|
Post by FOTH on Sept 30, 2011 15:23:36 GMT -6
This was a jolt for Einar, but maybe it'll work better in the long run than any walloping he may feel he deserves from that rabbit stick! Thank you!!! Such a blessing to read this each day! Yes, I do expect this will have more effect on him than the rabbit stick would, in the end... Thanks for reading, and for your comment!
|
|
|
Post by FOTH on Sept 30, 2011 15:24:15 GMT -6
With the day warm and nearly windless Einar had managed to avoid further damaging his frostbitten fingertips while out tracking himself, Liz glad when she inspected them during a short break on the return trip and found only a small blister or two. They would heal. Einar did not seem to share her relief and excitement at the discovery, hardly appeared to care about the fingers at all, simply nodding, shrugging and continuing the climb when she told him they’d better put together an ointment of hound’s tongue and bear grease upon returning to the cabin, dress the fingers with it and allow them a couple days’ healing before he ran the morning trapline again in the cold.
Once back at the cabin Einar attacked the task of preparing additional caches with a single-minded fury that would have frightened Liz somewhat had she not still been so thoroughly awash in relief at their being able to return home. Leaving him to his work--was no sense getting in his way when he was like that, and she knew it--she started a batch of stew simmering, unpacked the everyday use items they’d crammed into their packs before their hasty departure that morning, and thoroughly swept every square inch of the cabin floor with a rough broom she’d constructed of dozens of willow twigs, tied and bound to a straight aspen stick. It was good, so awfully, terribly good to be home, good to have the place clean, warm, looking fresh and beginning to smell of stew once again, so good that Liz found her heart fairly bursting with joy even as she sorrowed for Einar, who crouched out on the cold, slushy ground before the cabin bloodying frostbitten fingers in his hurry to weave several of the large willow containers that would hold their additional caches. Good work and necessary, the need for several such arrangements having been made painfully clear by their almost-evacuation that morning, both of them knowing even more surely than they had known before how much trouble they’d find themselves in should they be forced to abandon the cabin suddenly in the winter, baby on the way or having already arrived, without a backup plan or three already in place, rehearsed, tested and found to be practicable. Good work, but she wished he might slow down a bit, allow himself a break every once in a while, a bite to eat, perhaps do the things that might have some chance of preventing his getting into the sort of situation--hungry, exhausted and not seeing the world terribly clearly--that had led to the track scare that morning, in the first place.
Despite appearances to the contrary Einar was indeed contemplating the events of the day, still furious with himself for having allowed such an oversight. What if those tracks had been real? Had not been your own, and you too disconnected and blind to notice them on your first trip through, this morning? Could have been the end of it for both of you, all three of you, and with your job being to watch out for these folks…well, that’s just beyond inexcusable. Got to wake up, find a way to…to get your head out of this doggone fog and back where it needs to be, Einar. Liz is counting on you and if you’re not gonna be able to follow through on that…well, then she and the little one really would be better off down there with Susan, and you’d better just give up on everything here and start planning that hike. Hike out. End it. Give them a chance. Which thoughts--though of course he’d been the one to bring them up, and no other--would ordinarily have left Einar fuming, grumbling and silently ranting to himself about the foolishness of any such plan, but that day they merely made him sad. Doubtful. Questioning it, all of it, the wisdom of bringing a child into the world under such harsh conditions--he’d never questioned that one before, really, and neither had Liz at least within his hearing; others had done it in the past, and so could they--the chances that they could remain one step ahead of their pursuers long enough to give the child any sort of a reasonable start in life, his ability to provide for their little family as they strove to do that…
Don’t know, Einar, just don’t know how you think you’re gonna be fit not only to provide for them but protect them--as is your duty, and as you’ve always done--if you can’t even recognize your own tracks when you stumble across them on the trapline some morning. You’re slipping, missing things, overlooking them and one of these times that oversight’s gonna be fatal or worse, and not just to you most likely--wouldn’t be so bad if that was all…I could accept it that way, gonna happen to each of us, eventually, that we leave our bones out amongst the rocks and provide a little meal for the birds, and this isn’t a bad place to do it--but to Liz and the kid, too. By default. Because those’re awful steep odds, a woman and a new baby all on their own out here in the dead of winter. Might make it, but you know the chances aren’t all that great. Got to do better, see that it doesn’t happen that way, but I just don’t know…how to get things turned around at this point. Finding myself to be pretty lost here, and I just…Lord, I got to do better by them. Got to be here to provide, got to be worth something to them--which I hardly am right now, hard as I work and scramble and try to convince myself otherwise--and I just don’t know how to get there from here. Don’t know.
