing.
Frustration built behind my breastbone, hot and helpless. I wanted to tell him the truth, that I wasn't from here, that I'd been come from another time, that I had no idea if we'd get back. That even if we could, I wasn't sure I wanted to anymore.
But the words didn't exist. Not in his language, and barely in mine.
Daska touched my hand, gentle and grounding. His thumb brushed over my knuckles. Once, then again.
We sat like that, knees touching, hands linked, neither of us moving. The camp noise faded into background static and all I could hear was the thud of my own heartbeat and the crackle of the fire.
He said my name—"El-lie"—like it was something precious, and I wanted to cry.
"Ellie."
The voice was cold, clipped, and entirely unwelcome.
I jerked back, pulling my hand from Daska's. Nathan stood three feet away, arms crossed, expression carved from ice.
Daska tensed beside me but didn't move.
"Can we talk?" Nathan's tone made it clear it wasn't a request.
I stood slowly, brushing dirt from my borrowed furs. "Wait," I murmured to Daska, hoping he understood.