Bonemeal

The bow sings in my hands as I let the tension free. The vibration travels up my arm and settles into my chest. A chill seeps in my bones as I take in a fresh breath of the cold night air. It's too late now. Down range, the deer bolts upright and tries to flee. The arrow finds it and embeds in its neck. I let the held breath out and shoulder the bow, jostling the quiver on my back as I climb down from the tree. The bones and the joints protest as they bend, carrying the weight down to the forest floor. The rest of the herd bolted as soon as the one dropped. I would run too if something human dropped dead from a bolt on high. But as it stands, the deer is left alone, a buck just past his prime.

The antlers rustle as the beast lets out some vain distressed cry to the forest that surrounds us. He only gets a soft rush of wind through the leaves for a response. Poor thing. It has my sympathy, really, but I do not want to go hungry over the winter. So, the act of killing must be carried out and I will benefit from the whole act. He looks at me and thrashes in the dead leaves, bleating and yelling to some sylvan god to come down and smite the demon woman with cold steel delivered from afar. Nothing happens as I reach to my waist and pull out my knife.

It's quick. I make it quick, so the poor thing does not suffer any more than it has to. To the neck and the body goes still. Silence, the forest is silence save for the wind and the dead leaves. I lapse into the silence as well, listening for the suggestion of something beyond. The wind stills and the world goes with it. The moment passes and I find myself back in the woods with a dead deer in front of me. Grace and civility and the grand design of the natural world falls away and I have to carry a carcass a league and a half back home.

The field dressing is a routine at this point, taken and stolen from the chest and the belly. The heart is saved along with the liver. The meat is mine with the bones and the skin. I need a new blanket anyway. So many uses and I intend to get all of them out of the creature. Knives from the antlers, hammers from the bones, a new set of scrying dice carved from the joints. Nothing has more power in it than a beast brought back to the void by yourself.

Weight, so much weight in the body and I am happy for it. A long winter, said the birds and the knuckle bones, so the deer would be a welcome addition to the larder. Smoked and dried and stewed and ground and simply roasted, so many ways I can transfer the soul from the dead into my still living body. The shoulders do not like carrying the damn thing, but the rest of me is happy to do so. I just don't want a wolf or a bear to pick up the scent and come curiously trundling along to see what smells like blood and dirt. And I don't want them to find the deer flesh that is rightfully mine. Some unbreakable law of the land. I brough this deer down and no one in the right mind would take it from me.

The trail I carved through the brush comes clear and swift. I get the antlers caught more than I care to disclose, but even through all that, I find my way to the hut I staked in the earth at the base of a great pine. Still green, always green, and bountiful, the dead needles blanketing the ground with a springing softness swept away by my hand. I drop the deer in a shed by the side, a little way away from the main house. Something hot in my stomach, I think, before I tackle the full act of butchery. The fall's bite is not nearly as devasting as winter's but still, it has its ways of settling in and refusing to leave like an unwanted guest.

I wave my hands and the souls align, the inside of the hut graciously turning warm and bright and comforting. The cauldron simmers and bubbles and brews. They sing to me in the soft suggestive ways of things half forgotten. The wooden planks and beams, the jars, the pots, the hairs in the blankets, the pine needled strewn roof, welcoming me back from the time away. All the little things in a home come alive, not greatly, not grandly, a small shifting in the way they settle on the shelf. The lively ones might move an inch. The chair in particular, covered in buckskin, likes to dance if no one is watching. I smile at the warm immersion of home and everything in it.

---

The runes are starting to fail at the edges of my clearing. The wards and the walls are falling, chipped and cracked like a frozen pond. No matter, a quick circuit to re-etch and redraw the lines and the circles to make them whole again and I will have my solitude. The deer carved up nicely, one of the finer pelts I've managed to scrape away. I am debating on selling it down in the valley, in that little stalwart fort against the wilderness. Money cannot buy the spirits, but it can buy sugar and wine. That's more than worth it, really. Been a long, long time since I've had something sweet. And it is always good to keep an eye on the growing encroachment of the things manmade. My distaste for that world aside, there are several luxuries housed within that I have no shame of indulging.

