Walking the Ruins

Blood in the snow, and a morning with a view

I follow the track of blood through the snow. It guides me to the edge of the thicket and from there over a clearing, and finally into a forest. The red drops become more frequent. The animal must have been hurt badly. It must have slowed down, or the bleeding has increased.

The landscape is quiet, a still image in black and white. Only the blood is red, an outcry of violence in a cold, uncaring world.

Later, I find the animal at the edge of a forest. It is lying on its side, the arrow still embedded in its neck. Its breathing is irregular. Its huge, black eyes are wide open, looking at me in sheer horror.

I take my knife from its sheath. I know where the deer's carotid artery can be found.

What strange skills I have acquired over the last months.

Afterward, I place my palm on the head of the dead animal. Closing my eyes, I feel the heat of the tears on my cold cheeks.

Then I rise and look around. I have a problem. It is bound to be dark soon. Even if I leave the animal's body here, I stand no chance to make it home in time.

I shrug. Standing here will not get me anywhere. I seize the animal by its hind legs and start dragging it through the snow, in a generally southern direction, towards the lake.

The sky has already turned noticeably darker when the lake comes into view. At the top of the long slope leading to its shore, I find a building that looks sufficiently intact to provide some shelter. I set up camp for the night in a room on the ground floor.

There is some reasonably dry wood in the ruin. Fortunately, I have packed the gas lighter this morning, the last one that still works. It will be empty soon, like the others we have, so we have agreed to use it only in an emergency. And this is definitely an emergency, I think while warming my clammy hands at the smoky flames.

I wonder what we will do when this lighter also runs out of gas.

I bed myself between the fire and the deer's body, my legs covered by the bag that I usually use for carrying home rabbits and other small prey.

Looking into the flames, I note the smell of blood, heavy and metallic, mingling with the smoky scent of the fire.

I turn my head and look at the dead animal. I touch its fur with my fingers. I've killed it.

"Hey, Bambi," I whisper. "I am sorry."

No, I don't expect the animal to forgive me.

Predawn cold wakes me from a restless sleep. My feet are numb from the chill, but I finally manage to get upright. I stomp the ground and rub my hands to get my blood circulating, but it doesn't really help. I finally leave the building, still shivering.

It has cleared up overnight. Everything is quiet.

In the first light of the morning, I see my track of yesterday, crossing the snow. My footprints form deep, dark pits, and the deer's body has left a trough following them.

Over the mountains, the sky glows in tones of violet and orange, in expectation of the sun rising. Some of the mountain tips are already brilliant with the first rays of sunshine.

Towards the lake, there lies a sea of fog, like a bent, brooding creature of grayish cotton, its body following the curve of the basin, its eastern end reaching into a wide valley between the mountains.

As the sun's brow braves the craggy horizon, his rays paint the snow and the sea of fog in a golden brilliance. In the valley between the mountains, they hit an ascending trail of vapor.

Or of smoke?

Suddenly, I hear a noise from behind me, like a breathing and a snorting. I turn.

Maybe fifty steps away, beside my yesterday's tracks, I see a bear. Its breath is steaming in the cold air. It is sniffing my footsteps and the trough left by the deer's body.

Apparently, it smells that something edible has been dragged through the snow and follows its scent.

I stand unmoving, as if frozen by the frosts of the morning.

Fear starts to rise, a fear that I had hoped to have buried for good in the most remote corners of my mind. It is a fear born from my last encounter with a bear, months ago, in the city. I feel the pain it caused me, the pain from the wounds and from being helpless.

But I am not the person that I used to be. And I feel something else rising within me. It's a feeling that I'm not used to, but I soon recognize it for what it is.

It is anger that I feel. Anger for the pain. Anger for the defeat. And anger for a scar that will mark my face and soul forever.