Though Einar had been very clear about wanting to manage the smoking himself so Liz could get some sleep, she found it difficult to do so with the knowledge that he was sitting out there in the cold, kept going out to check on him and take him things, a bit of chokecherry pudding sweetened with honey, some of the supper stew that had been left over from his portion, and once, her sweater in the hopes that he would wear it if he wasn’t warm. Which he wasn’t, and he wouldn’t, and she was not the least bit surprised about any of it. At least he had the smoking fire to keep him somewhat warm if he chose to use it, and the small one he had going in their outdoor firepit to produce the coals he was using to burn out the log, the fires to warm him, and his work. The way he was going at it she certainly expected the work ought to be keeping him at least somewhat warm; already the log was showing significant progress, Einar having kept it continually supplied with fresh coals, blowing on them and then scraping to remove the charred wood before adding fresh embers. She crouched beside him, waiting until he looked up, face appearing strange and haggard in the glow of the coals, but he gave her a big grin, clearing the soot and sweat from his face with the swipe of a sleeve and sitting back on his heels. Would have said something, but he was, despite his delight at having got so much done, too winded to speak. Liz just shook her head and offered him some water, which he took.
“Looks like you’ve got this thing well over half way done! How about if I take over for a few minutes, let you go lie down for a little while?”
Einar shook his head. “Slept all…afternoon, so now it’s my turn to…”
“It takes a lot of breath to keep blowing on those coals though, doesn’t it?”
A nod of acknowledgement as he scraped the now-dead remains of the last batch of coals from the growing depression in the log, gently chipping and scraping at the charred wood with the adze, and, in places, with his knife until he reached bare, white wood. A coughing fit got hold of him then and Liz, seeing how much it hurt him, got herself positioned behind his back and held him, pressing his ribs in an attempt to ease the hurt as he cleared his lungs, long overdue and very much needed if tremendously uncomfortable. Sinking to the ground when he was through Einar rested his forehead on its cool dampness, Liz still holding his ribs and draping her sweater over him, as he appeared not too far from sleep. Had no intention of sleeping, though, and was back at his post as soon as he’d managed to get enough air to allow himself upright again, choosing new coals and placing them in the log. Liz wanted to get after him, try again to talk him into switching places for the night but she knew there would be little point. The closer he was to being dead, the more steadfastly stubborn he seemed to become. Somewhat senseless, Liz was still inclined to say, but she was coming to understand it a bit at the same time. And figuring out how to work with it, too--and with him.
“That cough sounds worse. How about if I make you a pot of tea with some of the chokecherry bark we took off of the smoking wood? Cherry bark can really help settle a cough…”
“Yeah, it can, but I…need this cough. Been too long since I really cleared my lungs, with the shallow little breaths these ribs have made me inclined to take, and that’s half my problem right now. Sludgy lungs. Need to cough it out.”
Which he seemed well on his way to doing, doubled over with another coughing fit that left him curled up on the ground beside the firepit by the time it was over, sobbing for breath and near passing out from the pain in his side and chest. Had felt as though each cough was tearing something in there, grinding sharp edges of fractured bone into flesh and organs and ripping him up inside, and he could not help but think that must not be too far from the reality of it. Was fortunate he hadn’t punctured a lung. Yet. Wished Liz would go away, stop staring at him and leave him in peace to face whatever fate awaited him that night but she wouldn’t go, stayed there unspeaking beside him, pressing his ribs in exactly the way that most minimized the pain and offering him water whenever he seemed to have enough oxygen to allow him that long a pause in his ongoing fight for air, and after a time he came to realize that he truly didn’t want her gone at all, just wished he might be able to better control himself in her presence. Which was a matter of pride, and he knew it, tried his hardest to set it aside. Why shouldn’t she see you like this? It’s how you are, at the moment. Now you get back to work. Enough of this coughing and drooping and curling up on the ground. More than enough.
That fact notwithstanding, he found it all but impossible to carry on with the coal-burning of the bearfat vessel, as each attempt to blow on the coals quickly dissolved into yet another coughing fit, and when Liz squeezed his shoulder and gently pushed him aside, he did not resist. They took turns, then, working on the log, Einar placing the coals and then Liz gently but steadily fanning them to a living, glowing orange with a carefully directed stream of breath, working until the last living ember had gone black, after which Einar would scrape them out, carve away the blackened wood and the whole process would be begun again. Working together they finished the project within the space of three hours, Einar doing the final smoothing of the inside of the vessel with a rough chunk of sandstone. During this time they had paused on several occasions to check the status of the smoking fire--smoky, cool and still going; it seemed to be working well--Einar once adding a small pile of peeled willow sticks to help keep it going.
Seeing that Einar had no intention of either leaving the smoking meat to join her in the cabin for the rest of the night or allowing her to relieve him at the task of guarding it and feeding the fire, she retrieved the heavy, warm bear hide from their bed inside, scraping together a good pile of spruce needles and creating a makeshift bed right there beside the smoker, on which she hoped Einar might see fit to lie down for occasional rests throughout the night. Which of course he did not, being quite certain that if he ever allowed himself such a luxury, he might not be moving again for a very long time, but Liz put the bed to good use, dozing there for stretches of time between making batches of bear broth and doing her best to keep Einar drinking it regularly.
The first hint of grey was just beginning to show along the high, spruce-studded contour of the horizon when the two of them made one final check on the smoker, added a few sticks and crawled onto the bear hide, curling up together there beside the smoke tent, and sleeping.
21 July, 2011
20 July, 2011
Trying something different...
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With the way Eimar is not taking care of himself it's getting to a point of not being brave, it's being irresponsible at least. Stupid comes to mind also.
Part of doing what you have to do to survive is to take care of yourself. He's putting Liz, the baby and himself in danger He does seem to have lost sight of that fact somewhere along the way, and needs to recognize it once again.
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I can so see myself making some (not the same probably, but then again......maybe yes) mistakes if I were struggling to care for a loved one (or two) and feeling the pressure of time running out. I think you are portraying Einar to the extreme but then again, you've mentioned it numerous times THAT IS THE POINT. Make Einar suffer so that WE can LEARN! And we can definitely learn from his mistakes and muddled mind.
