[Anthony] Paths
I keep wintering in places that are cold, and I don't know why. Perhaps because they are easier to be a hermit in; no one comes and talks to me unless they really need to. Automobiles need more maintenance in colder climes than warmer, or at least a different sort of maintenance, the sort for which I am uniquely qualified and enjoy performing. However, I don't like the cold. I don't care for snow, and as Anthony and I trudge up the slopes of the foothills, covered in snow and sheltered on the edges of our path by pine boughs, I try to think warm thoughts and let my magic do its thing. My body is warm, wrapped in polypropylene, wool and down, chemical heat packs and covered in a waterproof shell. My thoughts are cold, however, and eat away at me. I check the shotgun, pat the gun in my pocket, grateful for their weight.
Anthony chooses our path and I walk in his wake, stepping where he does. We angle towards the saddle he indicated earlier and the route takes us through thick trees, necessitating a zigzagging path. When he finds an opening in the trees, a way that looks like it will be clearer, he takes it. I trust that he knows where he's going and concentrate on keeping one foot in front of the other, watching the treeline for the monsters my gut tells me are just around the next bend.
I can't even tell how long we've been walking when Anthony holds a hand up in a clear gesture of pause. I hadn't been watching him more than to keep my footsteps even with his, so I'm startled, and stop midstep, looking around wildly for the thing that will attack us. Instead, nothing comes, and Anthony takes another step. Ice cracks under his shoe and snow falls away, crumbling. He lunges backwards, taking me with him by my sleeve. We fall on our sides, the Jericho biting hard into my hip, despite the layers of padding between it and me.
Crack. Icy water runs into my boot, and I lift my foot and the remains of a snowshoe from the stream...
After a moment, I look up. Anthony has thrown us against a small rise of snow, and I can hear water running from the newly formed hole in the ice. An inspection of both sets of boots and snowshoes shows that there is no damage to either of us, aside from the impressive bruise I'll have later tonight. I remember to breathe again while I try to scrub the strange double memory of my dream and this moment from my mind.
"You okay?" I ask.
Anthony exhales slowly, breath steaming on the frigid air. He levers himself to one knee. "Yeah... yeah. Might have overreacted a little bit." Casting a glance back to the hole, he says, "Then again, ice water up here could have been bad."
I nod and get to my knees, but pause to retrieve the topographical map from my pocket and consult it. "I think this is the streambed here. It runs down that way," I point, "and up there. Any idea how much farther we might have to follow it?"
He points up the stream bed and to the saddle we've been aiming for."Just over the saddle there's a defile... maybe a quarter mile at most. It comes out into a little bowl between the next slopes. It's down," his voice catches, "there."
My stomach twists in sympathy, but I don't have much else to do or say, so I fold the map and tuck it back into the breast pocket of my coat. "Right then." I scramble to my feet, feel the ache of the bruise and I'm glad that my clothes are warm at least. "Keep on going."
Anthony watches me for a long moment with something unidentifiable behind his eyes, then turns back to the hill. Someone else would know what to say here. I merely follow his lead once again.
We make the saddle soon enough; Anthony guides us well away from the stream bed, occasionally taking longer routes where a shorter one would require scrambling or outright climbing. As we approach the top, he gets successively warier, pausing often to glance at the trees and along the slopes to either side of us. Twenty feet from the top he stops, puts a finger to his lips and points down. The message is clear enough, and I am happy to crouch in the snow, resting my elbows on my knees to watch his ascent. He makes his way slowly up the side of the hill and across the saddle, staying low to the ground until he reaches a point where he sinks silently to the snow and looks down the other side of the slope. After a long while, he levers himself back to his feet using his staff and beckons me forward.
The defile is long and and winds gently down the hillside, free of large trees - a victim of logging, perhaps. At the end of the defile is a bowl-shaped dell, partially hidden by tall evergreens. I open my sight to Prime, and can feel more than see that the bowl isn't quite right. "Where?" I ask him quietly, even though I have a good idea of the answer. I imagine the climb up this way, and back, wounded and my gut twists, telling me all that I really want to know.