But the runes, the warding runes that keep my hovel safe, those must come first. Some rain's probably washed away the ink and paint, while the winds knocked off their alignment. Some attention for them and some fresh air from me. The wind whispered of more rain, maybe snow, more winds and cold nights that needed smoldering fires and thick blankets and warm soup. Leaves underfoot and the clouds on the horizon confirmed as much and I sighed. Too soon, too soon for winter and the locked doors against the blizzard hail. Still so much to do.

The deer cured nicely, but I would still like some more for the larder just to be safe. Another hunting expedition at some point then, hopefully with a nice skin to sell. The other one sat before my fireplace, letting the ember souls soak in between the hairs. A new place for the spirits to hide and play, and hopefully it would help keep the heat trapped and still for my use. Those ones tended to be more than a little too free spirited, never staying in place, always wandering and free. I pull the scarf tighter, shutting out the wind.

My steps are silent, worming between the dead leaves and dry branches. So many years of practice behind each movement. So many years of stalking and being stalked. So many years of silent days and quiet nights, piling into one another, each bleeding into the next until there was just an indistinct smear of time behind me and before me. Good life, a very good life.

The meandering mind masks the intruder's presence. But the forest helpfully points them out. Snapping twig, rustling leaf, a grunt, and a thud after a trip from an invasive root. And a minor declaration of pain and annoyance. I take to the trees, hiding myself in the branches, unslinging the bow and testing the string. Still taught, still strong, arrows still sharp and deadly. Something that bumbling probably wasn't a threat, but probably wasn't the same thing as definitely, and ignorance could be as dangerous as malicious intent.

I creep, steps light, branches silent, as the wind promises stillness should a shot come to pass, and the branches swear on a clear line of sight. I follow the steps and the stumbles. Too close, much too close to the warding stone for my tastes. A thief or a saboteur perhaps. A wanderer come across the wrong patch of woods for a little bit of mischief. They will be escorted out.

A man, young but still fitting that classification, shaggy blonde and dressed much too fine for something of the woods. I sigh and the wind masks it with a rustle and a breeze. Some fool from the town in the valley hunting for the green witch of the woods. So many reasons they all had for seeking me out, wanting my persuasiveness for their own ends. A blessing, a curse, some arcane knowledge that will change their lives. Some even come and threaten harm. Those are always my favorites. So easy to scare off when they think I'm something more than I am.

The man doesn't know the way to move, almost to the point of enraging me. Something that ignorant, despite any intentions, is a liability. Rage at him for a failure to learn, rage at his parents for a failure to teach, rage at some indescribable entity of society that did not care enough to value soft stalking and quiet forests. His fault, a little bit, but that anger isn't directed at him, per se.

I let the rage go. It gets in the way most of the time. The task at hand is to get the wards back up and he just happened by one of them. Not his fault, just happenstance. A good scare will send him on his way. Since I'm out here, I might as well see if I can bag another deer today. Maybe a boar or something. Worst case scenario, I head down to the river tomorrow or the day after for some fish.

Swiftly, the bow leaves my shoulder and I knock an arrow. I take aim at a tree near his head, waiting until he's just close enough and I let it fly. Good hit, a nice solid thunk against the tree bark, sending a spray of splinters right into his face. He yelps and freezes and falls flat on his ass. I can't help but chuckle a little. I could watch dumb little fawns fall down all damn day.

Unfortunately, he's a freezer. That one little bit of the mind decides that if he stays perfectly still, nothing bad will happen. The threat will pass, and he will be safe. And he's still there and free to go home and tell someone else about the horrors of the world. I have something that needs done unfortunately.

Another arrow and he shrinks and shivers. I can see his heartbeat through his jacket, ruffling the fabric at jack rabbit pace. Such a scared little thing he is. But he is still there, and as much as I wish to indulge in his fear a little more, I have things to do.

The wind and the trees assist in my descent, letting a shockwave of fallen leaves linger as I hit the ground, right in front of him. He digs deep, so deep, to eke out some last bit of panic from his soul to fuel the important task of staying absolutely still.