Yes, that is part of the point--to learn from his mistakes and difficulties. Thanks for reading!
20 July 2011
By the time Einar got himself together and joined Liz out in the clearing--movement seemed to cause coughing, and the coughing left him doubled over in pain, pressing his ribs and wondering how Liz had managed to get that poultice on him without his noticing--she had finished gathering up the dried berries in one of the hides he intended to smoke and was heading to the cabin with them. At the sight of Einar, the raven swooped down and made a circuit around his head, settling boldly on a shoulder and picking a bit of solidified pitch from his hair when he stopped still to watch it, but taking off again as Liz approached.
“Looks like you’ve got a new friend there. Did you get some good sleep?”
Einar rubbed his eyes, glanced up at the raven as it returned to its post in the dead fir. “Wasn’t trying to get…what’d you do, anyway? Knock me in the head with your war club? Got to say I don’t remember how I got into the cabin, and I don’t much like that…”
“I dragged you. But no, there was no war club involved. I think you got a little short on oxygen, and you ended up face down in the melted pitch for a second, then didn’t seem very much inclined to wake up. So I let you sleep.”
Einar grunted, indicated the soft hide wrap around his middle. “You do this?” Asking the obvious…who else would have done it? Better not be anyone else around here who would do such a thing, and I sure don’t think I could do it in my sleep…
“It’s hound’s tongue. You mentioned wanting to wrap you ribs with hound’s tongue a few days ago, so I hope you won’t mind my having done it for you while you were out.”
“I don’t…in my dream, I thought you were…thanks. Thank you. Did a real good thing for me, there.”
“What did you dream? I could tell you were dreaming, but it seemed you couldn’t wake up even though you seemed to be trying pretty hard, and then after the poultice you seemed to quiet down a little…”
Shook his head, blinking away the images that wanted to come crowding back at the mention of the thing; glad I plan to be up all night watching this fire; wouldn’t be a good one for sleeping, not much good at all. “Ah…never mind about all that. Gonna be dark before too long here, and we’ve got a smoking fire to get ready.”
“I hung some pieces of meat, just chose some of the larger ones we had left, but you’d better see if they’re what you had in mind.” Which they were, Einar pleased to see that she had not only chosen the pieces well but hung them securely, building a small pyramid of dry aspen sticks in the small pit beneath the tent, pile of green willow and cherry pieces placed within easy reach of the spot where he had left the tent coverings loose along the bottom for feeding the fire. Everything was ready to go, and Einar told her so, thanked her for tending to everything even as inwardly he growled at himself for sleeping through all of it. Just as well though, probably. If you’re capable of falling asleep or passing out or whatever you did right in the middle of pitch coating a basket, chances are you really needed the sleep and wouldn’t have been too likely to make it through the night without it, anyway. No good letting the fire go out halfway through the meat smoking, or falling asleep over a log full of hot coals while you’re trying to burn it out…that might have come out worse than the melted pitch! Might as well be grateful for the little nap, even if it wasn’t what you were aiming for. And he was, in his own way, grateful, though at the moment feeling terribly disoriented as well, lost and with the distinct and rather unsettling feeling that he might have missed something while he was out, slept through some important event, a faint and elusive shadow of memory telling him he’d better be finding out, and he stared at Liz until she looked away uncomfortably, wanting to ask her but deciding against it as he supposed she’d have to take any such inquiry as a sign of mistrust on his part, as his doubting that she would have informed him of any such occurrence. Which he didn’t, really--doubt, that is--but still he did not seem quite able to shake the feeling as he busied himself with his preparations for the night, hauling the future fat storage log outside with Liz’s help so he could work on burning it out without filling the cabin with smoke, and without leaving his post near the smoking fire, and by the time they got through, he found himself jumping at every whisper of the wind in the spruces and quite unable to concentrate on his work. Nothing for it. He had to ask.
“While I was asleep. Was there any…air activity? Anything unusual? Keep getting the feeling I might have missed something like that…”
“You didn’t miss much. Just me making a couple of baskets and wrapping your ribs, and afternoon turning to evening. There was one plane that came over an hour or so ago, but he didn’t circle or linger or anything like that, and the fires were both out by then, so I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”
“Must have been what I heard. Thanks. Couldn’t figure it out. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised to see Bud Kilgore flying around up there one of these days, even though I told him real plainly not to do it. He never was one to heed instructions like that particularly well, a real independent sort of a critter, and the way he left things that last time…well, sounded like he didn’t think he’d made his last trip up here. I just hope he doesn’t bring the feds following along after him if he does try anything like that, because…aw, I’m probably worrying about nothing. Expect he’s long gone back to Arizona, by now.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. It looked to me like he was probably going to be spending more and more time out this way, even if he was for some reason relieved of his official duties as wild goose chaser for the Task Force down there…”
“Well he’d better not be! I made it real clear that if I caught him following me around again I’d have to…”
“Not you, you big goof! Susan. I think he’s going to be out here calling on Susan--did you see them together, this last time?--and if so, I wouldn’t be too surprised if we saw some sign of him again. Maybe both of them. But don’t worry, I’d tell you if I saw that little green and white plane anywhere near here. The one while you were sleeping was white. Plain white.”
“Well, that’s a good thing I guess. Real good thing. Doggone mysterious human critters. Don’t figure I’ll even understand ‘em, not even real sensible ones like Kilgore. Now. Before it finishes getting dark I’m gonna get this fire started. You want to let it burn pretty hot at first to get the coals that’ll start the wet wood burning, only it’s a little tricky with aspen, since it doesn’t really produce many coals to speak of. Got to get the timing just right so your wet wood doesn’t just smother what’s left of the aspen and put the whole thing out. Would work better if we could use a little pine to get things started, and we can throw a couple little pieces of it on there to add some liveliness here at first, but don’t want to go overboard with it, unless we’re interested in eating pitch-coated meat…”
“Looks like you’ve got a new friend there. Did you get some good sleep?”
Einar rubbed his eyes, glanced up at the raven as it returned to its post in the dead fir. “Wasn’t trying to get…what’d you do, anyway? Knock me in the head with your war club? Got to say I don’t remember how I got into the cabin, and I don’t much like that…”
“I dragged you. But no, there was no war club involved. I think you got a little short on oxygen, and you ended up face down in the melted pitch for a second, then didn’t seem very much inclined to wake up. So I let you sleep.”
