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Date Posted: 20:52:55 01/17/11 Mon
Author: celtgirl
Subject: Here is what His Lordship is up to in the cold- this is only a part of the chapter, from about halfway through>>>>
In reply to: Elaine 's message, "It's really been cold here in my neck of the woods the last couple of weeks. I wonder how cold other places might be. For instance, parts of Russia and maybe that little magical island they call Ireland... And I have to wonder how our friends are faring during these winter months. 'Course only one person can reveal such secrets to us. Not that I'm trying to pry. Not really. Okay, so what if I am?!" on 13:05:43 01/16/11 Sun


copyright 2011 Cindy Brandner

Man and dog were lit with cold fire, each as clearly outlined as if they stood upon the river in bright sunlight. The fever had given his vision a surreal focus, making things painfully sharp. All his senses were preturnaturally fluid and heightened, though he knew this was dangerous, that fever held its own delusions and they could kill a man. He was too far away to be certain of hitting Isay if he threw the hatchet. It would have to be in the head, and it would have to land with enough force to split his skull.

He crept backwards out of the shrubs, easing his hold on the hatchet only slightly. He headed in a northwest direction, checking the sky as he went. The moon had set, and shadows cloaked the tops of the trees. Down here in the snow, the light was silver blue and his eyes flowed along the landscape almost by feel- rock, stream, snag, his skin attuned to the wind and movement of branch and creatures that moved as he did, to the rhythms of the dark.

He knew the line between this hyper-sensitive state and exhaustion was extremely thin. He needed to find shelter again, somewhere he could light a fire before it was too late. Somewhere he could lie down and likely die, perhaps even before Isay and his hound found him. That was about as much favour as he could expect from the universe at this point. Dying from cold was supposed to be peaceful, though he begged leave to wonder just who had reported back on that particular finding.

He smelled the animal before he saw it. Being outdoors for any length of time sharpened a man’s senses, but the scent of blood was so familiar right now, that he could not mistake it. It was hot and thick on the air, something recently killed lay in his path. He slowed to a walk, the scent pulling him, the way a woman would- a place beyond thought, that lay in the primordial brain, shivering along the spine in tiny branching pools.

The kill was fresh, a stag, felled, blood still steaming, the snow around stained a rich crimson. Even through his fever Jamie could smell the heady tang of the blood. He was very hungry, the fever no longer hiding basic bodily requirements, and he needed the nourishment if he was to continue on. But this stag had been killed by something very big, and very lethal and if it was still nearby, Jamie knew he risked being killed himself. Predators were known to share, but one never knew when the meat was an open invitation, and when it had merely been left for a few minutes. In the latter case it was viewed as robbery and was punished accordingly, should the thief be caught at the kill.

He knelt in the snow, and put his hand in the blood that still pulsed out of the throat. The blood was hot on his tongue, and slid down his throat easily, his stomach gurgling in response to the first sign of nourishment it had seen in days. He cut away some of the meat with his knife, well away from the bite marks that had already taken much of the stag.

He felt the eyes on him quite suddenly, a ripple up his backbone, a warning as old as man. The warning of an apex predator, a creature that was a perfect killing machine, against which there were few defenses. A creature that did not belong this far west, and therefore a creature for whom there was no rational explanation, and yet it was as undeniable as the carrion scent that hit him with the force of a fist. He turned his head carefully.

The tiger stood looking at him, twenty feet away- not even a full jump for a tiger, eyes a blaze of green-white fire in the night. The fur of its ruff stood out, a gleaming frost white, the black stripes moving across its body like shadow over snow. Jamie knelt frozen by the stag carcass, knowing not to move until the tiger moved. If a tiger stepped forward, then a man could take one step back, but until the tiger moved any move on his own part would be seen as aggression or an open invitation to attack him.

He could feel the tiger’s breath, and heard his own respond in the rhythm of hot blood. They stood suspended between worlds, that of man and wild animal, where only the rules of one applied. For a moment their separate worlds overlapped, hanging there in the cold blue splendour of the night, the taste of the same blood upon their tongues, they were one and understood each other with ease. To be the predator, one must not be seen, nor heard, one must become as a ghost, no more than a passing sigh upon the wind, which could turn into a tornado of killing claw and tooth in a mere second.

