IN FROM THE SNOW

LEE BATTERSBY

LEE BATTERSBY was born in Nottingham, United Kingdom, in 1970, and moved to Australia when he was five. He is the author of over seventy stories, which have been published in the United States, Europe, and Australia. His work has appeared in markets as diverse as Aurealis, All-Star Zeppelin Adventure Stories, Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror, and Australian Woman’s Day. A collection of his work, entitled Through Soft Air, was published in 2006. Since winning the international Writers of the Future competition in 2001, he has collected a number of awards, including the Aurealis, Ditmar, and Australian Shadows, as well as twice winning Australia’s only ongoing science fiction competition, the Katharine Susannah Prichard SF/F contest.

He was a tutor at the Clarion South writers’ workshop in 2007, and has run workshops and tutorials for the Katharine Susannah Prichard Writers’ Centre, the Fellowship of Australian Writers, and the Queensland Writers’ Centre. He lives in Perth, Western Australia, with his wife, writer Lyn Battersby, and their three children.

Here he writes a story of family, love, necessity, and survival in the icy wastes of the future…

It is snowing outside the house. Snow is dangerous. You leave tracks, and tracks can be used to follow you. I am to stay inside. Father will not permit me outside, not until I am fully trained. The Darrington boy went out last winter and brought the weight of the gallows down upon his whole family. There are few families left. Snow is too great a risk.

Last Snow, the family acquired a cookbook. We have had a year to practise pickling, preserving, bottling. We are not so reliant upon fresh food as we were. It takes time to build up reserves, and we have always been cautious gatherers. Travellers are rare this season. Snow makes things difficult for everybody. Still, Father is out amidst the white world. Travellers are rare, but our need is great. Our need is always great, and Mother is pregnant again. I have been left to guard the house. I am the eldest male, and in the last two years I have grown large and strong. Large enough and strong enough to defend Mother and the children. Even Father eyes me warily. All I need is experience. In the meantime, I sit in the front room and watch snow forming patterns through the windows.

I pick out flakes and stalk them as they skitter across my field of vision. They make for good tracking practice, jumping and diving like rabbits across a field. I am so caught up in my pursuit that I am taken by surprise when a shape looms out of the darkness, grey against black. Snow dies against its borders. I leap back from the window.

‘Mother! Get the children.’ I race for the door at the side of the house. Only a fool rushes toward the enemy. ‘Into the kitchen.’

The kitchen is a stone vault at the centre of the building. Everyone in the family knows how to use a knife, a pot, a kettle of boiling water. Within its confines, even babies become attackers. As I hit the door I hear Mother shouting at the children. I cast them from my thoughts, push through the door and into the cold.

The door swings shut behind me, locking into place. No entrance into the house can be opened from the outside. Either I will signal my return with the correct knock, or I will not return at all. No member of the family gives themselves up, not even our dwelling. I hit the ground and roll away at an angle, diving across a snow bank and behind the oak where it looms across the entrance. As I rise I slip the hunting knife from the sheath at my thigh. No cause to use my throwing knives: miss, and they are lost until the Thaw, and we cannot afford to lose precious edged weapons. The swirling snow gives me cover. I will get close enough to strike. Not experienced, but I do know my trade. To move quickly without being seen is at the heart of all we do.

It takes me less than a minute to gain the front of the house. The figure stands ten feet from the door, swaying as the wind buffets it. He is smaller than I first thought, and lighter in frame. He topples and falls headlong into the snow. I crouch, knife hand tucked into the angle of my hip and thigh. I have used this ruse to capture prey: fall as if weakened, then spring upon the unwary Samaritan who comes to help.

The ground is too cold to hold the ruse for long. Sooner or later, a movement will betray the supine figure. Breath stings my nostrils. I tilt my head, directing the streams of warm air towards my chest. No puff of moisture shall reveal my location. The figure on the ground does not move. Unless he moves now, the intruder will freeze to death. I wait a minute more, then sneak around the far side of the mound of whiteness building up over his body. So long without movement, there is no risk that he will be able to overcome me. Even so, I will not hurry my attack.