Einar grunted, indicated the soft hide wrap around his middle. “You do this?” Asking the obvious…who else would have done it? Better not be anyone else around here who would do such a thing, and I sure don’t think I could do it in my sleep…
“It’s hound’s tongue. You mentioned wanting to wrap you ribs with hound’s tongue a few days ago, so I hope you won’t mind my having done it for you while you were out.”
“I don’t…in my dream, I thought you were…thanks. Thank you. Did a real good thing for me, there.”
“What did you dream? I could tell you were dreaming, but it seemed you couldn’t wake up even though you seemed to be trying pretty hard, and then after the poultice you seemed to quiet down a little…”
Shook his head, blinking away the images that wanted to come crowding back at the mention of the thing; glad I plan to be up all night watching this fire; wouldn’t be a good one for sleeping, not much good at all. “Ah…never mind about all that. Gonna be dark before too long here, and we’ve got a smoking fire to get ready.”
“I hung some pieces of meat, just chose some of the larger ones we had left, but you’d better see if they’re what you had in mind.” Which they were, Einar pleased to see that she had not only chosen the pieces well but hung them securely, building a small pyramid of dry aspen sticks in the small pit beneath the tent, pile of green willow and cherry pieces placed within easy reach of the spot where he had left the tent coverings loose along the bottom for feeding the fire. Everything was ready to go, and Einar told her so, thanked her for tending to everything even as inwardly he growled at himself for sleeping through all of it. Just as well though, probably. If you’re capable of falling asleep or passing out or whatever you did right in the middle of pitch coating a basket, chances are you really needed the sleep and wouldn’t have been too likely to make it through the night without it, anyway. No good letting the fire go out halfway through the meat smoking, or falling asleep over a log full of hot coals while you’re trying to burn it out…that might have come out worse than the melted pitch! Might as well be grateful for the little nap, even if it wasn’t what you were aiming for. And he was, in his own way, grateful, though at the moment feeling terribly disoriented as well, lost and with the distinct and rather unsettling feeling that he might have missed something while he was out, slept through some important event, a faint and elusive shadow of memory telling him he’d better be finding out, and he stared at Liz until she looked away uncomfortably, wanting to ask her but deciding against it as he supposed she’d have to take any such inquiry as a sign of mistrust on his part, as his doubting that she would have informed him of any such occurrence. Which he didn’t, really--doubt, that is--but still he did not seem quite able to shake the feeling as he busied himself with his preparations for the night, hauling the future fat storage log outside with Liz’s help so he could work on burning it out without filling the cabin with smoke, and without leaving his post near the smoking fire, and by the time they got through, he found himself jumping at every whisper of the wind in the spruces and quite unable to concentrate on his work. Nothing for it. He had to ask.
“While I was asleep. Was there any…air activity? Anything unusual? Keep getting the feeling I might have missed something like that…”
“You didn’t miss much. Just me making a couple of baskets and wrapping your ribs, and afternoon turning to evening. There was one plane that came over an hour or so ago, but he didn’t circle or linger or anything like that, and the fires were both out by then, so I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”
“Must have been what I heard. Thanks. Couldn’t figure it out. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised to see Bud Kilgore flying around up there one of these days, even though I told him real plainly not to do it. He never was one to heed instructions like that particularly well, a real independent sort of a critter, and the way he left things that last time…well, sounded like he didn’t think he’d made his last trip up here. I just hope he doesn’t bring the feds following along after him if he does try anything like that, because…aw, I’m probably worrying about nothing. Expect he’s long gone back to Arizona, by now.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. It looked to me like he was probably going to be spending more and more time out this way, even if he was for some reason relieved of his official duties as wild goose chaser for the Task Force down there…”
“Well he’d better not be! I made it real clear that if I caught him following me around again I’d have to…”
“Not you, you big goof! Susan. I think he’s going to be out here calling on Susan--did you see them together, this last time?--and if so, I wouldn’t be too surprised if we saw some sign of him again. Maybe both of them. But don’t worry, I’d tell you if I saw that little green and white plane anywhere near here. The one while you were sleeping was white. Plain white.”
“Well, that’s a good thing I guess. Real good thing. Doggone mysterious human critters. Don’t figure I’ll even understand ‘em, not even real sensible ones like Kilgore. Now. Before it finishes getting dark I’m gonna get this fire started. You want to let it burn pretty hot at first to get the coals that’ll start the wet wood burning, only it’s a little tricky with aspen, since it doesn’t really produce many coals to speak of. Got to get the timing just right so your wet wood doesn’t just smother what’s left of the aspen and put the whole thing out. Would work better if we could use a little pine to get things started, and we can throw a couple little pieces of it on there to add some liveliness here at first, but don’t want to go overboard with it, unless we’re interested in eating pitch-coated meat…”
19 July, 2011
19 July 2011
Liz worked for a good hour out in the clearing, cleaning up the mess of melted pitch that had ended up splattered all over the place when Einar fell onto the rock containing it, finishing the coating of the basket and moving on to slice more meat for jerky and prepare the pieces they intended to smoke, later. Einar had brought the half dry chokecherries back out onto their granite slabs that morning to continue drying, and she checked them, turning numerous conglomerated cakes and sheets of the deep purple pulp to expose their reverse sides to the sun. They would, if the sun stayed out, be dry by evening, ready to package up for use as a most welcome addition to winter soups, stews and puddings. Good progress they were making, stores increasing as the weather cooled, but still she was seized sometimes by a creeping, pressing anxiety when she thought about how soon the snow could set in, cover the short tundra-grass of the basin and drift deep between fallen trees in the dark timber to slow their travel, drive the deer and elk down to lower elevations and cut them off from many of the resources they depended upon to keep themselves alive--and how soon after that the baby would be coming.