Liz knew. Came to him with a steaming pot of goat stew, enriched with bear fat, serviceberries and the starch of several carefully pounded lily corms and served with a strong, sweet tea of honey and nettle, laying the meal carefully on a flat stone near where he was working and taking the mostly completed cache basket from his bloody, battered fingers, gently cleaning them, drying, applying bits of freshly made salve until their throbbing grew slightly less and he was able, with the aid of several soft wraps of rabbitskin on his right hand where it had seen the worst of the damage, to take the pot she held out to him. A good start.
“Eat, Einar, and then I’ll help you finish the caches. It’s looking like a clear day, and as fast as this snow is melting, maybe tomorrow will be a good time to place one of them.”
|
|
|
Post by FOTH on Oct 1, 2011 17:07:11 GMT -6
No chapter today, because I was up here: Doing this... Back with another chapter tomorrow.
|
|
AlaskaSue
Member
One of the Frozen Chosen
Posts: 64
|
Post by AlaskaSue on Oct 1, 2011 22:40:35 GMT -6
Gorgeous! LOVE this time of year ~ looks like you are just a couple weeks behind us, at your elevation. We have a nice dusting of snow quite low now and most of the leaves are gone...what's left is still a brilliant show. Nice to see you getting a chance to get up there before you're snowed out! Thanks for the pictures, always a treat!
|
|
|
Post by FOTH on Oct 2, 2011 15:57:54 GMT -6
Yep, it's a beautiful time of year here. We've had snow a couple of times already up high, but most of it has melted off already. The leaves should be gone in a week or two, and serious snow coming along soon after that! ;D
|
|
|
Post by FOTH on Oct 2, 2011 15:58:24 GMT -6
Sunny weather continuing and the day warming so much that Einar and Liz shed their cloaks shortly after enjoying Liz’s batch of stew, they made quick progress on the cache baskets, completing three and setting them aside to be pitch-coated as soon as daylight faded and the time for outdoor tasks came to a close. Baskets finished and their lids woven, as well, Einar moved on to the mountain goat hide which remained stretched all clean and shining and white in its frame, slowly heating a mixture of bear fat and recycled brains from the first braining and meaning to rub it onto the flesh side of the hide to further soften it. Liz took the pot before he could begin.
“Let me do this. Your fingers are all raw and bleeding from working on the baskets after that mild case of frostbite, and they’re just going to get infected if you go rubbing them in that nasty stinky old brain mixture! You’d better try hound’s tongue salve, instead. It works much better.”
“Oh, you think? I figured the brains ought be about the best thing for the fingers, really, all soft and greasy and slimy as they are. It’s an old frostbite cure, and one of the best ones because the massive quantities of bacteria in the days-old brain mixture get in there and eat away at the damaged skin and help the frostbite to heal more quickly. Kind of like the maggots did for my foot, that time...”
“ I hope you’re only joking, but sometimes it’s absolutely impossible for me to tell…now get in there and put some of that new salve on your fingers, before I have to come at you with the rabbit stick!”
Einar went, grinning, never having had any intention of deliberately smearing his damaged fingers with the tanning mixture--though that would have been the inevitable result had he took on the braining job as he’d been going to do--but finding a good deal of humor in the realization that Liz had thought him serious about the proposal. The hide really did need attention, but as Liz seemed anxious to do the job, his wisest course of action--for a number of reasons--appeared to involve leaving the work to her and tending to his fingers. When the time came for stretching the hide--after its third and final braining--he would help. Would have to. The thing was very nearly too bulky and heavy for one person to handle, with all its wool still on. Tomorrow, if the weather held out and they had time between running the trapline and placing at least one of the new caches, the time would have come for them to do the last braining on the hide and to stretch it.
