Winter's Tree

18 - The Deepest Part of Winter

That winter was the hardest Ayessa had known. The hunters, limited in range by fear of coming across the blue-eyed men, stayed closer to camp than good hunting allowed.

By mid-winter, they were already into the emergency stores.

"We need to do something," she argued.

It was late, and the inside of the tent was lit only dimly by the glow of the fire outside.

"We are doing what we can, Ayessa," her father said.

It was an argument they had often of late, Ayessa's restlessness growing each night as the days grew longer, but not warmer.

Her father, usually calm and implacable, seemed old and worn to her eyes now. That would have made her sad once, but tonight it only fed her frustration.

"We need to hunt further from the camp," she said.

"So you keep saying," he said, his voice weary. "The answer is still no. I will not risk our hunters with those strangers so close."

"Then allow me to go."

"No." This time, his voice was sharp, echoing his own frustration. "I will not risk you either. We can survive a bit longer on acorns and roots."

Angrily, she turned her back on him and rolled herself into her blankets. The people could not go much longer like this. At the current rate, their winter reserves would be gone long before spring. If he wouldn't do something about it, she would. Quietly, she began to plan.

She slipped out of the tent on silent feet, taking only her spear and knife with her. Sneaking her bedroll past the sentries would be more trouble than it was worth and she could manage a night or two without it, if she planned it well enough.

Joveke was on outlook when she approached the eastern edge of their grounds and she gave him a nod as she passed. He nodded in return and went back to watching the surrounding woods with a wary eye. She was just another hunter, out to try their luck.

She was careful to head first towards the west, where the other hunters had already picked the woods clean, but when she had cleared Joveke's line of sight, she veered sharply to the east and picked up her pace.

***

The snow was deep, and it took her two more days than she had thought it would to reach her goal. Four days. And it would be another four back. She regretted leaving her blankets behind, though she had found shelter in caves and the heat of her small fires has staved off the worst of the cold. Tonight though, she would light no fire. She was too close, and she feared the smell of smoke would give her away, no matter how well she hid the flames. She did not plan to sleep in any case.

Instead, she crept through the shadows, avoiding the clearer spaces where moonlight lit patches of snow. Something in the night moved nearby, huffing out a breath in the frigid air. She froze and readjusted her grip on the wooden haft of her spear.

Her eyes could just make out the silhouetted form in front of her. A small bull. Large enough to feed the clan, but not so large she wouldn't be able to carry it once it was dead.

Sliding closer, she slipped out of the trees, and with practiced fluidity, struck low on the side, right behind the front legs, spear tip piercing the heart. The bull fell, and she quickly sliced its throat with her knife, before hoisting it across her shoulders. She kicked as much snow as she could over the blood spatter, but she didn't know if it would be enough to hide what she had done. She hoped the blue-eyed men did not observe the herd too closely.

Pradna stopped her as she approached the camp.

"You have returned victorious then, eh," he said, but the grin on his face looked forced.

She set the bull down and rolled her shoulders to ease the tension. The weight, of no consequence four days ago, had seemed to grow with each passing mile.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

The smile fell from his face and he reached a hand up to rub the back of his neck.

"Your father has fallen ill," he said.

"How ill?" She asked, but his expression was telling enough.

"See the bull brought in," she said, hurrying towards the camp and her father's tent.

There was a small crowd outside the tent, but Eshemwa was the first to see her. Rising, he walked towards her.

"Ayessa," he started.

"How bad is he?" she asked, cutting him off.

Eshemwa sighed. "It is not good."

"I will see him," she said.

She made to push past him, but he caught her arm at the elbow, holding her back. She met his gaze curiously, but his dark eyes gave away nothing and he released her arm.

When she pushed aside the flap of tent that covered the entrance, she found Taboua seated cross legged on the floor beside her father.

Taboua rose slowly from her spot and came to place a hand on Ayessa's shoulder.

"It will not be long I think," she said, her voice raspy with passing of too many winters.

"What is wrong with him?" Ayessa asked.

Taboua sighed. "Sometimes, the spirit just grows to old."

Taboua exited the tent, leaving Ayessa with the ailing form of her father.

It took three more days for Atua to breathe his last, and in that time, Ayessa remained by his side. The clan ate well, from the meat of her kill, but Ayessa hardly noticed.

Taboua came and wrapped his form in supple skins, but still Ayessa would not leave. Could not.

She could not equate this empty shell with the man who had been her father. He had been well when she left. Now he was gone.

She had been young when her mother died and had not truly known what it meant. This was different. She knew the void her father's absence would represent. To her. To the people.

The tent flaps rustled and someone knelt beside her, a cold hand reaching out to lay gentle fingers on her forearm. It was Satsai.

"Come, Ayessa," she murmured. "It is done."

Ayessa ignored her and after a moment, the hand fell away. Satsai retreated from the tent and Ayessa was once again alone with the dead.

A gust of wind swirled in as the tent flaps opened again. She did not look up.

"You can not stay here forever," a voice said. Eshemwa.

When she said nothing, he came to stand in front of her. Between herself and the body of her father.

"Look at me, Ayessa," he said, voice stern.

"Go away," she mumbled.

He squatted down in front of her, his face near to hers, so she would have no choice but to see him. "I am sorry for your loss. We are all sorry. Atua was a great man and we will never know another like him, but with Oyeka gone, the clan needs you. There is no time for you to fall apart."

Anger flared inside her and she snapped her head up, hot angry eyes meeting his cool dark ones.

"How dare you," she spat. "How dare you--"

The words faltered and her anger collapsed in on itself. Pain unfurled and finally the first tears fell.

The hard lines of Eshemwa's face softened and his hand lifted a fraction as though to reach for her, but he dropped it again and rose to his feet instead.

"I am sorry, Ayessa," he said, his voice gentler now. "Mourn for him, but mourn quickly. The people wait for your direction."

Another swirl of wind followed his departure and as the flaps fell, she raised her eyes again to greying husk that had been her father. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself one final moment of heart rendering pain, then she wiped the tears from her cheek and stiffened her spine.

She pressed her lips one final time to his brow and whispered in his ear, "I will make you proud."