I approach until I am no more than two feet away, close enough to strike but out of reach of a sudden lunge from the ground. The coating of snow does not move. I tense my thigh muscles, crouch, and launch myself. The prey does not react. My knees strike the middle of his back. My knife sweeps down, and stops an inch from where the throat lies beneath the snow. Something is wrong. This is no attacker. An attacker would have moved. I lean back, use my empty hand to expose the body. It lies face down, unmoving, barely breathing. This is no man, set on usurping my home, my family. She is a woman, pale face against paler snow, dark hair shaken loose from the hood of her cloak by the fall. Her lips are turning blue. She is the first woman I have ever seen outside the family group. I waste seconds staring at the unfamiliar lines of her face, the exotic cast of her cheeks, her closed eyes, her neck. I scoop her up with a single movement, run to the door and bang out today’s knock against the wood. I wait, stamping my feet until the entrance inches open, then barge past Mother and into the kitchen.

‘Blankets,’ I order. ‘And boil the kettle.’ Mother favours me with a black expression, and I growl at her. ‘Move.’

She scurries to obey. I use the woman’s body to clear the table of obstructions, then lay her down. Some of the smaller children press close to look. I snarl at them until they back away. Mother returns, her arms full of bedding. I tear blankets from her grasp and throw them across the limp body. The kettle arrives and I pour water over a towel, fold it in quarters, and wipe her face and limbs. She groans and twists from the contact. I persist, and her protestations grow more insistent.

In less than a minute, she sits up and stares at her surroundings. The children, brave attackers all, squeak and dart behind nearby hiding spots, including Mother’s legs. I would punish them, but I cannot take my eyes from the woman. She sees me watching her, and opens her mouth to scream. I shoot a hand forward and clamp it over her mouth.

‘Don’t.’

She stares at me with wide eyes. I look away for a moment, determined not to notice how blue they are. Mother tutches. The woman’s nostrils flare as she drags in air. I push harder, mashing her lips back against her teeth. She winces. Were my hand not over her mouth her scream would be from pain. I lean close, so that my eyes fill her vision.

‘Don’t scream,’ I hiss. ‘They’ll kill you.’ Now that the children have grown used to the strange visitor they have returned from their hiding. Ragged-haired and smiling, they would frighten anybody. The woman inhales once, twice. I give her head a short shake, just enough to bring her attention back to me.

‘When I let go, you sit still. Otherwise …’ I nod towards the children, then slowly remove my hand from her mouth. She watches me, fear brightening her eyes. Only when my hand is back against my chest does she relax, though her eyes dart here and there. I straighten, allowing her a small measure of room. Mother nods in the corner of my vision, a small sign of respect.

‘Good,’ I say, and fold my arms. ‘What is your name?’

I get no response. Either she is too frightened, or I have been warning a mute. Mother speaks.

‘She’s shivering.’

‘Hmm.’ I point to little Belis. ‘Some wine.’ She runs to do my bidding. I am fond of Belis. She is obedient and sharp. Within a minute she returns and hands a mug to the woman.

‘Drink.’

She does so, eyes fixed upon me over the edge of the mug. She chokes after the second swallow. A gout of wine spills over her shirt. I watch it trickle across her chest. Mother hisses, and I shake my head.

‘Your name.’

‘Marell,’ she says, averting her eyes. I study the incline of her face, the softness of her skin. She is younger than I had at first thought, perhaps no more than sixteen or seventeen. My own age. The skin of my throat begins to itch. I take back the mug and hand it to Belis. Marell uses her sleeve to dab at the corners of her mouth.

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. Now,’ I perch on the table next to her. ‘What were you doing out during the Snow? This is no place for a solitary traveller. You’re not from a family.’

‘Family? What do you mean?’

Mother and I exchange glances. Some of the younger children gasp. Mother silences them with a stare. Such looseness will be punished later. I keep emotion from my face.

‘You’re alone?’

She pauses before answering, and I become aware of how heavily we are leaning towards her answer. I click my fingers, and the children disperse. Within seconds the sound of fake play reaches us from the surrounding rooms. I am not fooled. There are ways to listen without seeming to do so, and our children are well trained. Marell seems not to notice the falseness. She relaxes, and her voice gains some strength.