Evening was coming, sun dipping low and temperatures outside already beginning to fall as Einar finished cleaning the raw remains of his fingertips--might have been a good thing to wear gloves while I made those baskets, but I don’t have any gloves, and probably wouldn’t have been able to do the work in them even if I had…fingers will heal--and generously applying Liz’s salve of hound’s tongue leaves simmered slowly in bear fat, and he figured since he was inside anyway and leaving her to do the work of braining the hide, the least he could do would be to have a nice supper waiting for her when she got done. She’s probably getting tired of soup, too, seeing as we have it every day now. Good stuff and real filling if a person eats enough of it, but I wonder if she might enjoy that goat roast we were talking so much about the other day? Bet it would make for a nice change. Only trouble was that they never had got around to making that honey mustard they’d discussed in such mouth-watering detail, basting sauce for the goat roast and the thing that was going to have made the meal such a very special treat, and he doubted his ability to prepare any such in time for supper that night. Not properly, anyway, as the manufacture of mustard required vinegar, and though he had no doubt as to his ability to produce such, it wasn’t happening over the course of the hour or so that might remain before supper.
Unable to make proper mustard in a timely fashion Einar figured he’d do the next best thing, scooping some honey into a pot and adding a bit of water, stirring to combine the two and setting the pot on one of the stone shelves he’d built into the chimney, where it would begin to heat but not risk scorching before he’d got together the rest of the ingredients. Which consisted of a few crumbles of dried wild garlic greens, taken from Liz’s stash and carefully powdered before he tossed them in. All the concoction lacked now was something to give it a good strong mustard flavor, and Einar eyed Liz’s collection of medicinal herbs in their neat hide pouches and pitch-coated baskets, pulling out the shepherd’ purse and collecting a small handful of the small, vaguely heart-shaped brown seed pods, each of which he knew contained a number of small brown oblong seeds from which could be made a very passable mustard. Liz had collected and stored the plants in preparation for the upcoming birth, a solution of shepherd’s purse greens and, to a lesser extent, seeds, being very useful in halting post-partum hemorrhage should it occur, but he knew she would not need all of the seeds. Lightly grinding the seeds on a smooth rock Einar dumped the powder into his barely simmering pot, clenching a fist when one of his injured fingers came into contact with a bit of the powder. Stuff stung terribly, left him hurrying for the water barrel and pouring a good cup or so of the stuff over his hand in an attempt to free it of the burning. Hmm. Wonder if that stuff’s a good antiseptic? Might be, but I’d hate to have to use it very often, much as it stings!
Set down on the stovetop the mixture very quickly went beyond simmering, releasing into the cabin a sharp, acrid odor that stung Einar’s eyes and made him cough even as it left his mouth watering, and he swatted at the steam, wanting to get it headed away from his face. Huh. Really wasn’t trying to produce mustard gas here, but looks like I must’ve come pretty close! Whew! Hope Liz doesn’t walk in here while it’s steaming like this. Got to cool it down. Quick. Hey, get that pot off the stove, will you? This coughing feels like it’s gonna break a couple ribs again, undo whatever healing they’ve somehow managed to do and…ah…that’s better. Yeah. Just need to keep it from boiling, and everything’s alright. While the honey mustard might have been alright Einar really wasn’t, could not seem to stop coughing and felt about to pass out for lack of air as he crossed his arms on his chest, pressing, squeezing, trying to hold the ribs in place and halt the tearing, burning pain brought by his struggle for air. Succeeded, finally, sitting there doubled over on the floor until some of the faintness passed and he trusted himself to rise once more. That was interesting. No more boiling the mustard, not unless I really need to clear the cabin in a hurry for one reason or another! Or clear my lungs. Ha! Might make a decent cure for pneumonia, come to think of it. Just breathe a little dose of mustard steam, cough your lungs out and any accumulated gunk with them. Yep, might have to keep that one in mind. Could be it’s something I ought to do on a regular basis until the ribs are healed…once a week, say…just to make sure my lungs stay clear. Mighty unpleasant, but then I don’t always object to mighty unpleasant things as strongly as most folks seem inclined to, and if it’d prevent serious trouble with my lungs, definitely worth it. Well. Have to keep that in mind, but for now I’ve already had the first treatment--ha!--and need to get on with fixing Liz’s supper.
