15 Winter, 511 Kye crouched down, trying to avoid planting his knees in the light snow covering. He hadn’t really expected snow this early in the season. But it wasn’t unknown. Carefully, he laid the charred bit of cloth in the heat blackened wooden bowl. It was only the size of his palm, but fairly flat, to allow for both a dry surface but also plenty of air access. It was sat upon a flat stone, next to the carefully laid wood – a base of green wood, then a layer of wrist thick branches and a steeple of thinner sticks. Inside this lay the small pile of kindling. Reaching for his pouch, he withdrew the sharp edged piece of flint and the curving steel that fit easily about his fingers. With a loose, easy motion, he struck the flint on the edge of the metal several times and sent a flurry of sparks down into the charred cloth. It caught quickly and he fed it a fingerful of dried grass. Raising the flatish bowl, he blew into it softly and fed it another bit of kindling. A tiny flame had begun and he moved the bowl to the laid out wood, setting it next the nest of kindling of dried bark shaving and grass in its middle. With the tip of his knife, he transferred the burning matter in the bowl onto the pile and bent low, in a quite awkward position, to blow gently on the mass, as the flame caught. Feeding the infant fire with dried twigs, he watched until he was sure the finger sized stick temple above had also been embraced by the flame. Sitting back on his heels, he watched a bit longer. There was nothing as aggravating as going to the trouble to get a fire stared and then turn your back and have it die. Finally satisfied that it was well and truly going, he rose, securing his bowl, his steel and flint, and his tinder back in their respective pouches. Stretching, he did another survey of the immediate site of the spot he had chosen for their camp. It was sheltered by an encircling ring of trees, and relatively flat, with a creek no more than a stone’s throw over beyond the first fringe of the old stand oaks and elms. The small party had just left the Western Hills, Sunberth lying a week’s travel behind them to the east. The snow had started around mid-day but had been fitful, the small, dry particles of an early winter flurry, nothing more. He wasn’t complaining. It had made his setting of snares an hour before that much easier, what with the abundance of rabbit tracks he could so clearly see. He was sure they’d have plenty for tomorrow’s breakfast. Earlier in the afternoon, he had managed to bring down a yearling buck, and this was quartered and half of it sliced into steaks, spitted and ready to lay over the fire once it really got going. That job wasn’t his though. Kye could cook just about anything, but he didn’t enjoy it. So for now, he’d leave the handful of merchants and the two other guides to that task, and find some better use of his time. He went first to the picket line to double check that the horses were all securely tied. Calling his dog, Gem, to his side, he walked off into the growing dusk, heading towards the rushing sound of the water. In the soft light of very late afternoon, he scanned the ground for signs of whatever company they might expect to be keeping, as Gem snuffled in the leaf litter. Under the trees, the snow cover was scant, but there were other tell tale signs, of skunk, raccoon, squirrels, deer. Having reached the bank of the stream, he cast about, and found what he had thought he might, when he had taken a quick look earlier. Kneeling down, he quickly and skillfully set a wire snare, outside the muskrat hole in the bank. Their fur was sleek and valuable for cold weather hats and mittens and coats. And their flesh was fatty – fat which could be rendered and kept as fire starting material. Satisfied with his work, he rose from his crouch and was about to whistle for the dog, when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck go up. He had the distinct impression that he was not alone. |