‘My caravan … we were travelling south, to Ealdwic. My father and mother, myself, and three retainers. A man, he jumped out of the snow…’ She stops, looking past me at events too fresh to be ignored. ‘He killed Mother with his teeth … Father …’

Mother and I glance at each other over the top of her head. Father hunts wild, on occasion, when the odds are in his favour, or he forgets himself.

‘What happened?’

‘He killed them. Everyone. Even after Vine shot him he just kept going. There was so much blood. So much …’ She raises her hands to cover her eyes. ‘I just ran, ran out into the storm, just to get away. Had to get away … Mother …’ Tears overcome her and she bends into herself, voice swept away by the fear and grief. I place an arm around her shoulder and make comforting noises. Mother signals Anna.

‘A warm bed for her, and a shot of the sleeping broth. Set one of the little ones to watch. Get me when she wakes.’

Anna half-carries the weeping Marell away. The sound of her crying disappears up the stairs before Mother speaks.

‘Shot.’

I nod, eyes fixed upon the door. ‘A caravan of six.’

‘You know what we have to do?’

I nod again, and stand. ‘I don’t want her harmed.’

‘What?’ Mother turns her head, sharp as a bird. ‘And what do we — ?’

‘If Father is dead.’ I step over to her, and realise just how much bigger than her I have become, how much taller. I can look over her without lowering my chin, and she shrinks the tiniest fraction at my closeness. ‘If he is dead, then I am — ‘

‘If,’ she says, voice hard with the challenge. ‘If not…’

I shrug. ‘If not, he’ll return.’ I turn from her and make my way to my room. I am the oldest child. I have the greatest share of responsibilities. My room is the largest in the house, besides the kitchen and Mother and Father’s bedroom. What little I own fits comfortably within: my weapons and pack; what few clothes I do not already wear; a small wooden ball on a string, the only childhood toy that has not been passed on to a younger one. A single bed. It is enough. And yet, standing in the doorway, I am struck by a flash of dissatisfaction. I see Marell with me, inside the room, and realise just how small it is, how there is nothing in here for anybody, not even me. The moment passes. I grab my cloak and knife, and shrug my pack over one shoulder. I do not bother to close the door when I leave. There is nothing to take.

In the kitchen, I fill the pack with a skin of wine and enough meat to last. Mother catches up to me as I tuck the last strands inside.

‘That’s the last of it.’ She nods at the pack.

‘I don’t want her harmed.’

‘Father wouldn’t hesitate.’

‘Father isn’t here.’ I draw my cloak around me and pull it tight. We walk to the door, and she pats me down, fussing. She is Mother, after all.

‘Be careful’

‘A caravan of six.’ I open the door. A blast of arctic hate strikes me in the face. ‘Whichever one of us returns, we’ll get through the winter.’

‘Kester …’ Mother raises her hand to my face, holding it there for a moment before letting it fall. ‘He’ll be injured, if he’s not dead. Are you sure — ?’

‘It had to come.’ I smile, hoping it is not the final smile I give her. ‘This is how we go on. The strongest will lead.’

I turn from her, and step out into the storm. I do not even hear the door close.

I am no more than a dozen feet from the house when the wind grabs the edges of my coat and hurls me to the ground. Father would kill me for coming out in this weather. At the least, he would give me a beating that would leave me unable to hunt for weeks. A body lost to the Snow is a waste of hunting equipment, and hunting is all we have to sustain us. A family can breed, but knives are hard to come by.

It takes me half an hour to reach the gate at the far end of the property, and another hour to cross the frozen river into the World. Father is too experienced to be caught in the open. Either Marell is right, and he lies dead amongst the wreckage of her caravan, or he has found shelter. If that is so, then I will die. I am under no illusions. I am young and strong, but Father has led our family for many years. There is no better hunter on the cliffs. Even injured, he will recognise my challenge and kill me.

Marell claims she was on the way to Ealdwic. Her driver would have skirted the cliffs and headed for the inland roads. I turn to the east, straight into the teeth of the wind, and take one step, then another. This journey will be a matter of single steps. I will not count them, simply look for the next snow bank, the next tree, anything I can hide behind to catch my breath and wipe the frozen snot from my lips.

