Welcome to Deep Cove

All was quiet in the forest. The winter Gods had laid a thick coating of powdered snow in the early hours before dawn. For now, the storm had stopped and the temperature had started to drop. All through the valley the heavy snowfall covered the towering branches of the spruce that grew here. The forests of the Ghondorian were lush habitats, full of white spruce and their neighbours: sub-alpine fir, aspen, birch, lodgepole pines and tamarack. The forest sentries lay deep in mid-winter hibernation, slumbering beneath drifts of snow that neared two meters in some places.

Beneath one such giant, a pair of eyes peered into the forest with trepidation. A heavy sable hood attached to an equally heavy coat protected the small boy from the dropping temperature. Leaning against the grey bark of a large spruce, the boy fidgeted with his bow. To a boy of seven, the solitude of the great forest will often make minutes seem like hours and on this little boy the forest now played its tricks.

‘Grandfather should have come back by now’, he worried. ‘Maybe I should go look for him; maybe he needs my help?’ The child exhaled a warm breath as he remembered his grandfather’s parting words. ‘Wait here, Grandson. I go set bait in clearing and then sit on far ridge. Today, you hunt alone.’ That had been hours ago, in the dark of early morning. If the boy squinted into the grey morning light, he thought he could see the slightest hint of the trail his grandfather had used to bait the clearing. Of his grandfather, there was no sign.

Removing a warm sable mitten, the young hunter reached into the leather satchel he wore at his waist and produced a piece of moose jerky. Moving stiffly, he placed the dried meat in his mouth and chewed slowly, allowing the juices of his saliva to break down the tough meat. ‘Fifty paces to that small knoll and another fifty to the edge of the clearing.’ The boy’s counting ceased as a snowshoe hare appeared out of nowhere, a snarling lynx giving chase to the terrified animal. The hare’s squeal echoed up the mountainside to where the boy hid. Without thinking, the young hunter notched his bow, bringing the string to his cheek.

Snow flew as the lynx chased the nimble hare. Veering and twisting amongst the trees, the hare tried desperately to lose his pursuer. Muscles bunched as the lynx powered forward with one final dedicated drive. The hunting cat’s mouth closed over the squealing hare and razor sharp teeth and claws sank into flesh. The cat’s momentum carried them forward and both animals tumbled into a large drift at high speed. Rolling to a stop, the lynx’s sides rose and fell heavily as he clung to the limp hare dangling from his mouth. For a moment, silence filled the forest again.

An arrow streaked through the trees, hitting the lynx in the throat. The cat jumped in shock, the hare forgotten. The animal’s scream of pain turned into a low whine as it rolled upon the snow. The boy’s shot had been true and it was over quickly. Soon the cat was as still as the rabbit. Elated with his shot, the boy fumbled with the strap on his snow walkers before hurrying to inspect his trophy. ‘Grandfather will be pleased,’ he thought, running awkwardly to his kill. ‘Two pelts and only one shot!’

Reaching the bloody snow that marked the site of his shooting, he realised he’d left his bow under the great white spruce. Removing his hood, the young hunter leaned in to inspect his kill. It was a magnificent pelt for the first true predator he’d taken. It wasn’t a wolf, but grandfather would be proud. Grabbing the large cat by its back paws, he struggled to stand. From behind the boy, a low menacing growl froze him quicker than any wind could.

Searching the area out of the corner of his eye, his heart skipped as he watched two timber wolves emerge from the forest behind him. The pair stopped, staring at him, teeth bared and hackles raised. Dropping the lynx the boy reached for the strap holding the snow walker to his right foot. “You don’t want to eat me,” he whispered. The blood pumping in his ears deafened him as he fumbled with the shoe’s fastening. Behind him the first wolf growled and leaned forward threateningly. “I said you don’t want to eat me,” reinforced the youngster, a little louder. The strap came undone under the prodding of his cold fingers. Lifting his boot free, he risked another glance at the wolves.

Haunches bunched and muscle rippled as the first wolf jumped toward him with a snarl. Dropping to one knee, the boy brought the snow walker up in front of his face like a shield. The impact drove him backwards and off his feet. Snarling and snapping, the wolf tried forcefully to wrench the snow walker from his hands. Beneath the predator, the child hung on for dear life, warm breath assailing his face. Teeth gnawed at the webbing of his shield, saliva splashing his cheek. Averting his eyes, he turned his head and pushed upwards with all of his strength. Something whistled over the struggling pair and the second wolf dropped instantly to the snow. Blood pumped from a hole in its rib cage. The arrow through its heart had brought a swift end.

Setting his crossbow down, the old hunter un-slung a cedar bow from his back and notched an arrow. Below him, in the clearing, the webbing of the child’s snow walker gave way with a snap and a mouthful of teeth burst through the meshing.