When I glance to Anthony, it's clear that his memories are all too fresh, all too clear. His eyes are a little too wide, his jaw a little too set. He points wordlessly down the defile, and I nod. In a gesture that feels awkward, I put a hand to his arm and squeeze softly, trying to be reassuring. Under my touch, the tension runs out of his bicep. He meets my eyes and I pull my hat down more securely over my ears, pull the scarf up over my nose. Anthony breathes deeply and I can see him put himself back together, piece by piece. The strange stillness of his magic tingles along my skin and up my spine and we start down the hill.
Anthony chooses our path and I walk in his wake, stepping where he does. We angle towards the saddle he indicated earlier and the route takes us through thick trees, necessitating a zigzagging path. When he finds an opening in the trees, a way that looks like it will be clearer, he takes it. I trust that he knows where he's going and concentrate on keeping one foot in front of the other, watching the treeline for the monsters my gut tells me are just around the next bend.
I can't even tell how long we've been walking when Anthony holds a hand up in a clear gesture of pause. I hadn't been watching him more than to keep my footsteps even with his, so I'm startled, and stop midstep, looking around wildly for the thing that will attack us. Instead, nothing comes, and Anthony takes another step. Ice cracks under his shoe and snow falls away, crumbling. He lunges backwards, taking me with him by my sleeve. We fall on our sides, the Jericho biting hard into my hip, despite the layers of padding between it and me.
Crack. Icy water runs into my boot, and I lift my foot and the remains of a snowshoe from the stream...
After a moment, I look up. Anthony has thrown us against a small rise of snow, and I can hear water running from the newly formed hole in the ice. An inspection of both sets of boots and snowshoes shows that there is no damage to either of us, aside from the impressive bruise I'll have later tonight. I remember to breathe again while I try to scrub the strange double memory of my dream and this moment from my mind.
"You okay?" I ask.
Anthony exhales slowly, breath steaming on the frigid air. He levers himself to one knee. "Yeah... yeah. Might have overreacted a little bit." Casting a glance back to the hole, he says, "Then again, ice water up here could have been bad."
I nod and get to my knees, but pause to retrieve the topographical map from my pocket and consult it. "I think this is the streambed here. It runs down that way," I point, "and up there. Any idea how much farther we might have to follow it?"
He points up the stream bed and to the saddle we've been aiming for."Just over the saddle there's a defile... maybe a quarter mile at most. It comes out into a little bowl between the next slopes. It's down," his voice catches, "there."
My stomach twists in sympathy, but I don't have much else to do or say, so I fold the map and tuck it back into the breast pocket of my coat. "Right then." I scramble to my feet, feel the ache of the bruise and I'm glad that my clothes are warm at least. "Keep on going."
Anthony watches me for a long moment with something unidentifiable behind his eyes, then turns back to the hill. Someone else would know what to say here. I merely follow his lead once again.
We make the saddle soon enough; Anthony guides us well away from the stream bed, occasionally taking longer routes where a shorter one would require scrambling or outright climbing. As we approach the top, he gets successively warier, pausing often to glance at the trees and along the slopes to either side of us. Twenty feet from the top he stops, puts a finger to his lips and points down. The message is clear enough, and I am happy to crouch in the snow, resting my elbows on my knees to watch his ascent. He makes his way slowly up the side of the hill and across the saddle, staying low to the ground until he reaches a point where he sinks silently to the snow and looks down the other side of the slope. After a long while, he levers himself back to his feet using his staff and beckons me forward.
The defile is long and and winds gently down the hillside, free of large trees - a victim of logging, perhaps. At the end of the defile is a bowl-shaped dell, partially hidden by tall evergreens. I open my sight to Prime, and can feel more than see that the bowl isn't quite right. "Where?" I ask him quietly, even though I have a good idea of the answer. I imagine the climb up this way, and back, wounded and my gut twists, telling me all that I really want to know.
When I glance to Anthony, it's clear that his memories are all too fresh, all too clear. His eyes are a little too wide, his jaw a little too set. He points wordlessly down the defile, and I nod. In a gesture that feels awkward, I put a hand to his arm and squeeze softly, trying to be reassuring. Under my touch, the tension runs out of his bicep. He meets my eyes and I pull my hat down more securely over my ears, pull the scarf up over my nose. Anthony breathes deeply and I can see him put himself back together, piece by piece. The strange stillness of his magic tingles along my skin and up my spine and we start down the hill.