It is more than three hours before I reach the nearest pack road, a distance I would run in less than half an hour at the beginning of a normal hunt. Our family does not stalk this road: too close to home, too high the chance of discovery. Other families have used it, but then, nobody in this region has a hunter like Father amongst them. He is the reason we ere so strong, and why we go hungry on so few nights. Without him, we are a lesser pack. Without his presence standing guard, others may see a chance to take our home. Not everybody has firm walls around them, cooking equipment, cushioned furniture. The wind blisters my skin. I pull the furs up closer to my eyes, bend my head, and push forward, one step after another.

I cross the pack road in a crouch. There are no other families about, not in this weather. But Father has raised me well. I do not take unnecessary risks. I laugh at the thought. This whole expedition is a risk of the highest order. Still, training is for life. I duck and run, slide into a hollow on the other side of the road, unsheath my knife and strain my ears against the wind. No sound comes, no sign to show that my progress has been spied. We families do not attack each other, generally, but anybody abroad in this weather might be hungry enough.

I stay this way for long minutes, senses searching the surrounding wastes. It is a fine balance: stay still too long and I will freeze, and be lost to the family. Move with undue haste, and I might be caught by a stalker, killed, and still be lost. Once I am sure I am alone I straighten, sheath my knife, and expend precious energy upon a few jumps to circulate my slowing blood. Then I am off, running as best I can through the mounting drifts towards where I hope the Ealdwic road is still recognisable.

It verges on dark when I reach the caravan. It rushes out of the gloom, not on the Ealdwic road as Marell had said, but closer, on the lane between the abandoned trading outpost of the older tribes from across the straits. I crest the rise that separates the lane from the surrounding meadows, and stare down at the ruined caravan with a frown, nestling my back against the partial shelter of a fallen tree.

Something is wrong. I scan the remains of the battle. The lane runs between two rises that afford some shelter from the elements. Even so, snow covers the area in a thin layer, obscuring much I would like to see before I venture down to pick at the corpses. The caravan has overturned, its wheel smashed against a marker stone that has been half-pulled from the ground by the impact. This was not the camp Marell had mentioned. Someone attempted escape, and it resulted in their ruination. At least one body lies amidst the wreckage. Snowbound lumps litter the laneway. I tentatively identify half a dozen as human, and mark out another dozen or so as worthy of examination. Father was hunting, and if he is dead, I need to complete the task. That means gathering tools, anything that might be of use to the family. It also means making sure no survivors crawled away to bring the world down upon our heads. If no food is to be found in skins or bottles, I will have to carve the best meat from the bodies of the travellers.

But these tasks can wait. I have realised what is wrong. I cannot see Father, nor any trace of him. That means only one thing. He is still alive. Dead men leave more trails than a live man who takes care to cover his presence.

I crouch against the tree long enough for the breath to sting as it leaves my nostrils, scanning for signs of Father. I do not expect to find any. I can hide from even the most determined pursuer, and what I know, Father taught me. I suffer a moment’s depression at the thought. Then it occurs to me: this training is my best chance of locating him. I may not know everything Father does, but I only have to pick up the scent of his trail, the signs that only one trained as I am could locate. My imagination will supply the rest.

I shift my gaze back to the beginning of my search pattern, and, despite the pain of the cold, slowly scan across the ground again. This time, I do not search for Father. I look at the progress of the fight, playing it out in my mind, placing figures against the white backdrop. When my mental battle ends, I replace Father’s image with my own and look once more at the surrounding cover. Where would I go? Where would I hide? What would I do to conceal myself from discovery?

There: a slight disturbance in the rise of a nearby hillock, unnoticeable to the gaze of a pursuer, but affording anyone behind it an uninterrupted view of the landscape below. Once I have it in my sights I discern other signs of Father’s progress: tiny depressions that speak of paused footsteps; a hollow where a body may have rested, or fallen; a branch that bears more snow than those around it. I visualise my progress up that slope. In doing so, I know where Father lies. One question remains. Does he lie so still by choice? I will not find out from my present position. There is no way to delay what must come. I wince as frozen muscles propel me to a standing position, and take care to stretch as I leave my cover and stride down into the centre of the clearing, exposing myself to his view. I turn towards his hiding place, and raise my face.