Working away diligently at the bear meat as Einar lay unconscious in the cabin, inexplicably unwilling to do the things that were necessary to facilitate his continued survival, let alone his recovery from the serious injuries currently affecting him, Liz suddenly found herself blinking back tears. It was too much, the baby coming, winter breathing down her neck and the man she loved suffering terribly if quite bravely nearly every moment of his existence, by all appearances not far from death but entirely disinclined to acknowledge the fact, let alone do anything about it. And they needed elk, besides. More than one elk, if they were to have enough hides to cover themselves against the weather while out on the traplines they would need to supplement their diet during the winter, and Einar was so determined to get them those elk that he didn’t seem to realize he was going to kill himself in his hurry to get done with camp chores so they could go out and do the hunting. How could such a wise and knowledgeable person be so very blind when it came to certain things? She didn’t understand it, and did not know how to remedy the situation. Any of it.
Kneeling there beside the cooling firepit she wept, head in her hands and the good soothing song of the aspens whispering above her until she’d done with her sorrow and was quiet, listening, and the words came to her, Oh, taste and see that the LORD is good; Blessed is the man who trusts in Him! Oh, fear the LORD, you His saints! There is no want to those who fear Him. The young lions lack and suffer hunger; But those who seek the LORD shall not lack any good thing…The righteous cry out, and the LORD hears, And delivers them out of all their troubles. The LORD is near to those who have a broken heart, And saves such as have a contrite spirit…and she thanked Him, dried her eyes, rose and went inside to prepare a poultice for Einar’s ribs. It was a small thing, but ought to help. And perhaps his current condition might just keep him still long enough to allow her to apply it…
Einar had not stirred, though it had not been for lack of trying. In his dreams he was aware of the press of time, the demands of the day and for a time he fought the darkness that held him so heavily pressed into the ground, struggling to cast it off, to get his eyes open so he could rise, but without success. The struggle had left him lying in an odd position from which breathing was even more difficult but too far gone to realize it or attempt to remedy the situation, so he lay drifting in and out of consciousness, soon held firmly in the grasp of a most unpleasant dream in which there was no doubt as to the reason for his breathing difficulties, arms and legs bent and bound behind him in a most excruciating but familiar position as his air supply was increasingly cut off, the struggle harder to maintain with each breath, the way his broken and bruised ribs seemed to be grinding and cutting into him each time he attempted to take in air, and then there was the cough. He’d tried to resist it at first, but feeling as though he was drowning, had finally allowed it to come, though it jarred the ribs and sent white hot pain through his entire left side every time. It was alright. He’d been there before, knew what it took to get through, knew you had to take it one breath at a time, don’t even try to look beyond that, or you’ll be lost…and he managed it, got himself just enough oxygen with each tiny, strained breath to keep going but he was tired, so dreadfully weary and he supposed, viewing the entire thing for the moment objectively, as if from a great distance, that it ought to alarm him somewhat, as it would have been so very, terribly easy to simply let go, such a relief…but he did not let go, and with the next breath the objectivity was gone, the merciful distance, and once again he was alone with the crushingly present reality of his own struggle.
Liz found him there face down on the floor in a terribly contorted position that could not possibly have been comfortable and very gently she rolled him over, avoiding his wildly thrashing arms as she sought to ease the strain on his ribs, allow him to breathe more easily, and it must have worked, for he stopped struggling, took a few big, relieved breaths and lay still, sleeping as Liz went about preparing the hound’s tongue poultice that she hoped might bring some relief and healing to his battered ribs. One of the pots that he had been earlier using to render bearfat still contained some warm water, and to it she added two large hands full of dried hound’s tongue leaves, crumbling them somewhat, stirring and leaving them to begin absorbing some of the water. Into the mixture she poured the strong willow tea she had made for Einar the day after he’d injured his ribs, knowing that while he had for reasons not quite clear to her decided to refuse taking it internally for this particular injury, he was less likely to object to its use in a poultice. If he even woke while the poultice was in use… Watching him as he lay fighting for breath, she was beginning to have her doubts.
While the leaves soaked Liz searched for something to use in binding the poultice in place, finding the cloth strips with which Einar had been at times wrapping his ribs but she had a better idea, knelt beside the rough little box where she had been over the summer setting things aside for the baby--wads of soft, clean usnea lichen for diapering, several luxurious marten hides, the mostly finished woven rabbitskin blanket--and took from it the folded hide of the bighorn lamb that she had so carefully scraped and brained and stretched earlier in the summer. The hide had the perfect, springy-stretchy texture of well-made buckskin, and seemed to her just the thing to bind the poultice in place. It was wider and more stretchy than the cloth strips, and would almost certainly be more comfortable. Never mind that she had been saving it for the baby; it would still be perfectly good for that purpose after serving as a rib wrap. Hound’s tongue leaves thoroughly softened and saturated in the warm willow water she took them in her hands, squeezing out a bit of the water and pressing them into place against the deer hide. Since there was no open wound, the leaves could safely be pressed directly against his skin with no need for a backing, and she hurried to get the poultice in place while it was still warm, hoping very much that if Einar woke while she was doing it, he might realize that her actions were friendly. Which, trapped somewhere in the dim grey uncertainty between dream and wakefulness, he fortunately did.
Someone had freed him, unbound legs and arms and worked them into more natural positions, gently rolled him over and seemed to be tending to his wounds, pressing something cool and damp and tremendously soothing to his side where the ribs were broken. None of it made make sense but he was reasonably certain of what was happening, the pain far less than before, and he smiled--enemy or not, such ministrations were acts of mercy, and he was grateful, would worry about their intentions and ulterior motives later--and drifted off into a deeper if still rather oxygen-deprived sleep, rest while you can, you know this won’t last… Liz stayed with him as he slept, stretched out beside him with her back against the wall of the cabin, re-positioning him whenever his thrashing left him slumped over in a way that hurt his ribs or impeded his breathing and praying for him through the afternoon as she worked on yet another basket.
