by Janny Wurts
The realization filled him with despair. He clamped his fingers around the torch shaft and shivered, cold and forlorn in the darkness of Seitforest. The mournful spill of the falls overlaid the higher-pitched sigh of wind through the treetops on the ridge. Jaric hesitated and stood listening, as if by sheer desire he could fathom Telemark's location before the torch died. For an instant his longing was desperate enough that it seemed the forest itself paused to share his pain. Suddenly dizziness claimed him. Jaric swayed, grabbed hold of a tree branch for balance. But the moment of disorientation lingered, and in the dying glare of the torch he beheld the vision of a woman's face.
She was young, perhaps his own age. Hair as black as fine velvet curved softly over her shoulders and her blue eyes regarded him levelly from features set with earnest concern.
Jaric gasped and started back. His hand jerked reflexively, and the torch guttered, nearly extinguished. But the girl's face remained in his mind as if her presence locked his very thoughts in place.
"Do not fear me, Jaric," she pleaded, and the tone of her voice pulled at the depths of his heart. "I appear to you as a dream, but I can help you find the one you seek."
"Telemark?" Jaric spoke loudly, startled by the sound of his own voice. The darkness and wind swallowed his words without echo, and for a second he thought he heard someone calling from the far side of the stream.
"The man you search for lies beyond the beaver dam," said the girl. "His foot is wedged, and he is injured. You must go to him at once."
Jaric released his grip on the tree, took a hasty step in the direction of the dam.
But the girl shook her head impatiently. "No." Her dark hair swirled and her face abruptly vanished into mist, but her voice lingered in his mind. "You must cross farther down. Beyond the first trap you will find stones where the footing is safe."
Jaric roused and discovered himself staring, half dazed, at the surface of the water. "Who are you?" he demanded aloud.
No answer came to him but the sigh of the wind in the branches. Yet above the ceaseless spill of the falls, he was now certain he heard Telemark calling his name. The voice was faint but unmistakable. And if not for the strange enchantress's sending he might have missed it.
Jaric whirled, sliding in the fresh snow. He plunged down the bank. The distance to the eddy pool and the first trap seemed longer than he remembered. Shadows spun and danced under his feet as he moved, and the torch hissed, fanned to temporary brilliance by the passage of air. The crossing lay as the enchantress had promised, a row of flat boulders spanning the dark rush of current like footings of an incomplete bridge. Jaric felt his palms break into sweat, shaken by certain evidence; the woman's sending had been something more than a fancy born of fear and distress. But concern for Telemark drove him onward without time to spare for thought.
Dense brush lined the far bank of the stream. Jaric crashed through, careless of ripping his cloak. His feet slipped often on the steep rocky ground. Jaric slowed, counting his steps to maintain patience. A fall would snuff out the cinder which remained of his torch.
"Jaric, over here." The forester's voice sounded hoarsely above the wind, yet quite close, from a point just down the slope.
Jaric followed the sound, ducking impatiently through a stand of briars. Thorns hitched his sleeve. He yanked clear, thrusting the torch high overhead. And in the faint orange light of the coals, he saw a rumpled form sprawled in the snow.
"Telemark!" Consumed by sudden sharp fear, Jaric slid down the embankment. The forester lay with his foot wedged between two fallen trees and his shoulders propped against a rock further down the bank. The knife left stabbed upright in the ice by his hand, and a white slash in the bark of the near trunk which pinned him revealed a desperate struggle to free himself. But the tree was too thick for the blade to be any help, and bending uphill against the pain of a twisted ankle in the end had exhausted his strength.
"Jaric." The forester smiled, though his lips were blue with cold. "The axe is down by the stream. I dropped it when I fell."
Jaric knelt, tugging the spare cloak free of his belt.
But Telemark frowned impatiently. "Go now," he said quickly. "Find the axe while you still have light."
The boy bit his lip. Tossing the cloak over the forester's still form, he rose and scrambled down the bank. The axe lay dusted with snow, its haft partly submerged in the stream. Jaric retrieved the tool from the water. Its weight dragged unpleasantly against muscles already aching with weariness. Jaric hefted the axe to his shoulder and took a stumbling step back up the slope.