‘Father,’ I say, my voice clear and empty of fear. ‘I am here.’

No response. I did not expect one. He occupies the high ground. He won’t come down to me, even in voice. I walk up the rise, my hands visible at all times, making no attempt to hide the signs of my approach. I crest the rise. A shallow depression lies between hillocks, a hollow scoured out of the ground by wind and rain, deep enough for an overhang of vegetation to conceal the figure propped up by the edge of the hole. A casual observer would take him for dead.

‘Father.’ I kneel before him, tilt my head to show my open throat. He gives no indication that he is other than the corpse he resembles. I keep my position, eyes lowered. Slowly, an inch at a time, he raises his hand and runs a finger along the line of my throat, from ear to shoulder blade, then lets his hand drop. I exhale and sink backwards into a sitting position.

‘How bad is it?’ My eyes race across him, looking for injury. He opens his arms and lets his jacket fall open. A rash of red stains the side of his shirt.

‘Not my worst,’ he says. I hear the pain he tries to hide. I lean forward, and peel the shirt away from his skin, exposing the bullet wound to view. He does not flinch or inhale too sharply. He has washed the wound with snow: I do it again, and then he does wince and hiss between his teeth.

‘The ball is still in there.’

‘Not too far.’

I sit back on my haunches.

‘Can you walk?’

‘Well enough.’

‘Then why …?’ I gesture at his hideaway, and the world outside.

‘It was worse when it happened.’ He matches my gaze, hunter’s eyes steady. ‘Why did you come?’

‘Mother was worried. You’ve been gone too long.’

He waits for a long time before replying. He knows my lie. We both recognise it. Finally, he nods, and his grip changes upon his knife.

‘Help me up.’

‘Yes, Father.’ I lean forward, using the movement to disguise my hand as I draw my knife from its sheath. Even so, he is ahead of me. His thrust causes me to drop my shoulder sideways and barge into him. His knife whistles past my ribs. Father grunts and falls back against the cave wall. I follow him, slamming my body into his. He groans and pushes me away, heaving himself off the rough surface. We fall out of the hollow in an untidy bundle. He reaches for my shoulder blade with his free hand. Fingers tuck underneath it and pull. I scream and thrust my head forward against the bridge of his nose. It crushes under the blow. He reels back, the small respite giving us both time to find our feet and crouch into a fighting stance, balanced upon the balls of our feet, bodies turned to present the smallest possible target for the other’s blade.

Neither of us speaks. Neither offers explanation or question. We both know the why of it, and what awaits us. We circle the tiny depression, backing up the slight rise of each hillock in an attempt to find an angle of attack. For the first time I look at Father not as hunter, or imposing head of our family, but as opponent. He is smaller than I, and holds his injured side as far away as possible, favouring his off hand, his less-used grip. But he is still faster of movement, hard, unforgiving, like a biting snake. And Father always kills without thought or mercy. I am no longer his son. He will not hesitate. He lunges, and I swivel away from the strike, bringing my unarmed fist down towards his wrist. I miss, and he twists his fingers across the knife’s hilt, slicing sideways in a movement I could not replicate without hours of practice. The blade misses my flesh, but his fingers, hard as wood, crack against my forearm, deadening my grip. I leap backwards and risk shaking my arm to drive the blood back along it.

Father smiles, a sharp, humourless sign of satisfaction. He presses forward, his blade nipping at my desperate ripostes. I back up the incline, feet sliding on the snow. He follows slowly, not rushing, using the speed of his arm to keep me on the defensive. I reach the top of the hillock. My foot slips over the sudden decline of the far side, and I slide to one knee. Father steps forward to strike. I continue my movement, letting my chest thud against the ground, splaying my arms out as I hit. My right arm sweeps around, and I feel the drag as my knife bites the flesh of Father’s calf. He yowls and falls backwards, sliding down the hillock on his back. I dive after him, letting the full weight of my body strike him before he has a chance to find his feet. Something cracks. He flings me off in a burst of strength. I land on my hands and feet, and swing round to face him, limbs tense for another rush.

