In My Arms Again

Chapter 1 The silvery fawn is staring at me, head held high and defiance in its eyes. I’ve been sitting on the same tall, smooth boulder with my longbow across my lap for hours, looking into the forest but without really seeing anything. The rain started falling some time ago, and now, my long hair is plastered to my face and clinging to my back. Strong winds came right after the rain, shaking the last brown leaves off the trees, violently rattling the branches of the evergreens. Unmoving, I’ve been here for so long that the wildlife has stopped fearing me. It started with a tiny brown rabbit with curious ears and a twitching nose that inched closer to me, making it almost all the way before something scared it, and it hopped off. Next came the silvery fawn—which has yet to leave—standing at a distance with its gaze firmly on me and my weapon, as though challenging me. Are you going to shoot me, Hunter? But I’m not. Not today. When I left home this morning, I routinely brought my bow and quiver, but I’m not in the mood for taking innocent lives today. I haven’t been for days. Maybe weeks, if I’m honest with myself. The fawn c***s its head. Blinks incredibly huge eyes full of intelligence and rebellion. Raises its muzzle further. Flares its nostrils, taunts me. Are you just going to sit there, Hunter? “Go in peace, little one. I will not hurt you.” My voice is like grinding gravel after being unused since I last visited the village for market day last week. The fawn’s ears flicker and it steps closer, crowding me, even though it’s still at a safe distance. I lean back on the stone, glare at it with a warning to stay away, but it doesn’t relent. Why can’t it just leave me alone with my thoughts? I jump off the boulder, landing on my feet—bow clattering to the forest floor, quiver thumping my back—and throw my arms over my head. “Go,” I yell, and between one heartbeat and the next, the fawn explodes in movement and disappears into the trees. I sigh, pick up my weapon, brush away wet strands of hair from my face, and turn to leave. My steps are heavy but my feet find their own way to the path leading home, quiver still full, bow unused. What is happening to me? I’ve always had a streak of restlessness in my body, as though I’m too impatient to be still, or as though I’m waiting for something. But recently, the agitation has increased tenfold, and I’m spending my days walking aimlessly in the woods with a hollow chest and a belly full of fidgety energy instead of concentrating on hunting and preparing for the upcoming winter. Every unexpected sound outside my little cabin makes me alert and ready to investigate should I hear it again, as though I’m expecting someone. And when I finally do sit still for more than five minutes—like today—my mind is too unsettled to focus on hunting, and I get lost in my thoughts. Even the villagers asked if something was wrong with me when I brought less meat and fur to the market last week than I usually do around this time of year. I shake my head, trying to clear my head. “Tomorrow,” I swear to the tall, silvery alvea fir I pass on the path. Tomorrow is the day I put behind my maudlin mood and go back to my life. The only life I’ve known since my father died when I was eleven, that’s kept me alive and well-fed ever since. Tomorrow, I’m taking down the taunting fawn if it dares to come near me again. “Tomorrow,” I repeat out loud. The emptiness in my chest grows larger the closer I get to my cabin, as though the last thing I want to do is to go home. I’ve lived there my entire life—first with my father until I had to lay him to rest beneath the shadowy branches of the huge weeping spruce out back, and alone the thirty years since. I’ve always loved the place; it’s plain and rustic and could use some more warmth, but it’s mine. My home. So why does the thought of the lonely cabin fill me with reluctance and dread after all this time? The rain increases in intensity, water runs down my forehead into my eyes, wind whips it into my ears and my mouth, and I’m chilled to the bone. The air grows thicker—I can smell winter coming—making it difficult to see beyond a few hands. Luckily, I know these paths intimately and can walk them even in the pitch black, so I hurry my steps—knowing I’ll find my way—eager to get into my warm cabin, light a fire, and heat up some broth. When I pass by the overgrown ruins of the barn that burned down more than fifty years ago—the marker telling me I’m almost home—I start running. The fog swirling around my legs reaches mid-thigh, and the rain pouring from the sky grows colder with each passing heartbeat. My equipment slams against my back, and my breathing grows heavy and drowns out the roaring wind. By the time I reach my log cabin, the fog has taken over completely, and I stumble on the single step leading up to the porch, even though I know it’s coming. I right myself before I fall, and fumble to take out the key from the leather pouch I keep close to my body, but soon I’m safely inside. I peel out of my sopping wet clothes, leaving them by the door, before crossing the floor and kneeling stark naked by the hearth. The flagstone floor is cold against my knees and sends spikes of chill up my legs as I stoke the faintly glowing embers from this morning and feed more wood into the fire. Shivers rack my body, and the dampness from outside seems to have pushed its way down the chimney, making it difficult for the fire to take. I scrabble in the bottom of the woodpile for some bark and shavings and toss them onto the coals, blowing desperately on them, trying to coax them back into life. “Dear, sweet Maidens,” I mumble, sending out a general plea to all the deities, regardless of their patronage, “I’ll bring a luscious offering to the Springs if you help me. First thing tomorrow morning. I promise.” My father would have yelled at me had he heard the informal tone I’m using, and me trying to bargain with the Maidens. You offer them your gift willingly and without asking for anything in return, Oxen. How many times do I have to tell you? Every time he’d scolded me, I’d bow my head and promise to do better, but at age one-and-forty, I still haven’t learned. Maybe I don’t care enough deep inside. Maybe my belief in the miracles of the Maidens isn’t as strong as it ought to be, and that’s why it’s hard for me to remember to show proper respect. But maybe the Maidens decided to listen to a frozen, lowly hunter despite his lack of respect because the fire roars to life—flames almost licking my face—and radiates wonderful heat that envelops me and caresses my naked skin. I add more logs, eager to drive away the chill from my home. I bow my head to the Maidens, temporarily put in my place, and make a solemn promise to myself to trek to the Springs first thing in the morning with my offering. After grabbing the fire poker, I use the hooked side to move the cauldron of broth hanging from the arm over the hearth to a hook closer to the flames. I stir it before picking my wet clothing and hanging it to dry on the wooden rack standing near the fire. I squeeze water from my hair, pad to the chest sitting by the foot of my bed, and pick out dry clothes: thick woolen breaches, a warm, long-sleeved tunic reaching to my knees, socks, and soft fur-lined moccasins. Fully dressed, I return to the hearth, scoot the rocking chair closer to the fire, and throw myself into it, soaking up the heat. The warmth spreads into my bones, and the aroma of the deer broth takes over my home and invades my senses. When my stomach rumbles, I get to my feet, grab a bowl from the cabinet next to the hearth, and ladle the steaming liquid into it. The last remnants of the chill disappear when I swallow the rich, cloudy broth. Warmth settles in my stomach as well as my soul, and I let out a contented sigh. Icy rain can wear down any person, make any situation look bleak. But here, in the warmth and safety of my home, some of the rawness wears off. The restlessness in my chest lingers, but it’s less intense than before, and my heart settles into its normal, steady rhythm. Stretching my legs, I put my feet close to the fire, and lean my head against the high back of the chair. I stare out the window as I push up and down on my toes to rock the chair. The air grows thicker and grayer, swallowing the last remnants of light until night wins the battle over day. Everything outside my window grows black, as though someone wrapped my cabin in thick, dark cloth, making it impossible for me to see anything, keeping all light and signs of life away from my little corner of the world. I let my eyes fall closed; I ought to get up and lay in my bed under my warm rabbit fur blanket—my body will be stiff with aches and pains in the morning if I stay in the chair—but I’m drained of all energy. My limbs are too weighty to move, and the heat of the blazing fire wraps around me like a possessive lover reluctant to leave. My body grows heavy, and I fall asleep to the sound of a crackling fire.