"Good morning," I say to him as I kneel in the dirt. Gray eyes, such clear gray eyes, storm clouds and ash swirling together. Sharp cheeks and a handsome jaw line. I bet he's popular. Good for him, really.

He says nothing and I add rude to the list of reasons I want him gone.

"I want you gone," I say, "Do you think you could do that for me?"

He stays still, so still, even when the threat is right and front of him. Stubborn as well. The list is getting quite long at this point. Clean shaven at least, although I'm not quite sure where to put that on the lists of pros and cons. He still doesn't say a damn word though.

"I don't want you here, boy. I would like to have you leave. Preferably now. Do you want to know what I might do to you if you stay? Bubbling cauldrons, grinding bones for my garden, scraps for the ravens and that's just off the top of my head. Unless, of course, you're not around. Your choice really?"

"Acorns," he squeaks.

That's honestly a first. Novel, one for the pro column at long last. Nobody is completely beyond redemption. I am not wasting any of my thoughts on parsing the meaning of that single word. He offers some more clarification as he rummages through his pockets and produces fistfuls of acorns.

"I do not want acorns." I have plenty, really. A decent store for the winter, and gifts for anything that needs shelter.

"I want walnuts," he says, "I'm supposed to find walnuts. I can't find the walnuts. I can only find acorns." Still shaking, he stammers and sputters and can't quite meet my eyes. But he has acorns, and he wants walnuts.

"If I tell you where to get the walnuts, will you leave?" He nods so furiously I am afraid he might snap his neck. I don't want to deal with a body. I already carried one back to my hut yesterday.

I point to the west. A healthy grove of walnut trees awaits about half an hour that way, but hopefully he knows what walnut trees look like. More importantly, it leads him away from the rim of the wards and I can get to work. Another nod that almost decapitates the boy and he scampers off, tripping and flailing and clumsy in all sorts of ways. I watch him leave, just to make sure. I retrieve the arrows as well. No knicks or splinters. Good work, I do good work with those.

The ward stone makes itself present a moment later, tucked away in a nest of roots. It has been knocked out of its niche and the poor thing's sigils is smudged and running. It looks like the grey eyed boy touched the damn thing and let the run smudge. I find a seat on the gnarled roots of the warding tree and pull the set of brushes from my pouch. It's a simple fix, but it might take me a good moment. I'm not going anywhere, so I don't mind.

---

Winter's come in full rage this year. The last several had been too calm, so it was only a matter of time until the angry cold reasserted its presence. Too many years of soft living for the people of the world, and they needed something difficult to go through, just to give themselves something to fight against. The wards I placed keep the worst of it out, although the cold and the snow still reach my bones in a way that a blazing fire struggles to chase out.

Cold, so cold, cold that slithers and crawls and pierces the tiniest of gaps and takes them over as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Cold that makes movement impossible save for the constant shivering and trembling before the vast power of the sky. I have my blankets and I have a fire and I have a cauldron of venison stew slowing simmering. I am content. I am content in the isolation that I have made for myself.

It's nice, all the time to myself, the howling wind turning to a soft whistle that makes the whole house shake when it hits just right. The world sings to me and I listen in rapt attention.

I've piled the cushions and the furs, everything warm and soft I have, right in front of the fireplace and I watch the flames dance and lick the heavy iron. The dance is hypnotic, the flicker and flare, the shadows, and glowing lines. I keep my eye open for hapless salamanders that might come springing forth from the embers. I still have some apricots in the cellar, and I haven't had a swig of salamander brandy in a good long time. It would at least make the cold nights a lot more interesting. So far, nothing though, save for the endless hypnotism of the limitless tongue of flames. The wind rattles the frame again and I pull myself deeper into the blankets, trying to draw out one last bit of warmth for myself. I'll have to leave the warm confines soon. I need to scry to see how long this storm will last and I had the misfortune of placing the damn pouch and circle on the far side of the room.

The buckskin pools in a shaggy heap and I curse the world for being made in this manner. Every season needs to be spring or at least fall if variety is absolutely needed. Anything but winter. I would take the dreadful heat of summer over this terrible chill. The leather sack hangs on its hook, the cloth draped over a simple table. The circle was etched with birch ash from a wildfire, the skin itself was a white elk, the dice carved from a grand old boar. The table itself was simple oak, something chopped down as a necessity.