Father kneels before me, head hung low as he gasps in great lungfuls of air. The wound at his side has opened further during his fall. Blood seeps below the hem of his shirt. His knife arm hangs at an awkward angle, and his hand is empty. I wait, but he does not move. I see the handle of my knife under his left leg. He can not draw it out: his shoulder is broken, and any movement to recover the blade will drag the broken ends of bone across each other. I draw myself to my feet and circle him at a safe distance, just outside a body’s length. He makes no move to track my progress. I crouch behind him and place my forehead against his back.

‘Father…’

He raises his working hand to his shoulder. I raise my own, and we lock fingers. He squeezes, and the pressure of his fingers passes on his love, and pride, and his plea to look after the family. We hold the contact for a dozen breaths, before his grip loosens and his hand falls back to his lap.

I break his neck, swift and clean, and close my eyes as he slumps to the ground.

I kneel in the snow until cramps in my legs cause me to cry out as I stand. When I can ignore the task no longer, I turn Father’s body over so he lies on his back, open eyes gazing at a point somewhere beyond my toes. I retrieve my knife from its resting place between his legs. Beginning at his head, I run fingers over Father’s body, removing his clothes and folding them into the satchel I find tucked into the back of his hollow. His knife sheath lies empty against his thigh. I untie it and sling it over my shoulder while I work. A small bracelet of hair and stones circles his wrist. I cut it free and place it amongst the clothes, then quickly move across his skin, checking for any other implements that may benefit the family. I find nothing. His knife lies a few paces away. I pick it up. It is longer and heavier then mine, the most obvious mark of his position as head of the family. I heft it a moment, testing its balance against my grip. Then, looking down at his sightless eyes, I tie his sheath around my other thigh, and slide the knife inside. After assuring myself that nothing else lies inside the hollow, I hang the satchel over my shoulder and drag Father’s corpse over the rise and down to the ruined wagon at its base. I sit him against the wagon, so that his dead eyes watch me as I circle the battle scene, building a pile of resources in the middle of the space: utensils, clothing, skins of food and wine in quantities too big for a single man to carry. The lumps under the snow resolve themselves into men, faces and throats slashed by a single knife, arms caked in frozen blood where they were thrown up in a futile act of protection. Several firearms appear beneath my searching fingers. I examine each in turn, then replace them. Knives are silent, and only need sharpening. Once I have completed looting I turn my attention to the wagon, lying like a broken beast at the outer limit of the clearing.

It sits on its side, the far wheel buckled and broken where a place marker has shattered the rim and caused it to topple against the old rocks that litter the edge of the rise. Personal effects lie scattered beyond, boxes thrown clear to smash open upon impact. I spend a minute or so sorting through them, picking out a hand mirror and some hair combs and a straight razor. The rest I return to their boxes, dusting them with handfuls of snow until only the most dedicated search would reveal any interference. By the time the Ealdwic authorities realise the wagon is not going to arrive, it will be the middle of the Snow, and the wolves will play havoc with the wreckage before searchers ride out in the Thaw. Even so, that is the future, and it does not do to discard habits of care and caution. I make the site safe, then move on to the wagon itself.

I find the woman at the back of the wreck, under a tangle of boxes and farming implements. She lays face up, arms outflung as if some great blow has struck her chest, hurling her upon the ground like a dead calf. Her throat is a ruined hole, and I do not need to see the teeth marks to know who tore it out, or how. Frozen blood coats her fingernails. The fresh scars I spied upon Father’s back as I undressed him were proof enough. This woman is more than just another corpse to be stripped and ransacked. I finish wiping the snow from her face.

Even through the blood and the carnage of Father’s feeding, I recognise her. I have seen these eyes before, the bridge of this nose, the cheekbones, now bitten by frost and slashed by an errant stroke of Father’s knife. I have seen this face alive. Younger, fresher, but most definitely this face. I inhale with the sudden shock, turn my gaze away and blink my eyes back into focus.

‘I will tell your daughter that you fought,’ I say, and lower her eyelids with my hand. A thin band of silver circles the base of her throat, preserved amongst the damage. I lift her head, reach round the back, and unclasp it. Placing the chain on my thigh, I sever a lock of her hair with my knife, then wind it and the chain together until they form a wristlet, twisted tightly together and held in place with a quick knot. Later, once I have reached safety, I will melt a small measure of wax over the knot to seal it. For now, I slip it around the handle of my knife and sheath it, pinning the memento between leather and flesh.

