Historical Setting: An unknown time in a cold land
I’m keeping my distance following the sled and the men who are transporting a captured woman and the spoils of an attack on the village that was once her home. She is to be a slave, a thrall. She told me all the men of her village were slain and the women captured.
I stay hidden from them as I follow the sled while they move northward staying close to the trees.
Here in the depths of this forest is an uncountable abundance of hardwood trees, like pillars rising from earth into the heavens. It is like an oaken promenade through a temple for a Greek goddess. But a forest is no work done by any human mason. Trees, even these giants, are life from seed – Creator’s masterworks. Even with all my years I am still in awe of trees. I gaze up one of the straight trunks– staring into the woven canopy of winter branches– still dense — even in this season of letting go.
The blanket of leaves underfoot would surely alert everyone to my presence here with every step, but I’m careful to move slowly, and stir the leaves with a soft and continuing swath of sound as though it is only the wind sweeping through. Swishing the fallen leaves, I’m also finding lots of dry pieces of oak perfect for firewood. And now the hide I use for a pack is weighty with firewood while the men are slowly scrounging the seashore for a few heavy pieces of water-soaked driftwood.
The sled they drive is too large to fit between the forest trees so they have to search the beach. I think this is one of those conundrums of need and greed. The sled is too big to be useful.
I’m hoping that the bundle of wood I have over my shoulder will be a welcome gift once we come to a place with more people. Maybe, despite my dearth of language, I can speak peace by delivering something that is needed. Already I have more wood than I can carry, so I keep exchanging small logs for large to make a better gift. And all the while the sled I follow carries so little wood now. Maybe we will reach their village today. I’d like nothing more than to deliver my logs to a great hearth with a stew pot already smoldering, and find a welcoming supper. I haven’t had anything to eat in a very long time.
(Continues tomorrow)
Lazarus Ink 