Worn bone on weathered skin, I roll them back and forth against my bone, feeling the age settle into the creases. So much time baked into every cranny, so much seen and done to tell of what is next. I bring them to my forehead, my lips, my heart center, trying not to shiver. I am disturbing them enough as it is to sate my meager curiosity. The dice must be treated with kindness and respect. They do not tell me what I want to hear. I cannot control where they land, they simply tell me where the world is headed. I give them a breath from my core, and I cast them in the ashen circle.

A knock comes from my door. Not the wind rattling a branch, not a curious beast come calling for the treasures inside, a polite curious knock of something considerate that would like me to come over and let whatever is on the outside inside. I grab my knife just in case.

The door opens with a creak and I have to fight the wind from ripping the planks from the hinges. Cloth and scarves and coats stand in the way, something so bundled and snug, the form simply vanishes into an indistinct pile with what might be legs. And it's carrying something. And it's waiting for me to say something, despite the fact that I am letting in the winter and just clearing it out again would take most of the day. But it stands there and waits politely against the biting wind. It's a decent break at least, and all that form means any quick movement would be difficult. But it's the eyes, the gray eyes that make me take my hand away from the knife and usher him inside.

The acorn boy hurries inside, and I wrestle the door shut, relatching, and battening down plank and board. I turn away the wind and the chill and find the man shedding layers of thick cloth in a neat pile of folded squares. I didn't know anyone could wear so many coats and still walk.

"What are you doing here," I say. His teeth chatter and shake and there might be some words mixed in, but I cannot tell.

He instead holds out the package, brown parchment, and twine, and turns to the fire, hands outstretched and red. It's soft. Whatever he has given me is soft and malleable and the twine falls apart under my touch. A loaf of bread, cold. All that trouble for a loaf of bread.

"Banana walnut bread," he says, "Thanks for the walnuts. Cold, so cold."

He moves closer to the fire.

"All that trouble to give me a loaf of bread?"

He nods, not quite trying to break his neck again. That is firmly attached to his torso and that is where it shall stay.

"Trade caravan set up shop right before the storm hit, and they had bananas. Aunt's idea to put them together, and since you helped me, you get a loaf of it. And I'm sorry. Didn't mean to barge in like that."

"How did you even find this place?"

"I remembered where I say you, and then I found these rocks. I followed the rocks and they led me here. And here you were. And now you have your gift, and in a moment I'll leave. I just need some warmth back in my bones and I'll leave you to your woods."

I set the loaf near the fire. More than enough warmth to go around for a shivering idiot and a small delicacy.

"Heorot," the man says, "I apologize for not introducing myself sooner. My name is Heorot. And I'm afraid I already know your name. Tark the Blackberry Bramble."

"One of many that I have," I say, "And it's the one I'm using now."

The wind howls as Heorot, the master of acorns continues to sit at my hearth, face flushed and red. He keeps glancing at me, turning away when he finds my gaze still has not moved. The debate begins within me. The storm is raging outside and there is a very real chance that this fool will die on his way back to the bottom of the valley. I'm frankly surprised he turned up here at all. The wards should have done away with him, but his touch, or the weather or some grand turn of fate decided that it was not to be. Another pass once the weather clears, as anyone who actually does come calling is wrong in the head, and a simple charm to keep them away would be broken anyway. Despite all outward appearances, I am not a monster who would condemn a man to a bitter cold death for merely intruding on my privacy. With a gift that is starting to smell wonderful now that it has a little more heat in it.

Eventually, I settle next to the fire as well, cutting myself a simple square. Another one for the sweet stupid boy in the list of good things and he will not die. Delicious simply delicious and if I were alone, I would act a little bit unsightly at the sweetness enveloping my tongue. Good walnuts, very good walnuts, roasted or smoked and salted, and I don't believe I've ever actually had a banana before. Heard of them, long yellow things that must be peeled and now I find that I have a taste for the damn things. Impossible to get though, without trade. More deerskins for the valley, then so I can get my fruit.