Einar woke in the evening, just in time to peer out the open cabin door and watch the raven return from his day-long aerial wanderings, coming to rest in his favorite spot in the dead fir and giving Liz, who was busy gathering up dried chokecherries from their respective rocks, a tilt of the head and a few rasping notes by way of greeting. Seeing the entire scene through the door, Einar watched Liz with a hint of confusion in his eyes, wondering what had happened to the day, remembered their last conversation and reached up to feel his head, half expecting to discover there a lump the size of the end of her rabbit stick, but finding nothing…
Working away diligently at the bear meat as Einar lay unconscious in the cabin, inexplicably unwilling to do the things that were necessary to facilitate his continued survival, let alone his recovery from the serious injuries currently affecting him, Liz suddenly found herself blinking back tears. It was too much, the baby coming, winter breathing down her neck and the man she loved suffering terribly if quite bravely nearly every moment of his existence, by all appearances not far from death but entirely disinclined to acknowledge the fact, let alone do anything about it. And they needed elk, besides. More than one elk, if they were to have enough hides to cover themselves against the weather while out on the traplines they would need to supplement their diet during the winter, and Einar was so determined to get them those elk that he didn’t seem to realize he was going to kill himself in his hurry to get done with camp chores so they could go out and do the hunting. How could such a wise and knowledgeable person be so very blind when it came to certain things? She didn’t understand it, and did not know how to remedy the situation. Any of it.
Kneeling there beside the cooling firepit she wept, head in her hands and the good soothing song of the aspens whispering above her until she’d done with her sorrow and was quiet, listening, and the words came to her, Oh, taste and see that the LORD is good; Blessed is the man who trusts in Him! Oh, fear the LORD, you His saints! There is no want to those who fear Him. The young lions lack and suffer hunger; But those who seek the LORD shall not lack any good thing…The righteous cry out, and the LORD hears, And delivers them out of all their troubles. The LORD is near to those who have a broken heart, And saves such as have a contrite spirit…and she thanked Him, dried her eyes, rose and went inside to prepare a poultice for Einar’s ribs. It was a small thing, but ought to help. And perhaps his current condition might just keep him still long enough to allow her to apply it…
Einar had not stirred, though it had not been for lack of trying. In his dreams he was aware of the press of time, the demands of the day and for a time he fought the darkness that held him so heavily pressed into the ground, struggling to cast it off, to get his eyes open so he could rise, but without success. The struggle had left him lying in an odd position from which breathing was even more difficult but too far gone to realize it or attempt to remedy the situation, so he lay drifting in and out of consciousness, soon held firmly in the grasp of a most unpleasant dream in which there was no doubt as to the reason for his breathing difficulties, arms and legs bent and bound behind him in a most excruciating but familiar position as his air supply was increasingly cut off, the struggle harder to maintain with each breath, the way his broken and bruised ribs seemed to be grinding and cutting into him each time he attempted to take in air, and then there was the cough. He’d tried to resist it at first, but feeling as though he was drowning, had finally allowed it to come, though it jarred the ribs and sent white hot pain through his entire left side every time. It was alright. He’d been there before, knew what it took to get through, knew you had to take it one breath at a time, don’t even try to look beyond that, or you’ll be lost…and he managed it, got himself just enough oxygen with each tiny, strained breath to keep going but he was tired, so dreadfully weary and he supposed, viewing the entire thing for the moment objectively, as if from a great distance, that it ought to alarm him somewhat, as it would have been so very, terribly easy to simply let go, such a relief…but he did not let go, and with the next breath the objectivity was gone, the merciful distance, and once again he was alone with the crushingly present reality of his own struggle.
Liz found him there face down on the floor in a terribly contorted position that could not possibly have been comfortable and very gently she rolled him over, avoiding his wildly thrashing arms as she sought to ease the strain on his ribs, allow him to breathe more easily, and it must have worked, for he stopped struggling, took a few big, relieved breaths and lay still, sleeping as Liz went about preparing the hound’s tongue poultice that she hoped might bring some relief and healing to his battered ribs. One of the pots that he had been earlier using to render bearfat still contained some warm water, and to it she added two large hands full of dried hound’s tongue leaves, crumbling them somewhat, stirring and leaving them to begin absorbing some of the water. Into the mixture she poured the strong willow tea she had made for Einar the day after he’d injured his ribs, knowing that while he had for reasons not quite clear to her decided to refuse taking it internally for this particular injury, he was less likely to object to its use in a poultice. If he even woke while the poultice was in use… Watching him as he lay fighting for breath, she was beginning to have her doubts.
While the leaves soaked Liz searched for something to use in binding the poultice in place, finding the cloth strips with which Einar had been at times wrapping his ribs but she had a better idea, knelt beside the rough little box where she had been over the summer setting things aside for the baby--wads of soft, clean usnea lichen for diapering, several luxurious marten hides, the mostly finished woven rabbitskin blanket--and took from it the folded hide of the bighorn lamb that she had so carefully scraped and brained and stretched earlier in the summer. The hide had the perfect, springy-stretchy texture of well-made buckskin, and seemed to her just the thing to bind the poultice in place. It was wider and more stretchy than the cloth strips, and would almost certainly be more comfortable. Never mind that she had been saving it for the baby; it would still be perfectly good for that purpose after serving as a rib wrap. Hound’s tongue leaves thoroughly softened and saturated in the warm willow water she took them in her hands, squeezing out a bit of the water and pressing them into place against the deer hide. Since there was no open wound, the leaves could safely be pressed directly against his skin with no need for a backing, and she hurried to get the poultice in place while it was still warm, hoping very much that if Einar woke while she was doing it, he might realize that her actions were friendly. Which, trapped somewhere in the dim grey uncertainty between dream and wakefulness, he fortunately did.
Someone had freed him, unbound legs and arms and worked them into more natural positions, gently rolled him over and seemed to be tending to his wounds, pressing something cool and damp and tremendously soothing to his side where the ribs were broken. None of it made make sense but he was reasonably certain of what was happening, the pain far less than before, and he smiled--enemy or not, such ministrations were acts of mercy, and he was grateful, would worry about their intentions and ulterior motives later--and drifted off into a deeper if still rather oxygen-deprived sleep, rest while you can, you know this won’t last… Liz stayed with him as he slept, stretched out beside him with her back against the wall of the cabin, re-positioning him whenever his thrashing left him slumped over in a way that hurt his ribs or impeded his breathing and praying for him through the afternoon as she worked on yet another basket.
