Snæbjörn

Blurred vision had not yet faded before Snæbjörn had dressed. Before he wiped the crust from his eyes, he had looped his belt around his waist, and affixed his ax and seax. By the time he was nearly fully awake he had grabbed his spear and a small pouch of stale bread, moldy cheese and Fallow Deer jerky which had become as hard as boot leather. In his foggy morning mind, he decided to leave his nálbinding mittens in favor of the dexterity of his bare hands. Something he would soon come to regret. He pulled his sheepskin cap tighter onto his head before tying it below his chin and the whistle of the wind through the cracks of his skjól was muffled as the warm wool covered his ears. He braced himself for a moment before opening the door, a feat which took some effort as newly laden snow had fallen the night before. Each step was hard fought, as the snow now came up to his mid-thigh, and though he cursed himself for leaving his mittens behind, he was thankful that he had mind to wear his waxed leather chaps to keep out the wet.

Snæbjörn paused for a moment to gather himself now that he was fully awake. He checked his pouch of food. Enough for a day. Or two if he found some manner of trouble. He looked around for some time to gather his bearings. Though he knew the woods better than the animals that called it home, the fresh snow had made his usual landmarks difficult to spot. He saw it. A tall spruce still several hundred meters away which stood tall among the other trees. It bent slightly to his left, and a bare spot near its crown made it look like it was bending down to eat the other trees around it. He continued, ignoring the bit of snow which had worked its way through the bunching of his pants where it was tucked into his boots, and now dampened his sock.

Past the devouring tree, down the small embankment of a frozen stream and back up the other side, a few dozen paces past a large bolder which stood alone, and bearing slightly to the left for a little while longer, he finally came to a clearing. A rough crescent shaped space barren of trees, bushes, and all other plant life. He took a moment to remove his waterskin from under his armpit and took a sip. As he pulled it away from his lips, a small droplet rolled down for only a few centimeters before freezing into his beard. He put the waterskin back and pulled out the pouch, grabbed a small piece of the jerky and put it in his mouth. If he was patient, he could chew on it for several minutes. Though the growling in his stomach made him swallow it much sooner than he would have liked. He began to clear snow, all the while cursing to himself again as his fingers began to numb.

After some time, he had worked an area three meters across, revealing the ice of the frozen lake below. He smiled as he saw that he had guessed right. Slightly off center was a clear patch of ice which he had used two days prior. He took his ax from his belt and began to break the ice again, and when he had done so he took a line and several hooks from a pouch, broke off a chuck of moldy cheese from his other pouch, broke that into more pieces and skewered it onto the hooks before lowering it into the water and finished off the rest of the piece of cheese which had not gone onto the hooks. He removed his waterskin, uncorked it, and filled it with the ice-cold water. The heat of his body would warm it as he walked and keep it from freezing.

He sat on a compacted pile of snow he had fashioned and hugged his knees to his chest. He sat and watched the ethereal cloud of his frosted breath, almost wishing that some great fire breathing drake would come from the sky and burn him to ash. It seemed preferable to the cold. When the broken ice had frozen over once again, and he was sure that it would hold the line in place, he trudged back through the path he had carved to get here in search for larger game.

It did not take him long. The fresh snow made tracking easy. A narrow path carved through the snow, winding roughly eastward out from the frozen lake. In the occasional spot where the path crossed a fallen tree, he could make out prints. Fallow Deer. Though he was grateful for the opportunity to restock his meat provisions, he had hoped for something else. Elk, reindeer, even fox or rabbit would have preferable, but they were hard to catch, or had already migrated out from the region which he hunted. He found a pile of feces. Picked up one of the pellets in his hand and squeezed it slightly. The outside was frozen but the interior was still warm and steamed in the cold air. No more than an hour or two old.

After some time, the trail he was following became erratic. It began to wind left to right, then back on itself, then on again in the original direction. In several places, the snow had been roughly cleared and the hardy grasses below had been chewed. He slowed his pace, but continued along the trail. The wind blew cold into his face and eyes biting like a thousand tiny needles. Good. It would mask his scent. Despite fighting through deep snow, Snæbjörn was silent. What little noise he made was timed with the rustling of branches in the wind, and steady rhythmic creaking of trees. Over a small hill, twisting between trees and around another large bolder that stood alone, he heard the sound of digging in snow, interrupted with the occasional grinding of teeth on dry grass. He moved a little to his right. As he did, on the other side of a thick pine he saw the rising and falling of the antlers of a Fallow Deer buck as it tore at the grass, checked its surroundings, and tore at the grass again. It was not a large buck. By his guess it stood little more than 60 or so centimeters at its shoulders. The deep snow would make this difficult.

Snæbjörn waited and watched. Adjusting his position as the deer did. He saw his moment. The deer had moved a little closer, just within eight meters. A little farther than he would have liked, but he was confident in his throw. As it moved, stepping up onto a fallen tree, the body of the deer crested the snow for a second. It was just long enough. He had held his spear ready to throw for what felt like an hour. His arm burned, his shoulder ached, but he did not falter. His eyes never leaving his target. He threw the spear. With a whistle and thud it hit the deer just below the top of its shoulder, cutting flesh, cracking bone, and piercing its lung. The deer tried to jump and run, but the spear and gone through the muscle of its shoulder and it only fell, crumbling helplessly onto the snow. Snæbjörn went over to the spasming deer, which was still kicking with its good legs but still unable to stand. He wrestled the deer's head to the ground and mounted its body to still its thrashing. He muttered silent thanks to the deer for its gift of food, before he took his seax from his belt and cut its throat. At its thrashing slowed, and as the threat of being bludgeoned or impaled by its antlers had lessened, Snæbjörn lowered his head to where he had cut the deer's throat and began to drink the blood that poured from the open wound. It was salty, and tasted of bitter iron, but it was hot and nourishing. A welcome change to the cold and the hunger that had been the beginning of his day. When he had drank his fill, he hefted the carcass over his shoulders and began to walk back along the trail.