That moment the torch went out. Jaric clenched his fingers around the wet axe handle and wondered whether he had endurance enough to free Telemark and see him safely back to the campsite.
XVI
Dream Weaver
Jaric knelt at Telemark's side, sheltering his friend from the worst bite of the wind with his body. Snowflakes whirled madly past and settled in white patches over the spare cloak which covered the injured man's shoulders. Telemark needed care and warmth and every comfort which could be gleaned from the supplies left in the packs back at camp. Jaric estimated the lean-to lay close to half a league distant, too far to travel without light, and with the storm becoming steadily worse, time was of the essence. The boy wished he could curse the inconveniences of fate. But words stuck in his throat and the raging despair he felt at Telemark's misfortune found no expression but stillness.
Moved by the boy's bleak silence, Telemark spoke from the darkness. "Jaric, many a problem will seem impossible at first sight. You must remember that no man can handle more than one step at a time. The most troublesome difficulty must be broken down into small tasks, each one easily mastered. Any predicament which cannot be dealt with this way will prove your undoing. This is not such a one. Trust yourself. All will be well, and sooner than you presently think."
The advice brought little comfort when measured against the fact that Telemark suffered the continuous discomfort of his twisted ankle. Yet with the same blunt courage Jaric had shown the day he regained consciousness in the care of a stranger, with no past and no memory of self, he placed total trust in the forester. He had nothing else. Either Telemark spoke truth, or both of them risked death by exposure in the stormy winter night.
The forester reached out and clasped Jaric's wrist with fingers already numb with chill. Through the contact the boy felt the deep tremors of shivering which racked his friend's body. He guessed Telemark's calmness was probably a brave facade, for the forester understood the gravity of his situation and Jaric was too perceptive to be fooled.
Whether Telemark sensed the boy's distress could not be told from his manner. "Did you find the axe?"
"Yes." Jaric swallowed. Determined to remain steady, he continued, though words came with difficulty. "I'll make a fire."
"Good lad." Telemark released his grip and settled wearily back on the snowy ground. "The branches on this fallen log appear to be seasoned. Work slowly. Better I wait for warmth than have you slip with the axe in the dark."
Yet Jaric knew the fire must not be delayed for very long. The wind was rising. It rattled through the treetops in heavy, whipping gusts, driving snow before it with stinging force. Unless the boy could shelter Telemark from the cold, and quickly, the forester would slip into delirium and thence to unconsciousness. Jaric selected a dead bough. He hefted the axe, swung it downward with a steadfast stroke, well aware that life depended upon his performance. Steel bit into wood with a ringing thump. The branch shivered and cracked, and snow showered down, sifting wetly over the tops of Jaric's boots. He jerked the blade free, snapped the limb off with his foot and chopped into another, knowing if he stopped for a moment, weariness and fear would freeze him in place.
He worked with no thought of rest. After a time his movements settled into a rhythm entirely independent of thought. The axe handle raised blisters upon his palms through his mittens, but he felt no discomfort. Exhaustion robbed the sensation of meani
ng, and his muscles responded mechanically to the needs of the moment. Only after he had accumulated a sizable pile of branches did Jaric lay the axe aside. He scooped a hollow in the drift at Telemark's side, using a stick to scrape the ground clean of snow. Then he hastened down the embankment and returned with an armload of stones, still dripping from the stream. With shaking hands he lined the depression with rocks, stacked the wood in the sheltered place at the center, and at long last set to work with striker and flint.
The storm hampered his efforts. Gusts whirled the sparks away into the dark and scattered the last dry shavings he had brought in his pouch. Grimly Jaric drew his knife and carved fresh ones. Snow settled on his wrists as he whittled, chilling his skin until his bones ached with cold. Telemark had not stirred for some time. Afraid to find the forester's condition grown worse, the boy hunched resolutely against the elements. He struck another spark. This time the chips steamed and caught. Jaric hoarded the flame between his hands like gold. One twig at a time, he coaxed the fire to grow, all but singeing his fingers in the process. Then he draped his cloak over an overhanging branch as a wind break, weighted the hem with two rocks, and bent anxiously over Telemark. The forester lay with closed eyes, unresponsive to the boy's touch.