Einar woke in the evening, just in time to peer out the open cabin door and watch the raven return from his day-long aerial wanderings, coming to rest in his favorite spot in the dead fir and giving Liz, who was busy gathering up dried chokecherries from their respective rocks, a tilt of the head and a few rasping notes by way of greeting. Seeing the entire scene through the door, Einar watched Liz with a hint of confusion in his eyes, wondering what had happened to the day, remembered their last conversation and reached up to feel his head, half expecting to discover there a lump the size of the end of her rabbit stick, but finding nothing…
18 July, 2011
18 July 2011
The day continued sunny and increasingly warm, Liz working as quickly as she was able to produce the tightly woven willow baskets that would store the transportable portion of their bearfat and Einar, as soon as he had finished draping and securing the hides for the night’s smoking tent, joining her just long enough to complete one basket of his own. Already Liz had produced two of them--her hands sure do work quicker than mine at the moment; good thing we’re not having a race, here--and he took them as she set them aside, melting pitch for each and coating them as he had earlier done with the basket borrowed from the cabin. Liz, who had become proficient enough at weaving with willow that she did not even need to keep her eyes continually on the project, looked up and watched him for a time as he worked feverishly to ensure an even distribution of pitch inside the latest basket, face beaded up with sweat and eyes glowing with a dangerous intensity that Liz had seen all too often. Fully absorbed in his work Einar did not notice her at first, did not seem to notice his own fast, labored breathing, either, which Liz had to admit was quite typical of him. He’d spent so many years training himself to keep on going no matter what that he appeared actually able at times to entirely set aside even the most--to her--obvious and debilitating physical difficulties to give his entire focus to a bit of work he had for one reason or another deemed critical. A good skill, but one whose practice she could not help but think was probably going to end up killing him, if he didn’t watch out. Liz had finished a third basket, her last, she was thinking, and Einar was about to begin pitch-coating it, but she had other things in mind.
“Einar.”
He jumped to his feet, nearly splattering himself with the hot pitch he was at that moment pouring from its rock receptacle onto another slightly dished out rock nearer the coals, but somehow managing to avoid the accident.
“What is it?”
“My goodness, I didn’t mean to scare you like that. Guess I must have seriously underestimated just how much concentration it takes to tend melting pitch…”
Einar laughed, shook his head and sat back down beside her with a big hollow sigh, still trembling a little from the sudden startlement, or from weariness, or perhaps both. “Right now it takes just about all the concentration I’ve got just to keep on taking the next breath, it feels like, and then on top of that I’ve got the pitch to tend. So yeah, I was a little distracted. What did I miss?”
“Nothing. I was just going to ask how you want to arrange things tonight, with the smoking. One of us has to be responsible for watching the fire and adding wood…I don’t know? Every hour or two?”
“Yep, probably just about that often, as small and narrow as these bits of willow and cherry are. It’s no problem though. I’m gonna be up a good part of the night anyway burning out that fat-holding log, so it won’t be any trouble for me to keep an eye on it. You need your sleep, so little Hildegard can keep on growing the way she needs to and getting all ready to come out.”
“Not anytime soon, I hope! As far as coming out.”
“No.”
“She really needs to wait at least another two months, if she can”
“Well, that’s probably just one more reason for you to be sure and get plenty of sleep. Seems things are going real well for both of you, and we don’t want that to change now. So. I’m the guy who tends the smoker.”
“Then you’re the guy who’d better be heading inside soon to take a nap for an hour or two, if he doesn’t want to hear from my rabbit stick!”
“Nap? You mean sleep while it’s light outside?”
“That is the generally accepted definition of…”
“Nope, that wouldn’t be me, then. You’ve got the wrong guy, I’m telling you, and…”
“Oh, come on. There have been times when we both lived like nocturnal creatures for a while, for one reason or another, so I know you can sleep during daylight hours, if you’ve got to. That’s all I’m asking. Just go nocturnal for the rest of the day, and sleep so you’ll have the energy to do what you’re planning to do tonight with the smoker and the log and all.”
“I am nocturnal. It’s just that I’m the sort of nocturnal critter that has baskets to coat and meat to slice and generally a lot to do before it gets dark and I start…nocturning.”
“Nocturning, is it? I’m about to start nocturining you in the head with my war club, mister!”
Einar was laughing, and he didn’t want to laugh because he was already having enough trouble breathing--ribs seemed worse that day, the pain at times very nearly more than he could work his way through, and in addition his lungs remained tight, congested, making him feel a need to cough but he hardly dared do it--and felt as though he might pass out if things got any worse, which he definitely did not want to do in front of Liz. Didn’t have a choice though, one doesn’t always get a choice, and the next thing he knew Liz was rolling him away from the fire, hurrying to scrape half-solidified but still rather hot pitch from his hands and arm before it could burn him too badly. He tried to help her, tried to sit up and get some idea of what could have happened but lost consciousness again at the speed of his own movement, ending up flat on his back beside the firepit, eyes rolled back in his head and face showing a familiar purple tinge as his body fought to catch up on oxygen intake. Liz shook her head, dabbed a bit more at the pitch residue on his hands. It hadn’t been that hot. He would be alright. Guess you’re getting a nap now, you goofy nocturnal guy, whether you like it or not. Come on, we’d better get you inside so my busying around won’t be as likely to wake you. Evening will be coming in a few hours, and you’ve got an awful lot of work planned…
“Einar.”
He jumped to his feet, nearly splattering himself with the hot pitch he was at that moment pouring from its rock receptacle onto another slightly dished out rock nearer the coals, but somehow managing to avoid the accident.
“What is it?”
“My goodness, I didn’t mean to scare you like that. Guess I must have seriously underestimated just how much concentration it takes to tend melting pitch…”
Einar laughed, shook his head and sat back down beside her with a big hollow sigh, still trembling a little from the sudden startlement, or from weariness, or perhaps both. “Right now it takes just about all the concentration I’ve got just to keep on taking the next breath, it feels like, and then on top of that I’ve got the pitch to tend. So yeah, I was a little distracted. What did I miss?”
“Nothing. I was just going to ask how you want to arrange things tonight, with the smoking. One of us has to be responsible for watching the fire and adding wood…I don’t know? Every hour or two?”
“Yep, probably just about that often, as small and narrow as these bits of willow and cherry are. It’s no problem though. I’m gonna be up a good part of the night anyway burning out that fat-holding log, so it won’t be any trouble for me to keep an eye on it. You need your sleep, so little Hildegard can keep on growing the way she needs to and getting all ready to come out.”
“Not anytime soon, I hope! As far as coming out.”
“No.”
