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Info Don’t mistake what pains you for what you don’t have.
Written by This is the first chapter to my potentially future novel, A Blizzard's Wake! It will be part of The Dragonslayer Corps series, if I ever manage to finish this story. I hope you enjoy, we're just getting into this :3 |
A Blizzard's Wake | Chapter 1
Snow beats down from the sky like knives of ice howling through the wind, blocking more than a few paces of visibility. I close my eyes for a moment to protect them from the blindingly bright and cruelly cold snow. I like the cold, I like to shiver. It makes me feel alive. As I begin to push through the snow that’s up to my waist, I puff out a cloud of condensation and breathe in the bitter air. Despite how I want to feel, with a blizzard like this, I can’t help but feel myself inching toward death; the cold helps me feel anything but alive. My death is only a few minutes away; it would be too late to turn around. Not that I could turn around anyways. A venture north has turned out to be more treacherous than it seemed.
In the distance, the orange glow and crackle of fire light up, catching my attention. The warm colors of the fire softly contrast the cool snow. I try to call out, but my voice falters, instead only coming out as a whimper and wheeze. The fire grows closer but not more clear. From my steps or theirs, I near something that I can only hope is salvation.
Before I can even see his hunched silhouette, he speaks in ragged and short breaths, “Ha! What a shame. Another one.” He coughs till nearly frozen phlegm spits out. He’s an old man, snow piling on his clothes and wrinkled face. The old man’s cheeks and nose are a pink of cold blush, and his eyes are covered with red snow goggles. “Boy, the cold isn’t a beast that you tame. It is a God you bow to.”
I can’t make voice to words. It feels pathetic. I can’t feel my feet anymore. My nose is hot. My fingers sting, they burn. Everything burns.
“Come.” The man gestures towards himself. “If you don’t die in the next two steps, maybe I can teach you a thing or two.”
I start to walk to the old man, and he reaches out a hand. I take a step, stumbling and pathetically grabbing hold. My body feels heavy, my joints hot. If only I could take my clothes off, my skin burns. It's unbearable, I just want to crawl up in a hole to escape from the burning. But I can't. I stumble forward again, my muscles don’t work with me, it just wants to fall.
And fall I do, collapsing into the snow only a pace away from the old man. If the cold won’t let me live, at least it will let me sleep. The burning hurts, but I can almost mistake it for a comforting warmth. As consciousness fades, the last thing I remember is the old man grabbing me by the stomach and croaking, “Maybe this boy can help, after all.”
I do not wake at once. Days blur together like an inferior mirage, blending the ground and the sky to one. The first days I have little recollection of. I wake feverish, wondering where I am, where I went. Everything feels fuzzy and warm. I'm too confused to question what's happening. The old man spoon-feeds me meals that I barely choke down. The food just doesn't taste right, the warmth feels like a blessing, but it makes me overheat and sweat. At night, I suffer from stinging skin of hypothermia as I sleep, going into strange fever dreams. Though they could be called nightmares instead. The endless blizzard. Eyes looking at me with disgust. Everybody turning their backs on me as I cry. I don't know if the old man saw me cry.
It all passes meaninglessly. The old man slowly, over many days, nurses me to health under the feeble protection of a hut and a fire. He tells me stories about boys who tried to slay dragons. The trope-filled fantasy tales he tells are comforting. I guess that's because they're familiar. I haven’t learned his name. Either I didn’t ask or can’t remember, both from my mind swirling sluggishly as my body fights to live. I still like the cold; my body has been burning, stinging, pulsating with heat. I yearn for the cold.
“Boy,” the old man starts, moving in stiff motions, carrying snow-covered logs, “once you can walk on your own two feet, we’ll start.”
“Start what?” I croak, my throat fighting the bitter cold. It's so hot when I talk.
“Think of it as a favor,” he puffs, setting snow-covered logs near the fire to dry them. The fire crackles and sputters. “I saved your life, and you save ours.”
“What?” I mutter, my face scrunching up. The word tickles my throat, and I cough. Pain runs through my upper body as everything contracts and spasms.
The old man scoops up steaming stew from a pot atop the fire. He pours it into a bowl and gently hands it to me. “Eat.” When I don’t sit up to receive the bowl, he frowns. “You rest, have food, and have protection from the cold. Why don't you eat?” His eyes meet mine, and I see only a gaze of distant sadness. “Surely a fever and frostbite should not make you give up the rest?”
My mind sloths and my muscles cramp; I don’t understand what this old man is spouting. It hurts just to sit up, and I'm not even hungry. I roll over to face away from him, looking at the rough wall of logs that serves as the only protection from the blizzard. I twitch. My clothes stick against my skin. Everything feels so warm, and everything feels so still. I close my eyes in defiance.
My skin prickles as I feel his eyes on my back. His voice grows as bitter as the cold, “Don’t mistake what pains you for what you don’t have.”