“Thank you, Amba,” he said softly, using the Udegai name for the tiger, conceding his right as czar of the taiga. One must thank the tiger, acknowledge the debt. The tiger continued to watch him, the green eyes as hypnotic as those of a forest djinn. Finally, it became clear that the tiger was not going to attack, and Jamie stood slowly and backed away one step at a time, with no clear idea of where the tiger’s territory began or ended.

The tiger stepped forward, and for a heartstopping second, Jamie thought he had made a fatal mistake, though he knew already he would rather die under the tiger’s aegis, than under that of a cuckolded husband. But then the tiger turned, its tail as long and thick as a grown man’s arm, glistening silver against the snowy forest trail. Jamie followed, compelled for a reason he could not put words to within his mind. Only that within the umwelt in which he and the tiger had met, he knew the tiger meant for him to follow.

Time held no dominion that night, fever brushed it aside as unnecessary to survival. He trotted behind the tiger, keeping pace, keeping a respectful distance as well. He felt, against all common sense and experience that the tiger had a purpose in taking him this way and that it was not, ultimately, to kill him. For the tiger was wounded too, it was there in the measured marks of his stride, small drops of garnet, glistening jewels on a bed of white velvet.

A strange strength entered his blood, his muscle and bone, allowing him to be fleet, to flow with the tiger, even as they both bled from their respective cuts. Together they had ventured across some boundary between reality and dream, though the substance of the cold and the stag’s blood seemed beyond question.

The air had lightened infintesimally when the tiger stopped, turned and looked at him, eyes fired emeralds in the waking dawn. Somehow it was clear this was where they would part ways, for even a tiger knew when to hole up and rest, to nurse both wound and rage, until strength returned. Jamie stopped and stood watching the tiger melt away into the snow, becoming mirage like in the pale morning.

He had not heard the dog since before spotting the stag the night before, but he knew this did not mean that Isay had given up on finding him. But Isay would have to stop and so would the dog, and Jamie knew that he needed rest now, for with the tiger’s disappearance he had become aware of the burning pain in his side and how very cold he was.

Later, he would never understand how he recognized the small hump in the snow for what it was. It reminded him of the fairy mounds back home. There was no trail in the snow, no pathway leading to a door and yet he had sensed the door there, waiting within the snow. A sod hut, three quarters underground. Inside, where he stumbled down the short incline, it was little more than a root cellar. But there was a potbellied tin stove, shelves with a few canned goods, some kindling and dry birch for the fire, and two bottles of vodka. There was a low-slung bedstead made from rough lumber and rope, with a straw mattress on top. He wanted nothing more than to collapse on it, but knew he had to light the fire first or he would die from the cold in short order. The smoke could and would likely lead Isay to him, if he was close on his trail, but he would have to take that risk, for he needed rest badly and to change his dressing. And to eat, if he could manage to cook the frozen lump of meat before succumbing to his exhaustion and blood loss.

The tin stove didn’t take long to heat to a cherry-glow. The low-slung bedstead was situated beside it and Jamie sat on it to remove the moss dressing from his side. The slash was swollen and angry looking, a flush of heavy red spreading out from it, that heralded the infection that lay under the skin. The moss had done its job though, even if removing it was almost as painful as the original cutting. Moss, processed properly, had antiseptic qualities, but he had not had time to dry or clean it properly.

He cracked open one of the bottles of vodka, lay on his good side and then poured the alcohol liberally into the infected wound. It wasn’t as painful as the last time, and he thought, perhaps, this wasn’t a good sign. He repacked the wound with moss again, this time taking care to remove as much debris from it as he could.

He cooked the meat directly on the tin stove, the sizzling blood scent of it simultaneously nauseating and enticing him. When it was cooked, he ate all of it, for he could not afford the scent of it drawing the dog to him. And then he lay down, pulling his coat tight around him, leaving his boots on and hoping that he would wake again. He thought about the tiger, as he fell toward the fever’s dark abyss, and said a wordless prayer for both their souls.

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