“She really needs to wait at least another two months, if she can”
“Well, that’s probably just one more reason for you to be sure and get plenty of sleep. Seems things are going real well for both of you, and we don’t want that to change now. So. I’m the guy who tends the smoker.”
“Then you’re the guy who’d better be heading inside soon to take a nap for an hour or two, if he doesn’t want to hear from my rabbit stick!”
“Nap? You mean sleep while it’s light outside?”
“That is the generally accepted definition of…”
“Nope, that wouldn’t be me, then. You’ve got the wrong guy, I’m telling you, and…”
“Oh, come on. There have been times when we both lived like nocturnal creatures for a while, for one reason or another, so I know you can sleep during daylight hours, if you’ve got to. That’s all I’m asking. Just go nocturnal for the rest of the day, and sleep so you’ll have the energy to do what you’re planning to do tonight with the smoker and the log and all.”
“I am nocturnal. It’s just that I’m the sort of nocturnal critter that has baskets to coat and meat to slice and generally a lot to do before it gets dark and I start…nocturning.”
“Nocturning, is it? I’m about to start nocturining you in the head with my war club, mister!”
Einar was laughing, and he didn’t want to laugh because he was already having enough trouble breathing--ribs seemed worse that day, the pain at times very nearly more than he could work his way through, and in addition his lungs remained tight, congested, making him feel a need to cough but he hardly dared do it--and felt as though he might pass out if things got any worse, which he definitely did not want to do in front of Liz. Didn’t have a choice though, one doesn’t always get a choice, and the next thing he knew Liz was rolling him away from the fire, hurrying to scrape half-solidified but still rather hot pitch from his hands and arm before it could burn him too badly. He tried to help her, tried to sit up and get some idea of what could have happened but lost consciousness again at the speed of his own movement, ending up flat on his back beside the firepit, eyes rolled back in his head and face showing a familiar purple tinge as his body fought to catch up on oxygen intake. Liz shook her head, dabbed a bit more at the pitch residue on his hands. It hadn’t been that hot. He would be alright. Guess you’re getting a nap now, you goofy nocturnal guy, whether you like it or not. Come on, we’d better get you inside so my busying around won’t be as likely to wake you. Evening will be coming in a few hours, and you’ve got an awful lot of work planned…
17 July, 2011
17 July 2011
Finished with breakfast--Liz’s thinly sliced bear steaks, well done on the outside and served with chokecherry sauce had, indeed, been good--Einar rummaged through the supplies in the cabin until he located a good quantity of pitch they'd saved, most of it melted, cleaned of bark particles and re-solidified into large chunks on curved sections of aspen bark, but some still in its unrefined state, lumps and nodules removed from the bark of spruces and pines whenever either of them had stumbled across the valuable resource. Sorting through the pile Einar chose one of the smooth, shiny-topped refined chunks--it looked very much like dark-colored toffee, and he was half tempted to take a bite, but knew it was quite bitter--slightly bent its bark holder to snap it loose, and returned to the fire, and Liz. Knowing what he was about she had already set a slab of granite to heat, leaning it beside the fire and Einar placed a second rock beneath it--another flat chunk of granite but with a slightly dished-out center--to catch the drips as the pitch began to liquefy. Pitch coating the basket would require the use of most of the pitch lump Einar had set to melt, perhaps all of it, for he wanted to be very sure that every crack was thoroughly sealed. Bear fat--like most other fats and oils--when warm, had an insidious way of finding its way though the slightest opening and saturating anything that might be in contact with its containment vessel, and he knew that this loss could be prevented by applying enough layers of pitch.
Hurriedly swiping up the pitch as it melted and using a wad of shredded inner aspen bark as his paintbrush, Einar had soon managed to coat the entire inside of the tightly-woven willow basket with hardening, waterproof pitch, and this process he continued until all of the pitch had been used and the basket displayed a thick, shiny layer on all of its inner surfaces. With two fingers he worked quickly to smooth out any irregularities that remained, leaving the basket’s interior burnished smooth and silky. Protrusions left in the pitch would, he knew, tend to catch on things--a stick, spoon or other tool they were using to scoop out a bit of the fat, for instance--and chip loose part of the coating. Leaving the basket to cool and harden, Einar hurried into the cabin to check on the stove, adding a few sticks to the fire and plopping several fresh lumps of bearfat into the two water-filled pots that were ready for use. Pitch having had time to harden he retrieved the newly-coated basket, transferring the already-rendered bearfat into it, half filling the pot with water and setting it with the others to heat.
Alright, guess I'd better get busy now helping Liz make some more baskets, so we'll have someplace to put this fat as I it get rendered. With the two of us working, we ought to be able to get a couple of pretty large ones turned out within the space of an hour. Aim for making them deep rather than wide, and it'll go even quicker, seeing as the willows we've got to work with are pretty short ones. Do that, coat the pair of them with pitch and then maybe wait to render any more fat until tonight after I've got that log burned out. Shouldn't take but a couple hours of darkness for me to get it finished, as much wood as I've already carved out of it with the axe and adze. It's a good start. Hopefully between the two of us, we can manage to get most of the fat rendered tonight, the hides and a good bit of the meat smoked, too. Should be ready to go out after elk in a couple of days, at most. He hoped. Would be a struggle for sure, the way his ribs were hurting him. Had done his best to push the matter aside as he worked and had managed it pretty well, but now, alone and unmoving for a moment in the stillness of the cabin, he suddenly found himself struggling for breath, wishing he might be able to stop for a minute or two just for the relief it would bring him, tried holding his breath but it didn’t prove helpful--he’d known it wouldn’t, but tried anyway--as it left him gasping for air at the end of it and hurting worse than before. At that moment, the prospect of stalking and shooting an elk, let alone packing it home to the cabin, seemed almost more than he could face.
Good. That’s good, Einar, because having it be a challenge like that will pretty near guarantee that you get one, won’t it? Just to make sure you can. Now quit moping around the house here and go build the smoking tent. Which he did, taking the three small aspens he’s previously set aside against the woodshed and lashing them firmly together near their tops, but not so near as to be placing weight on any too-narrow sections that might break under the weight of the meat they intended to hang from the tripod. A good start, and, scratching away at the ground cover of spruce needles and aspen leaves with the deer-scapula shovel that often served such purposes and a number of others, he created the shallow pit in which the smoking fire would burn. Ground damp, he lined the pit with small granite slabs and chunks to prevent the fire’s putting itself out before it really got established. Liz, pausing in her weaving of a second willow basket for fat storage, retrieved for him the bundles of still-damp green willow and cherry wood she had earlier gathered, piling them beneath a shady tree a few feet distant from the firepit.