Jaric spoke, though the necessity stung his throat. "Can you feel your feet?"
The forester stirred sluggishly, his answer unintelligibly slurred. Jaric could only guess at the meaning of the gesture which followed. Cold had begun to slow Telemark's reflexes, and presently he would no longer be capable of rational action.
Cognizant of the fact that the forester's situation was critical, Jaric lifted a brand from the fire. He searched until he located a long sturdy stick, dragged it back and wedged one end between the logs which trapped Telemark's foot. Then he leaned every ounce of his weight on the farther end. The branch creaked under his hands. Dead bark split, baring wood like old bone in the firelight. Jaric closed his eyes and pulled until his tendons burned from exertion. The upper log shifted slightly, then remained fixed as a boulder. Jaric coiled his body, heaved the stick in desperation. But the makeshift pole only snapped with a crack that stung his palms, with nothing gained but frustration.
Shivering from stress and exertion, Jaric abandoned the stick. He fell to his knees in the snow and feverishly explored Telemark's trapped leg with his hands. His work had not been entirely in vain; the logs no longer pinched the limb so tightly. But the ankle had swollen badly. To drag it free would cause the forester great pain, and could cause unaccountable damage if any bone had been broken.
"The bone's intact," Telemark murmured, aware enough to realize what was happening. "You must tug until the leg comes clear."
But Jaric preferred not to take such a chance. He trimmed the edge of Telemark's boot sole with his knife, and slowly, carefully began to ease the foot free. Gently as he worked, Telemark gasped at the first slight movement. He bit his sleeve to keep from crying aloud as the boy lifted his twisted ankle clear of the logs.
Jaric supported his friend's shoulders, helped him to sit up. The fallen trees offered a reasonable backrest, and while Telemark settled shivering into the damp folds of the cloaks, the boy chafed his limbs to restore circulation. Then he turned to assess the extent of the forester's injury. The leg was not broken. But the flesh was bruised, swollen and painful to the touch and certainly unfit to bear weight. And the storm was growing more violent by the hour.
"We cannot stay here." Telemark's teeth chattered with cold, and even the slightest speech seemed to tax his remaining strength.
Jaric touched his friend's arm, bidding him to be still. His brows drew into a troubled frown as he considered what should be done next. If he cut a stick for a crutch, the forester could move. But first he must have time to become thoroughly warm. The gusts struck with such fury no brand could long stay alight, and progress through the forest with an injured man would be tortuously slow. Jaric knew he faced a trip back to camp to fetch oiled rags for torches. But he dared not leave Telemark alone until he had cut enough logs to keep the fire going in his absence.
Jaric lifted the axe once more. Although his shoulders and arms trembled from exhaustion, he crossed to the foot of the nearest fallen tree and brought the blade down through the air in a clean, hard arc. Steel struck wood with a punishing jar. The impact left Jaric numbed to the elbow, yet he raised the axe for another stroke, and another. Chips flew, flickering into the shadows. Log by single log, he built a pile of fuel to ensure Telemark's survival, even should misfortune strike a second time and delay his return.
Drifts had piled waist-high between the thickets by the time Jaric departed alone to fetch fresh torches from the campsite. The boy plowed stubbornly through the heavy snow, too tired to feel any sense of his own achievement. He labored all that cruel and stormy winter's night to bring Telemark back safely, unaware he had surpassed, in strength and skill and perseverance, every limitation he once despised in himself as a sickly apprentice at Morbrith.
* * *
Dawn cast a pall of gray through the blizzard by the time Jaric lowered Telemark into the lean-to's shelter. He saw the forester securely wrapped in furs, then braved the torment of the wind once more to dig the accumulated snow and sodden ashes of last night's fire from the pit. The boy dared not rest until he had laid down fresh wood and covered his handiwork with canvas, ready for lighting should warmth be needed at short notice. Then, with his ears ringing with weariness and his body bruised and shivering with exhaustion, he stripped off his boots, wet leggings, and tunic. He rolled into his own blankets and almost instantly fell asleep.
