The Crimson Thread: Embers of Nia
1. Fated
The chill in the air seeped into my skin, numbing it to the lashing of my errant locks of hair as the wind whipped up the hill. A creeping cold had come too soon for the season. Brutal and long, we were overdue for the cruelest of winters this continent could bring. Old Magda had told me as much when I purchased one last sack of wetten grain from the market yesterday morning. Felt it in her bones, she said. She may have simply spun her words to coax more coin from my purse, but I felt the truth in her words. While it may have seemed strange before to listen when one”s body spoke, I understood it now. Her bones may have spoken to her, but my gut had been screaming a warning at me for weeks.
We are not going to survive this winter.
My hands cold and dry, I bent and gathered another stick, stopping to tie another bundle to carry down to our austere home. I had not done the calculations, but the feeling in the pit of my stomach told me that what food we had been able to scrape together would not be enough for three adults. I couldn”t shake the nagging worry dragging its nails along the back of my mind. A tally of our stores would be done next week, but I feared the sum would confirm my estimation.
I had done what I could to make more coin this year by tutoring the children of the local village for those parents who found value in it. There weren”t many who did. There were others who couldn”t reconcile that a young woman was more learned than they were. Most of the farmers believed they had no need to learn complex sums, penmanship, or the intricacies of sentence structure. It was a pity for both sides. My best skill was practically useless to them; their ignorance kept them locked into the only profession they knew.
Even with my extra efforts, it was clear we were already behind. Preparing for winter was just as demanding of our labor as the slog through winter itself. There was barely enough food to feed ourselves during summer, let alone fall. And now, as we gathered what we could from the garden and bartered for grain, I knew it wouldn”t satisfy our needs.
Arit was a skilled hunter; I was less so, but even his expertise had been unable to provide sufficient dried meat for the larder. Hunting had been sparse, the drought of last year echoing in the wildlife population. There was the hope that winter snows would move the shellstag population south in our direction, but the promise of meat seemed as hollow as our root cellar. We were already starving ourselves to ration what we had before we put it away for winter. Working harder and eating less was not sustainable.
Starving, however, was slower and more preferable to freezing to death.
The most immediate need was wood to heat our forest hovel, which, thankfully, was a small space. Today, we gathered sticks and deadwood on the eastern slope of the nearest mountain, a glut of well-dried fuel, ready to harvest, left by a forest blaze in years past. It was plentiful indeed, but it was a dangerous prospect.
Our tools were old but new to us. Even in experienced hands, one slip meant you lost fingers or toes or something more necessary. I couldn”t recall one woodsman I”d met who wasn”t missing a digit or part of one. The slope was steep as well. You needed to be vigilant and wary of who was above and below you to avoid injuring yourself or others. We were all keenly aware of the dangers, but perhaps a mind can be dulled by lack of food, or in desperation, one overlooks an essential caution.
Or perhaps it was just the ineluctable pull of fate.
I was down-slope when I heard Gingel screaming. She had been working with Arit on the larger pieces, rolling them downhill. I dropped my bundle of sticks, climbing to their level as fast as I could, stopping for half-moments as my hunger made me light-headed. Her ceaseless wailing spurred me on.
As I crested the incline to the sliver of level ground where they worked, I could hardly make out what I saw at first glance. Two bodies and wood, entangled. I finally made out that Arit was free, standing over Gingel as he tried to lift a log that had crushed her lower leg.
”Elle! I can lift it, but I cannot hold it long enough for her to get out! I will lift, you pull!” He pleaded as I ran to them. I quickly hooked my arms under her armpits, ready to drag her out.
”Go!” I yelled, pulling her free once he lifted the knarled wood.
The injury wracked her body with pain. Gingel wasn”t screaming now, reduced to rhythmic whimpering as she writhed in my embrace. I held her close so she would not move and risk more injury. Arit was in shock, kneeling beside us, not knowing what to do. My mind was already spinning, grasping to find the next step.
Pain. Getting the pain under control is paramount. What do I have in the hovel that will dull her pain?
”Get the last bottle of mead, quickly!” I said to Arit. This distracted him from his focus on her injury, his eyes wide and glistening. He nodded absently and set off on his task, stumbling as he went. ”Carefully!! I cannot tend to you both!”
I gently reached down to pull the fabric of her kirtle toward me, assessing the injury. From what I could see, the leg between her boot and the hem of her clothing was turning purple, but there was no blood, save for a few scrapes. Her right leg was writhing as she dug her heel into the ground. The left, immobile.
This is very bad. How am I to treat a crushing wound like this? Oh gods…oh gods…not this…
”Shhh, sweet girl. It is going to be fine. You will see.” I kissed her golden head, holding her as tight as I dared. A feeling of utter dread settled in my gut, stronger now than ever. My heart vibrated as it struggled to control my panic. I need to think. Calm myself. Careless actions always made things worse, and I had become very adept at removing emotion as an obstacle to a clear head. But I could see no relief from this disaster, my control ebbing as hot tears clouded my vision. If they had not, I would have seen it sooner.
Wiping my eyes, I shifted my focus away from Gingel”s leg, staring blankly out across the forest as I waited. I almost missed it, but the contrast drew my eye. It was about 500 yards away, at our level under a fir tree, motionless. Formless, it might have been mistaken for a shadow had not the white face with hollow sockets set it apart from the blackness of its body.
I froze, matching its stillness, not daring to blink. I did not move even as I heard Arit approaching from below with the mead in hand.
”Stop,” I whispered as he joined us, ”Do you see that? There?”
Arit looked in the direction I pointed, straining to see.
”What am I to see? There are only trees,” he whispered back, distracted by Gingel”s whimpers.
”That black thing, watching us. You do not see it?” I asked, panicking.
He looked back in the direction of the creature, sweeping back and forth with his eyes.
”Please, Elle, let me give her the mead. Let me ease her pain!” He said desperately.
”Yes, yes, I will hold her. You give her what she will take,” I said, not shifting my view away from the thing. I was transfixed, terrified that if I stopped looking, it would seize that opportunity to advance.
I didn”t wait for the mead to take effect. The creature at the edge of the forest had my fear beating in my breast. Urged to move, Arit helped me get Gingel back to the hovel immediately. It was difficult to get down the mountain safely and quickly while keeping a wary eye out. Once we reached our dwelling, I felt no safer.
It had not moved, only turning toward us as we made our way to the hovel.
Locking ourselves in, Arit attended to Gingel as best he could while I stood watch at the single small window. All fears of the coming winter were gone, replaced by the grisly realization that we might not last the night.