the decay that just told another ten thousand times the story I’d been living in for so long.
And that night when I saw the Lights, they hadn’t a jot of consolation in them. They rolled coldly on overhead, like they will for another million years.
*
That disappointment sobered me a little, but I kept on my way. The days were shortening and getting colder. Beyond Homerton, I knew the laid road ended and it was all ice roads between there and the sea. I had to put on my hunting furs to keep warm – Tungus stuff that I had to battle every summer to keep from becoming moth food: a wolverine jacket, snow-sheep pants and gloves, and soft boots of reindeer skin.
On clear nights, which they mostly were, the snow doubled the moonlight, and I went on, following the glow through the darkness. I tried to be merciful to the horses, but it was a task to keep both fed. They’d both got skinnier, and I knew in the back of my mind that sooner or later I would have to slow up, or get new mounts. There were Yakut ponies out in the bush, but finding them and breaking them might take until spring. It wasn’t so much that I couldn’t afford the time, though that’s what I said to myself, but that the idea of slackening my pace was frightening to me. Forward, forward, said the hooves on the snow. I only wanted to go one way. Behind me, too close for comfort, was that dark shadow in the lake, and the recollection of Ping and her child which I still didn’t have the courage to face.
*
Then, one day in early November, in the gloom of mid-morning, I came upon a felled tree by the roadside. When I saw it at a distance, I thought it had toppled of its own accord, but up close there was no mistaking the axe marks in the trunk, or the freshness of the cuts. It had been taken down recently. And further along, another. And another.
Still, just because someone’s smart enough for axe-work, doesn’t make them a friend. So I swung myself down off my horse, and I led them on foot through the thicker trees. I stumbled in the fresh drifts and sweated into my furs. It was slower going, but there was less chance of being surprised. And bit by bit I home in on an unmistakable sound: the zip of a woodsaw, working back and forth through timber.
I tied up the horses and went on alone, crawling on my belly under the branches, until I could just make out the feet of the two men working. They were wearing felt boots, which meant they weren’t Tungus.
Laying there, with a pile of snow in my face, gazing at their feet, I thought, This is what we’ve got to. In the Far North, walking up on a man is fraught with peril. The constant fear between people is like a fog that makes them seem larger than they are and all their gestures threatening.
*
My intention was to stand up and approach them as slow and friendly as possible, but with one hand on my gun nonetheless.
The trouble was I got caught up in the thick brush at the edge of the roadside on my way out of the wood. My boot was trapped in the fork of a branch. They heard me struggling in it and stopped sawing.
When I tried to untangle myself, I ended up crashing out of the brush onto the highway, waving my gun in the air because I had lost my balance. The two men panicked and dropped their saw on the log with a clang. And then I noticed a third with a rifle who had been standing too far off for me to see. He turned and lifted his gun to squeeze off a shot.
I was lying on my back in the road with both guns aimed at his head, but I spoke as slow and deliberate as I could, telling him not to shoot.
He said to drop the gun, and there was a break in his voice that told me just how much he meant it. I kept on, calm and slow, saying that if I’d wanted to kill them, I could have done it easy before they had even seen me.
The clang of the saw seemed to be stretching out into the silence.
I knew he didn’t want to shoot me. Some people have a talent for violent deeds, and I could tell that he
And that night when I saw the Lights, they hadn’t a jot of consolation in them. They rolled coldly on overhead, like they will for another million years.
*
That disappointment sobered me a little, but I kept on my way. The days were shortening and getting colder. Beyond Homerton, I knew the laid road ended and it was all ice roads between there and the sea. I had to put on my hunting furs to keep warm – Tungus stuff that I had to battle every summer to keep from becoming moth food: a wolverine jacket, snow-sheep pants and gloves, and soft boots of reindeer skin.
On clear nights, which they mostly were, the snow doubled the moonlight, and I went on, following the glow through the darkness. I tried to be merciful to the horses, but it was a task to keep both fed. They’d both got skinnier, and I knew in the back of my mind that sooner or later I would have to slow up, or get new mounts. There were Yakut ponies out in the bush, but finding them and breaking them might take until spring. It wasn’t so much that I couldn’t afford the time, though that’s what I said to myself, but that the idea of slackening my pace was frightening to me. Forward, forward, said the hooves on the snow. I only wanted to go one way. Behind me, too close for comfort, was that dark shadow in the lake, and the recollection of Ping and her child which I still didn’t have the courage to face.
*
Then, one day in early November, in the gloom of mid-morning, I came upon a felled tree by the roadside. When I saw it at a distance, I thought it had toppled of its own accord, but up close there was no mistaking the axe marks in the trunk, or the freshness of the cuts. It had been taken down recently. And further along, another. And another.
Still, just because someone’s smart enough for axe-work, doesn’t make them a friend. So I swung myself down off my horse, and I led them on foot through the thicker trees. I stumbled in the fresh drifts and sweated into my furs. It was slower going, but there was less chance of being surprised. And bit by bit I home in on an unmistakable sound: the zip of a woodsaw, working back and forth through timber.
I tied up the horses and went on alone, crawling on my belly under the branches, until I could just make out the feet of the two men working. They were wearing felt boots, which meant they weren’t Tungus.
Laying there, with a pile of snow in my face, gazing at their feet, I thought, This is what we’ve got to. In the Far North, walking up on a man is fraught with peril. The constant fear between people is like a fog that makes them seem larger than they are and all their gestures threatening.
*
My intention was to stand up and approach them as slow and friendly as possible, but with one hand on my gun nonetheless.
The trouble was I got caught up in the thick brush at the edge of the roadside on my way out of the wood. My boot was trapped in the fork of a branch. They heard me struggling in it and stopped sawing.
When I tried to untangle myself, I ended up crashing out of the brush onto the highway, waving my gun in the air because I had lost my balance. The two men panicked and dropped their saw on the log with a clang. And then I noticed a third with a rifle who had been standing too far off for me to see. He turned and lifted his gun to squeeze off a shot.
I was lying on my back in the road with both guns aimed at his head, but I spoke as slow and deliberate as I could, telling him not to shoot.
He said to drop the gun, and there was a break in his voice that told me just how much he meant it. I kept on, calm and slow, saying that if I’d wanted to kill them, I could have done it easy before they had even seen me.
The clang of the saw seemed to be stretching out into the silence.
I knew he didn’t want to shoot me. Some people have a talent for violent deeds, and I could tell that he
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