The storm lifted toward afternoon. The sky blew clear of clouds and the temperature fell, leaving the forest brittle with cold. Jaric woke to the blinding glare of sunlit snow. Telemark had risen before him. A pot boiled above the fire and the boy smelled the enticing odor of brushpheasant and herbs cooking within. He began to rise, grunting as the pain of stiffened muscles protested his first movement. Brought fully awake by the sting of his blistered palms, Jaric recalled Telemark's accident, and the agony of endurance he had suffered the night before. Alarmed by his friend's empty blankets, the boy pulled a fresh tunic from his pack and tugged it clumsily over his shirt. He shoved his feet into icy boots and grabbing the frozen folds of his cloak he left the shelter.
Telemark sat with his sprained ankle propped comfortably on a log before the fire. His bow and skinning knife leaned alongside a bucket of hot water, and a soggy pile of feathers lay strewn around his feet.
Jaric gestured at the forester's injured leg, a confounded expression on his face. Then he directed a questioning glance at the cooking pot. "How?"
Telemark laughed. "I threw out grain. Brushpheasant are lazy creatures, particularly after a snowfall. They'll often risk a handout from a human rather than scratch for themselves. Are you hungry?"
Jaric nodded. He settled himself on the woodpile, spreading the icy cloak across his knees to dry. Telemark watched his companion's stiff careful movements with every bit of his former acuity.
"Boy," he said softly. "Wherever you come from, and whoever you were does not count here. Last night you managed a man's work, and did it well. You have every right to be proud."
Jaric stared awkwardly at his hands, afraid to smile, fearful that if he acknowledged the forester's praise something inexplicable might intrude and ruin the moment. He longed to share the strange vision he had experienced by the beaver dam; to tell the forester of the black-haired girl who appeared in a dream to guide him. But the necessity of framing thoughts into words daunted the boy. Before he could manage a beginning, Telemark spoke again.
"You will have to set the traps alone until my leg heals. If I instruct you, do you think you can manage?"
Jaric looked up, brown eyes widened in surprise. Never had he considered the possibility that the forester might trust him to handle traplines by himself. Yet even as he sat, aching and tired, with his features stamped with the marks of last night's stress
, he knew he could cope with the responsibility. Whatever his lost past, his work the last night had fully proven his capability.
"I can do my best," he said levelly. For the first time since he had recovered consciousness, confused and nameless in the forester's hut, speech came easily to his tongue.
Though pale from weariness himself, Telemark's stern countenance broke into a smile. "Good man," he said softly. "Fetch me the pack with the traps and I'll show you how we bag marten, silver fox and ice otters."
Through the sunlit afternoon, Jaric worked in the clearing under Telemark's direction, learning the particulars of the trapper's trade. At dusk he loaded his pack and strapped a parcel of equipment to the frame of the drag-sleigh.
He rose at daybreak. Leaving Telemark to manage the campsite, he set off alone to lay the first of the winter traplines. Early on he covered only as much ground as he could manage in a single day's hike. But he learned quickly. His confidence grew to match his skill. A week passed. The catch lashed to the drag-sleigh at the end of his rounds increased steadily; by the time Telemark's ankle recovered enough to manage the inner circuit of traps, the boy had progressed to the point where he could choose his own route. The day soon dawned when, with hard-earned pride, he loaded the sleigh with provisions and the spare cloth shelter and set off to manage the outlying territory on his own.
Jaric came to know the winter woods as home, whether under the trackless blanket of new snowfall, or the crisp cold of a diamond-clear sun. During the weeks which followed, he struggled over heavy drifts with the drag-sleigh in tow, day after long day; he chopped his own wood for each evening's fire, and gradually grew stronger. His face tanned from constant exposure to the weather. And the results of his labors filled the drying shed back at Telemark's cabin with the rich smell of curing pelts.