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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 for-mer 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 inex-plicable 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, Tele-mark 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
ca-pability.
"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 trap-per'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 camp-site, 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.
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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.
Midwinter's eve came, marked by austere celebration at the cabin. For hours
Jaric stared into the fine, smokeless flames of candles made from bees' wax,
brought out specially for the occasion. If ever he had known such beauty in
the past, his mind could not recall it. Silent with reflection, the boy sipped
mulled wine fresh from the heat of the fire, unaware the forester studied him [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]