The boy’s arms burned with the effort of holding the wolf at bay and slowly the snapping mouth closed toward his face. He could feel the weight of the wolf pushing him down into the snow. The beast’s canines descended on his shoulder and incisors punctured through heavy layers of sable coat. Closing his eyes, the boy felt the pressure of closing jaws against his skin. His arms gave out with a final protest and the wolf was free to take its final crushing bite.

The savage bite never came though, and the child realised the wolf had stopped struggling. Opening his eyes, he looked up to see the wolf’s head being pulled back by his grandfather. With the weight of the wolf gone, he realised how hard it had been to breath. He latched onto his grandfather and began to sob.

“Oh you ok, son. He not get you with old hunter like me around. I shoot a squirrel in the eye from a hundred paces.”

“Grandfather I didn’t stay where you told me. I shot a lynx, and then the two wolves attacked me. They ripped my new coat and wrecked my snow walker.” The boy carried on blubbering, the shock of the incident still not fully realised.

“You a good grandson; good hunter too. Tonight I mend your coat. Come, collect your furs. We go get sled.” Helping the child out of the snow, the old man looked down at his grandson and smiled. “Remember, son, hunter must take care to not become hunted.”

Hugging his grandfather, the boy wiped the tears from his eyes and nodded. Looking up into the old man’s eyes, the boy suddenly asked, “Grandfather, what’s my name?”

* * * *

The streets were empty at this hour, the muggy night coating all with an impenetrable humidity. Clouds rolled in from the sea, making their way across the docks, through the slums, up mugger’s lane and finally settling over an old, leaning shack on the back side of Deep Cove’s oldest cemetery. Inside the hovel, a single candle cast shadows across the boards of the floor and walls. A young man tossed and turned on a cot in the corner. His blankets were a tangled mess around his arms and legs as he mumbled in his sleep. “You can’t go yet. You haven’t told me my name. Tell me my name!” The man’s voice was desperate, and he stiffened on the cot. “Tell me my name or I’ll break every damn bone in your body, old man!” Taking his yellowed pillow between his powerful hands, the sleeping figure twisted and pulled. With a loud tearing noise, the pillow’s seam let loose and a cloud of feathers exploded onto the bed. The man’s posture softened, and he relaxed. What was left of the pillow dampened his sobs of frustration.

Overhead, a crack of thunder echoed across the dark sky. The naked man sat up slowly. His muscled arms and legs glistened with sweat in the candlelight. He rubbed at his shoulders, trying to ease the tightness there. Vividly he recalled the snapping wolf trying to get at him through the snow walker. Throwing the blankets with irritation, he stood and made his way to a desk beside the table. Sitting at the desk, he opened the top drawer and removed a leather bound book. Flipping to the last page, he read aloud. “Entry Six hundred and fifty-six: Today I finished the snow walkers I started building last fall. I don’t know why or how I made them; I just did.” Scanning the page, he found another entry and read again, trying to force his memory to work. “Entry Six hundred and sixty-four: Today I discovered I have the ability to throw a stone with great accuracy. I killed two seagulls down at the docks without ever taking a practice throw.”

A soft plinking against the shack’s only window informed the young man that it had started to rain. Reaching for the quill and ink, he leaned over his book and wrote a quick entry. “Entry Six hundred and sixty-eight: The man in the snowy forest still haunts my dreams. He knows who I am, but he will not say!” Behind him, a loud knock on the door stopped his quill in mid stroke.

“Enter,” he called.

The door opened inwards with a groan. The sound of the rain grew louder as a boy in his early teens entered the shack. “Uh, sorry to interrupt you, B.S., but Mr. Kline would like you to go and collect Mr. Cobble’s debt.” The boy looked nervously at the floor, trying to avoid the older boy’s nakedness. “Mr. Kline says that in order to remain respectful to Mr. Cobble’s neighbours, you should do it tonight while the storm rages.”

‘Mr. Cobble has made a payment each of the last two months,’ mused B.S. ‘At this rate he won’t be in business much longer.’

The newcomer’s eyes glanced about the room and halted briefly on the mess of feathers coating the cot. “I will inform Mr. Kline that you need new bedding again. If you have a message for Mr. Kline I would take it now and be on my way back to the ranch before the full brunt of the storm hits.”

“Tell Mr. Kline to sleep easy. I will do as he bids. Mr. Cobble will be making another loan payment before sunrise.” B.S. bid the boy to close the door tight. He made his way to the foot of the bed and a pile of clothes. As he dressed, B.S. realised he hadn’t eaten anything before going to bed. ‘Maybe Mr. Cobble will have something good in his pantry.’