‘I will make sure she knows,’ I say, and take care to cover her body with reverence. I return to the centre of the clearing and the pile of materials I have salvaged.

I am large, and strong, and on a day of perfect weather I can carry almost double my body weight into the loping run we use when hunting. But I am tired and injured. No amount of wishing will let me bear the plunder I have accumulated. I work quickly, separating those things which will benefit the family from those that will merely prolong my comfort. I discard everything not useful to more than one member of the family. In the end, I take a skein of wine to sustain my journey homeward, and load myself with clothing, utensils, and two snares of solid metal from the back of the wagon. Several empty jars constitute a rare prize, and I spend several minutes considering ways to carry them. Preserving what vegetables we grow will help immeasurably next Snow. I choose a dozen, and thread the fastenings of Father’s jerkin through their clasps, hanging them from my shoulders like a tinker’s wares. The rest of the salvage I return to their original spots, as best I remember, save a haunch of dried meat and several packets of seeds which will be a blessing, come the Thaw. For long moments I contemplate taking my knife to one of the corpses. Fresh meat is unheard of at this time of year, and my knife marks would soon be covered by the teeth of hungry wolves. In the end I decide against it. I have neither the strength nor room to carry a worthwhile burden of meat, and should I fall and die, and be discovered in the Thaw, what I have will mark me as a solitary looter, dissuading any rescue party from searching further afield. If I stop to satiate my hunger now, I may never find enough strength in my legs to leave. A tightening belly is the greatest spur.

As many ways as there are to protect the family, there are an equal number of ways to betray them. Father would make no mistake, and now neither can I. Thought of the dead traveller’s flesh reminds me of another need. I return to the wagon, and praying my apologies to the dead woman’s spirit, slice several thin strips from Marell’s mother’s inner thigh. Her petticoats hide my cuts. Scavengers will do the rest.

The meat is moist, and tender, and I slip it inside the cuff of my jacket, except for the strip I place under my tongue. I will draw upon the dead woman’s wisdom as I travel, suck her courage and love from the meat. When I return to Marell, we will already be family.

I have only one thing left to do, and then my journey homeward can begin. I reach into the wagon and pull out a long, oiled skin, opening it to reveal the rifle that lies inside. Father showed me, once, how to work such a weapon, when I had hunted with him on enough occasions to prove I was worthy of further teaching. Anything can be a weapon, he told me, and all weapons must be understood.

I load the ball and powder from the packets within the skin, tamp them down, and heft the weight of the rifle as I turn to face Father’s corpse. The searchers in the Thaw must see an enemy, a cause for the carnage around them. And the trail needs to end here, with that enemy defeated and dead. I aim down the barrel, at the spot just above his right eye. I want to say something, to make some sort of apology. But that is not our way. What we do is always for survival. I press the trigger. The flint catches. A single boom echoes across the open space.

Father’s head snaps back, and forward, and the ruined eye socket that stares at me bears nothing of his likeness. I turn away, repack the rifle, and begin to clean the site of my presence.

When I am finished, I climb the rise over which I first arrived, and view my work, nodding in satisfaction. The site lies as I discovered it, and the snow will soon muddy even the few tiny marks I made in leaving. The journey home will be hard, and dangerous, but I can undertake it in the knowledge that the hunt was successful, and the family will remain safe from pursuit. And I am alive.

I shoulder my burden, lean into the wind, and begin the journey home.

It takes two days to reach the house, two days of trudging through thickening snow banks, slipping across puddles of ice, and tucking my face further and further down into my coat to deflect the shards of pain that shatter against my skin with every gust of wind. By the time the house shimmers through the storm, and I slump against the doorway with just enough strength left to drop my fist against the wood in the right series of knocks, my eyes are all but sealed shut, and I no longer feel anything except the icicles in my lungs. I scarcely register the arms that drag me inside, or the bodies that crowd around me in front of the kitchen fire, lending their warmth and welcome to the heat creeping into my bones. By the time I open my mouth and accept a few swallows of mulled cider, I am too warm, and shrug children from my chest and shoulders. Soon, I struggle out of my over-garments and stand alone, swaying, in my shirtsleeves, gesturing to whoever is nearest for another shot of the revitalising cider. My mug is refilled. I swallow it in one long draught, cough, and spit into the fire as the dram hits my throat and spreads its magic out along my limbs. I turn away from the flames. The family has gathered around the far edge of the table, Mother at their head.

