Walking the Ruins

Winter, and hunting in the snow

Winter has established its cold reign over the world. A thick layer of snow covers everything—the fields, the trees, and the ruins. The lake is the only large feature not hidden by snow, marring the white landscape like a dark gray wound.

Yesterday evening Rose announced that our provisions are not enough to take us through the next few weeks, let alone the winter. We have to go hunting and foraging. But this has become difficult. Many of the birds have migrated south. The smaller animals are hibernating, or they have at least retreated to their deepest borrows. Potatoes, carrots, nuts and parsnips are below the thick layer of snow and hard to find.

The larger animals, such as goats and deer, have become rare, too. I suspect that they have learned to avoid us. I have therefore decided to hike east along the lake, trying to reach grounds where we have not hunted before.

I haven't told the others about it. Steve would have insisted on Jenny and him joining me. But I prefer hunting by myself. I enjoy the silence of the forest while it listens to the whisper of the lake's waters. And if they worry about me, they can hold hands to reassure each other.

I left the house before dawn, and the ruins of the city are hours behind me.

I reach a clearing and study the pristine expanse of snow covering it. I have not found anything to hunt yet, and it must be around noon. If I turn back now, I will probably be home right before it is dark.

The wet has permeated my clothes, bringing the cold with it. An icy wind bites my face. My left shoe is leaking, and my sock is wet.

A sigh escapes my lips while I clench my cold hands. No, I must not go on. The resignation feels like a stale taste in my mouth, but I have to turn back.

My eyes scan the snow of the clearing one last time when I recognize some irregular features close to the trees on the other side. Curious, I cross the field of snow towards them and find that they are tracks, the tracks of an animal of considerable size. It has dug into the snow, all the way down to the grass. A deer? A goat?

There was heavy snowfall last night, so the tracks must be new.

I look back the way I have come from, then up to the gray expanse of sky, wondering how much time I have left. I decide to follow the track, but only for half an hour.

The track leads into the forest, then it turns uphill. The terrain quickly changes into a steep slope, slippery under the snow, and walking becomes difficult. But I continue, slowly ascending, step by step.

I reach the top of the slope, guessing that the ascent has taken the half hour I have granted myself. The cold northern wind blows into my face as if trying to stop me. Before me lie the soft hills of the hinterland, as we call it, the region further to the north, a place that we have not yet explored. Behind me, the lake is a dark gray smudge in the lighter gray mist.

The tracks lead towards a thicket, the kind of thicket that deer like to hide in. I remove the bow from my shoulders and take an arrow from the quiver.

The biting wind is my friend even though it numbs my cheeks and chills my bones. It is coming from ahead, so the deer—if it is indeed one—is less likely to catch my scent.

Slowly, and with my bow drawn halfway, I approach the thicket. Upon reaching its edge, I peer into it. Branches and twigs hang silently in the gloom. The canopy of evergreen fir is thick, and there is only a thin layer of snow on the ground.

I move through the bushes, following the track and trying to make as little noise as possible. Then, at a distance of maybe 40 steps from where I stand, there is a patch of brown fur. I stop, motionless.

It's a group of three roe deer. They keep their heads lowered to the ground, obviously searching for food.

I am too far away. Even though I could probably hit one of them with an arrow, the projectile's speed would likely be insufficient to do real damage.

I take some more steps towards the animals. I keep the bow slightly drawn, the arrow pointing towards my prey. I take my time, a lot of time. My shoulders start to ache, and my fingers cry for warmth.

Suddenly, one of the deer lifts its head, looking around. I freeze in my steps. I don't want to shoot, I am still too far away from it. An eternity passes before the animal lowers its nose back to the ground.

I start moving again, step by step. My fingers have become numb by now, which makes the pain go away, but it also worries me.

I have reduced the distance to its half when another one of the animals raises its head. It looks in my direction, its large eyes dark, fathomless. I don't move. Its ears twitch nervously, its nostrils sniff the air. Gradually, I draw my bow.

Then I let the arrow go. It leaves the bow with a whoosh.

All animals turn, in an instant, and flee, bounding wildly through the undergrowth. I chase after them, but when I reach the place where they were only seconds ago, they are already out of sight.

On the snow-covered ground in front of me, there is blood, a series of thick drops along the tracks of the fleeing animals. I must have hurt one of them.

I look around. The sky is still covered in clouds. It must be afternoon. If I turn back now, and if I literally run for home, I may just be able to make it before dark.

My eyes return to the track of blood.

No, I tell myself. It is a bad idea to start following it. I must return home now, or I won't make it back before night falls.

But we need the food. And I am so close now.

Ignoring the nagging, warning voice in my head, I start following the bloody tracks. The crimson spots on the white ground draw me along like magnets. 

I am the predator closing in on her prey.