Chapter Text
The white pigeons remained silent as the snow finally settled, the house’s cobblestone foundation buried beneath a thick, wind-packed crust. A fierce snowstorm had ravaged the region for days now, the harsh village already thinning the winter’s firewood supply.
It’s a cold, spring morning, though the season seemed to have slept in this year. The sun briefly shined down on Basyl’s window for the first time in months, a warm ray making its way through the curtains and landing on his face. He blinked, unmoved, and sat up. Exhausted, he pushed the heavy blanket aside and stood, his breath fogging the air. The wind had gone quiet inside, replaced by the slow popping of kindling by the fireplace.
Careful not to wake his sister, Basyl entered the kitchen where his mother stirred a pot of porridge, steam faintly curling from it. Four bowls sat on a small counter, untouched. The hearth was barely alive. He wiped the table with an old piece of cloth as his mother ladled three bowls, leaving the other one unfilled on the table; unlike on snowstorm days, she topped them each with a wildberry, a small blush dot against the pale grain.
The youngest in the family joined them a few moments later, sitting without a word. The sweetness went first, then the oats, bland and dull. Basyl stood and dipped his bowl in a bucket of cold water, moving it around for a few seconds before setting it by the nearly empty wood rack.
His fingers still damp, he fixed his hair as best he could before grabbing his flimsy aunt’s axe and putting on his doe-hide coat. He coiled a length of sturdy rope around each arm, the ends dangling at his sides for later use. The rusted hinges groaned as he opened the door, the partially cleared snow a sign his mother had gone out earlier that morning.
The now untrodden path north led past buried wheat fields, the fence surrounding them collapsed. Faint orange light fled through the foggy windows, a small grove walking uphill just barely overlooking the snowfield far north across the fog. His boots broke the fragile snow crust as the march continued. The wind returned, just enough to remind the village.
Saddled against the cliff facing east, he sat down on an old tree stump, dropping the hatchet onto the soft, cold pillow. He took out a crumpled notebook and a piece of sharpened charcoal from his coat’s only pocket, though he only flipped through the pages. The stark, patchy drawings paled in contrast to the wildberry skies and stone-carved buildings they tried to recall, the fever dream he kept returning to. The charcoal rested in his hand, still drowsy.
As the thin pine stump started to ache, he slid the notebook back in pocket. A slow breath of wind moved through the trees behind him, rustling the branches and shaking the snow loose. He reached down, the cold seeping through his glove and crawling across his hand as his fingers softly closed around the handle. When he pulled, the hoarfrost broke away and fell back into the endless white, the iron emerging from beneath.
His mind went back to the Snowy Feathers, once stacked high with split logs by the counter. Now, its shelves stood bare under a film of dust, glass jars divorced from wildberries, no merchant had come since the autumn two years past. Out here, it was easier to fetch your own than wait for rupees to buy what wasn’t for sale, even if your swing was slow and the cuts uneven.
He walked back the way he’d come, the dark silver stones beneath the snow creaking under each step. The axe swung and bumped against his leg in a slow, steady rhythm, its iron head thudding through the layers of animal skin. In some stretches, the ground yielded, the crust folding before it tore and swallowed his boot past the ankle into the cold, weightless layer beneath. He trod wide around pockets of loose powder where the wind had begun to gather it into drifts, the surface smooth like frozen waves.
A gust rushed across the grove, carrying the faint scent of resin through the creaking pines. He looked around, choosing one thinner and younger than the rest, the bark smoother than a crepe batter. He knew that he’d have to come back for more, but he’d rather not spend the whole day wrestling with an elder trunk. On his first swing, his axe struck hard on the cold air, the momentum knocking him off balance and sending him tumbling into the spirit of snow.
He stood up. He tried again. The blade bit. A sharp crack split the base. A lucky blow. He continued, carving a small wedge, then circled to the other side. His breath steamed between swings. His fingers burned pink under the gloves. Half from the cold. Half from self-inflicted wounds. The jolt of each strike sent shivers down to his calves. Small chips of bark rained down onto the snow. Sap bled through the pale cut. Earthy, gently sweet fragrance drifted upwards. He reached the heartwood. The pine should have fallen by now. He kept swinging, slower each time. His axe like a beer for a drunken father figure. And the conifer fell.
He wiped a sleeve across his forehead, gripping the axe tighter as he planted the blade into the fallen trunk once more. Each swing felt heavier than the last. His rosy fingers deepened to red. The cold seeped through his gloves. The damp cloth clung to his skin. His muscles stiff from the wind. His coat pressing down on his shoulders. His breaths crystalized. He took a step back.
After getting hold of himself, he returned to the big log. The first strike drove the axe deep, smooth, almost clean, but the second one landed too far from the original cut and wedged itself too deep, too smooth, too clean. He tugged and twisted the handle, trying to set it free, frustration tightening his jaw, a pale whiteness propping to his knuckles, snowflakes settling on the iron. With one massive pull, the hatchet came loose, and the momentum sent him tumbling once more into the snow spirit’s arms. He stood. He brushed the clinging frost. He set to work again, cutting the trunk into lumber and tying a rope round them.
Logs bundled awkwardly on his back, the load shifted with every step. He balanced what would inevitably fall over. A stronger current threatened to topple him. The path ahead was but a blur under the exhaustion. His footprints trailed behind, the new ones swallowing the old ones on the way forward. The village neared, quiet, a ghost beneath grey clouds.
He walked downhill, past the fence marking the village limits and to the path barely marked with stones by the side. An empty house to the left, a locked house to the right. Next to the ancient wheat fields, sagging timbers warned passersby not to bother, the roof having caved in during the past snowstorm, the weight still muffling the walls. A small, moose-patterned scarf lay half-buried, caught beneath a fallen kitchen cabinet, or maybe a crib. A shame their supplies will rot in the cold. Still, he wouldn't have to fetch lumber again, not for a while.
The village elder and her second-born hung by the well, its mouth sealed in ice, the rusty bucket vanished from memory. They seemed to be repairing the roof, or perhaps searching for the bucket. He passed them without a word and headed home. Snow flecks clung to his coat; he brushed them off and stomped his boots, freeing the last clumps, before pulling the door open and heading inside. As the fog finally cleared, piercing rays of sunlight slipped through the colourless midday sky.