I ignore him and instead listen to the buffeting wind of the blizzard outside that howls in soothing melodies till I fall asleep.
When I wake, the man is gone.
Fear pricks in my heart as I frantically search around the shelter. The fire is smoldering ash; there is no dry firewood. Fox tracks in the deep snow go up to the knocked-over pot, leading from the open door. It howls with cold but not uncomfortable wind. Did the old man abandon me? Is he out to hunt? No, the snow is too deep for a short trip, and he wouldn’t have let the fire go out. He never does.
Then where is he? Didn’t he say he would teach me? I can feel the panic rise in me, the unruly tension of distrust. I take a breath to collect myself, and the chilling air feels nice in my lungs for once. It’s a bit warmer this fine morning.
I check my supplies: All I have is the clothes on my back, the bear pelt blanket, and a pocket knife. Everything else that was, in my feverish mind, neatly placed is gone. The whole cabin isn't in disarray as much as it's just empty. So that’s what this must be, there’s too much order in this chaos: this is the old man’s first lesson.
On the floor, buried slightly in the snow by the door, is a silver locket. I pick it up, my bare hands brushing against the snow. It still stings from minor frostbite, but it's not as bad as before. In the locket is a symbol: a circle with a dot in the middle. Not sure what it reminds me of. I close it and shove it in my pocket. The inside is soaked with a cold sweat. I haven't had a single shower or bath since I left, and my hair is oily.
Ignoring the discomfort, I set out on an empty stomach. The first day I can walk on my own two feet, and I have to earn the night. I search around the hut and slowly spiral out, trekking more and more ground. The last thing I want is to get lost and die fighting the cruel beast of cold on my own, but hunger will strike like a sly serpent if I don’t learn my surroundings. Three questions grip my mind as I distract myself under the guise of exploring: how do I relight the fire?, how do I get food?, and most importantly, what does the old man expect of me?
The third question is quickly answered as I kick up a journal sealed in plastic a few hundred feet directly eastward, towards the sun. I feel a slight smile creep on my face as I finally recognize what that symbol was: it's the sun! Learned it in my Mandarin class freshman year. I cut open the plastic and peel out the journal. It's a dark brown leather, with weathered pages. Quickly, most of my doubts fade, because as expected, he wants me to survive. Quite nice that he also gave instructions to answer the first two questions as well. Awfully convenient, but of course I can’t learn if I’m dead.
I laugh. Even though life is at stake, I can’t help but feel like this is a game. Surely if I failed, the old man would come to save and scold me. I can imagine myself grumbling tonight, holed up in the cabin, cold and hungry. Can't let the old man down, now can I?
That light-hearted spirit hardly lasts as the night grows dark and spills into crimson, the last light of sunset. The blizzard has let up today, but the cold has not. The stars shine brighter than I've seen in a while. I sit in the cabin, warming myself up. I’ve lit a meager fire, but I will have to go hungry tonight. I haven’t managed to snare a hare yet.
A knock comes from the door.
The old man cackles as he sees me glare at him. “Where have you been?” I demand, almost forgetting my tingling fingers and toes as I keep them by the fire, forgetting my hunger to a burning anger. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He laughs, his eyes lighting up, “Boy, I warned you yesterday, did I not?" He scans the cabin quickly, "You have managed to follow my rule, and thus you pass. You have fire. You still have shelter. But you do not have food. However, the only thing you do not have is food. Say, you couldn’t light the fire? That would be two things you don't have, and you would have failed.”
“And what happens if I fail?” He smiles.
“Don’t worry about what happens when you fail until you do. Dealing with failure is not something you need to learn yet.”
I want to spit at him, but I grumble to myself. Anger is like boiling water; the pressure's there, and the tea kettle wants to whistle, but it hasn't boiled over yet. I can hold my tongue; this old man saved me after all.
“Oh, and your reward, boy? Food.” He tosses me some jerky. “Nothing fancy, but at least you won't grow hungry. Try to savor it. Or not. Your choice."
“You’re telling me that’s a reward?” I mutter as I begin chewing the tough jerky. It's salty and gamey, and my teeth have a hard time ripping it up. It's not good, but my hunger doesn't care. Food is food.
"If you eat too fast, you'll get sick." The old man chuckles, "Think of this as a way to pace yourself."
The old man sits across from me, I sit on the bed of logs, and he sits on a chair. Everything glows in a warm orange from the fire. Even though this day felt warmer than before without a blizzard, I have a feeling this will be the coldest night yet. The silence is like taking the lid off the pot. Not awkward, just decompressing. I breathe, "So what do you want from me?" I ask plainly and simply.
The old man's face grows serious. "Let me teach you how to survive."
"That's all?" A weird fluttering unease in my lungs rises. It can't be all.
"For now, yes." He takes a bit of the jerky for himself.
"Will I ever get home?"
He laughs, deep from the stomach this time, not just his usual chuckle. He stares at me dead in the eyes, strong and solemn, "Are you sure you want that?"