‘Kester,’ she says, as much warning as greeting. I give her a small, acknowledging smile.

‘Mother.’

I retrieve the pile of treasure from where it was stripped from me, and heft it onto the table. Youngsters are despatched to store the haunch of meat, and snares, and take the seeds down to the cellar. Mother takes possession of the jars, and places them high upon a shelf, out of the reach of little fingers. When everyone has returned, I pull my satchel from the pile.

‘Gather everyone here.’

‘Kester — ‘ Mother steps forward, arm half-raised.

‘Now.’

She stops, and turns to the children.

‘Quickly.’

We wait, not looking at each other, until the whole family arrives. Marell is amongst them. She is dressed in family clothes, her hair tied back in the way Mother prefers. She stands between two older boys, towards the back of the group. When the entire family is assembled, I open the satchel. I remove Father’s clothing, and spread it out on the table so everyone can see. I hear shock, and some of the children strangle back cries. Mother stands with a hand over her mouth. Her eyes are fixed upon me. She knew, the moment I arrived at the doorway. Now she can not pretend otherwise. I untie Father’s knife from my thigh, then step around the table and present it to her. She takes it without word, and I turn my back.

Mother is quick and fierce. I barely hear the knife as it slips from the sheath. I twist just as she lunges, catching her arm under my own and continuing the movement so she strikes the table with the front of her stomach. I lift her up so she lies face down amongst Father’s clothes. I pin her there with one hand and rake her skirt up with the other, exposing her hindquarters to view. I step over her leg, part her thighs with mine, and unbutton myself. I enter her in a sharp, violent thrust. She lies silent as I take her, letting me come in no more than a dozen short strokes. But it is enough. When I am finished I stand back, draw my trousers up and refasten them. She stays still for perhaps half a minute, then slides from the table and turns to face me. We meet gazes. She bends her head, and presents me the knife. I take it, recover the sheath from where it has dropped, and slide in the blade. Mother drops to her knee, and ties it to my thigh. I hold my hand out to her. She takes it, rises, and stands at my side.

‘Take her.’ I point to Marell, stiff with shock by the doorway. ‘Take her to her room, and educate her. Make sure she understands.’ The wristlet lies amongst the pile of treasures still to be distributed as gifts. I will give it to her, when she is ready. For now, there is much to be done. I must make my family safe for the Snow, and ensure that the infants are weaned, so their mothers will be ready to bear children when I visit them in the Thaw. And Marell must be taught her role, like Mother was taught before her, and she must understand her place in the family, as Mother understands hers.

Mother turns to me, and in front of the family, kisses me.

‘Yes, Father,’ she says.

AFTERWORD

Stories come to me from all sorts of places, but often a number of current obsessions will intersect in such a way that I’ll see them in a new light and be able to write about the resulting view. In this case, I fused a lifelong fascination with Sawney Bean with an illustration I recalled fronting an old Kate Wilhelm story, filtered through a documentary I watched about a pride of lions, and this is what came out.

Much of my work often springs from a sense of loss, and my characters often fulfil the actions of the plot despite the isolation and monstrous requirements it forces upon them. That probably says something deeply profound about my state of mind, but, in truth, no story is worth telling unless it imposes sacrifice upon the protagonist, and emotional and/or psychological sacrifice is, for me, the most telling. A friend once accused me of being genetically incapable of writing a happy ending — they were wrong, but I don’t manage it very often. That same friend also said I’d grow up to be Warren Zevon, so at least their view of me is entertaining!

In early 2007 I suffered a catastrophic hard-drive crash, in which I lost all my work. (Yeah, I know. I make backups regularly now.) ‘In From the Snow’ only survived because I was line-editing a hard copy at the time. It’s nice to see it in print: like Kester, it’s a survivor.

— Lee Battersby

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