“Would you like me to start peeling these for you? Assuming we don’t want the meat tasting bitter like willow bark…”
“Yep, they’ll need to be peeled. The cherry too, because of the cyanide in the bark. Don’t know that we’d get enough to do any harm just in using it to smoke meat, but it doesn’t seem a good thing to experiment with. We’ll need to peel all of them, and chop them into short little sections so they’ll burn well, despite being so wet. Then this evening when we’re ready to start the smoking, we’ll get things going with a quick, hot fire of aspen and spruce before we start throwing those little pieces of green smoking wood on there. Want to keep things real cool and smoky in there during the process, and of course not use any spruce or fir except to get things started, unless we want black, pitchy meat…”
“No, that doesn’t sound so good, but I was thinking maybe I ought to leave the willow bark on, and then this winter when you’re eating that meat, you’d be getting a little aspirin with every bite! Since you’ll likely as not still be dealing with one injury or another then, and you won’t drink my willow solution anymore…”
“Oh, don’t you dare try anything like that! You’re sneaky.”
“Thanks. I’m learning from an expert, after all…”
Which got her a playful swat with a willow wand from Einar as he rose to go to the cabin after the hides, ready to build the smoking tent.
Hurriedly swiping up the pitch as it melted and using a wad of shredded inner aspen bark as his paintbrush, Einar had soon managed to coat the entire inside of the tightly-woven willow basket with hardening, waterproof pitch, and this process he continued until all of the pitch had been used and the basket displayed a thick, shiny layer on all of its inner surfaces. With two fingers he worked quickly to smooth out any irregularities that remained, leaving the basket’s interior burnished smooth and silky. Protrusions left in the pitch would, he knew, tend to catch on things--a stick, spoon or other tool they were using to scoop out a bit of the fat, for instance--and chip loose part of the coating. Leaving the basket to cool and harden, Einar hurried into the cabin to check on the stove, adding a few sticks to the fire and plopping several fresh lumps of bearfat into the two water-filled pots that were ready for use. Pitch having had time to harden he retrieved the newly-coated basket, transferring the already-rendered bearfat into it, half filling the pot with water and setting it with the others to heat.
Alright, guess I'd better get busy now helping Liz make some more baskets, so we'll have someplace to put this fat as I it get rendered. With the two of us working, we ought to be able to get a couple of pretty large ones turned out within the space of an hour. Aim for making them deep rather than wide, and it'll go even quicker, seeing as the willows we've got to work with are pretty short ones. Do that, coat the pair of them with pitch and then maybe wait to render any more fat until tonight after I've got that log burned out. Shouldn't take but a couple hours of darkness for me to get it finished, as much wood as I've already carved out of it with the axe and adze. It's a good start. Hopefully between the two of us, we can manage to get most of the fat rendered tonight, the hides and a good bit of the meat smoked, too. Should be ready to go out after elk in a couple of days, at most. He hoped. Would be a struggle for sure, the way his ribs were hurting him. Had done his best to push the matter aside as he worked and had managed it pretty well, but now, alone and unmoving for a moment in the stillness of the cabin, he suddenly found himself struggling for breath, wishing he might be able to stop for a minute or two just for the relief it would bring him, tried holding his breath but it didn’t prove helpful--he’d known it wouldn’t, but tried anyway--as it left him gasping for air at the end of it and hurting worse than before. At that moment, the prospect of stalking and shooting an elk, let alone packing it home to the cabin, seemed almost more than he could face.
Good. That’s good, Einar, because having it be a challenge like that will pretty near guarantee that you get one, won’t it? Just to make sure you can. Now quit moping around the house here and go build the smoking tent. Which he did, taking the three small aspens he’s previously set aside against the woodshed and lashing them firmly together near their tops, but not so near as to be placing weight on any too-narrow sections that might break under the weight of the meat they intended to hang from the tripod. A good start, and, scratching away at the ground cover of spruce needles and aspen leaves with the deer-scapula shovel that often served such purposes and a number of others, he created the shallow pit in which the smoking fire would burn. Ground damp, he lined the pit with small granite slabs and chunks to prevent the fire’s putting itself out before it really got established. Liz, pausing in her weaving of a second willow basket for fat storage, retrieved for him the bundles of still-damp green willow and cherry wood she had earlier gathered, piling them beneath a shady tree a few feet distant from the firepit.
“Would you like me to start peeling these for you? Assuming we don’t want the meat tasting bitter like willow bark…”
“Yep, they’ll need to be peeled. The cherry too, because of the cyanide in the bark. Don’t know that we’d get enough to do any harm just in using it to smoke meat, but it doesn’t seem a good thing to experiment with. We’ll need to peel all of them, and chop them into short little sections so they’ll burn well, despite being so wet. Then this evening when we’re ready to start the smoking, we’ll get things going with a quick, hot fire of aspen and spruce before we start throwing those little pieces of green smoking wood on there. Want to keep things real cool and smoky in there during the process, and of course not use any spruce or fir except to get things started, unless we want black, pitchy meat…”
“No, that doesn’t sound so good, but I was thinking maybe I ought to leave the willow bark on, and then this winter when you’re eating that meat, you’d be getting a little aspirin with every bite! Since you’ll likely as not still be dealing with one injury or another then, and you won’t drink my willow solution anymore…”
“Oh, don’t you dare try anything like that! You’re sneaky.”
“Thanks. I’m learning from an expert, after all…”
Which got her a playful swat with a willow wand from Einar as he rose to go to the cabin after the hides, ready to build the smoking tent.
16 July, 2011
16 July 2011
No chapter today, but I should be back with another tomorrow.
Thanks to all of you for reading, and welcome to the new folks.
Hope everyone's having a good weekend!
Thanks to all of you for reading, and welcome to the new folks.
Hope everyone's having a good weekend!
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