Retrieving the pot from its place on the heating shelf he tasted the mixture, liked it, wanted more--its flavor was strong, intense, did something to satisfy the gnawing, twisting hunger that seemed so frequently to torment him those days as the weather grew colder, though he knew its actual food value had to be quite negligible--but contented himself with licking bits of it from the stick he’d been using to stir as it heated. Good. This is going to work very well, even though the mustard I used wasn’t proper mustard at all… And he took the pot of completed sauce, carrying it to the outdoor firepit over which he intended to roast the goat, glancing in Liz’s direction and finding her still hard at work on the hide. Quietly he retrieved the meat from the tree where it hung in the cool evening shade, glad that the special supper would be at least somewhat of a surprise for her.
|
|
|
Post by Kathy D on Oct 2, 2011 23:15:47 GMT -6
Awww, a special,romantic dinner by candle light. What a treat for Liz! Einar is learning. Now, if he will eat enough and stay warm, she might not knock him in the head with the rabbit stick ....at least not tonight!
|
|
EdD270
Full Member
deceased
Posts: 201
|
Post by EdD270 on Oct 3, 2011 13:16:34 GMT -6
Beautiful photos, FOTH, thanks for sharing them. "I don’t think it’s about pride and humility at this point. He’s just got a notion in his head about what he thinks he must do to keep himself ready for winter, and once he decides on something, that thing generally gets done regardless of the obstacles he may face. Guess this one could stand to be reconsidered, though" I believe that is exactly the definition of vain pridefulness: to have an idea in our head and refuse to consider any alternative, regardless of how badly our idea turns out on several tries. Some call it stubborn, but stubborness is based on false pride, and perhaps selfishness, being a determination to do what we want regardless of good or bad results or better ways offered by others. Hope that makes sense. EA is constantly thinking and talking about his "duty", but he seems to not grasp the concept that part of his duty to Liz and their baby is to keep himself healthy and protect himself from further injury or deebilitation. He cannot fulfill his duty to protect and provide for them unless he fulfills his duty to keep himself healthy so he has the ability to do so. A sad lack of understanding that so many are afflicted with nowadays. Thanks for the great chapters, FOTH. I've been away a few days, but now caught up.
|
|
|
Post by FOTH on Oct 3, 2011 17:25:49 GMT -6
Thank you all for reading! It seems that after a two week "ad free" trial, ads will now show up at the top and bottom of each page on this forum, which is part of the deal, since it is after all free... Just wanted to say that I have no control over the content of the ads, and I hope they don't bother anyone too much. Awww, a special,romantic dinner by candle light. What a treat for Liz! Einar is learning. Now, if he will eat enough and stay warm, she might not knock him in the head with the rabbit stick ....at least not tonight! Might be nice to at least get through the dinner without the rabbit stick putting in an appearance... ;D Beautiful photos, FOTH, thanks for sharing them. "I don’t think it’s about pride and humility at this point. He’s just got a notion in his head about what he thinks he must do to keep himself ready for winter, and once he decides on something, that thing generally gets done regardless of the obstacles he may face. Guess this one could stand to be reconsidered, though" I believe that is exactly the definition of vain pridefulness: to have an idea in our head and refuse to consider any alternative, regardless of how badly our idea turns out on several tries. Some call it stubborn, but stubborness is based on false pride, and perhaps selfishness, being a determination to do what we want regardless of good or bad results or better ways offered by others. Hope that makes sense. EA is constantly thinking and talking about his "duty", but he seems to not grasp the concept that part of his duty to Liz and their baby is to keep himself healthy and protect himself from further injury or deebilitation. He cannot fulfill his duty to protect and provide for them unless he fulfills his duty to keep himself healthy so he has the ability to do so. A sad lack of understanding that so many are afflicted with nowadays. Thanks for the great chapters, FOTH. I've been away a few days, but now caught up. Thanks for reading, glad you're caught up again. Can't say I disagree with what you had to say, and I doubt Einar really would either, if he sat down and thought about it that way. Can be difficult to see when you're in the middle of a situation, though.
|
|
|
Post by FOTH on Oct 3, 2011 17:26:13 GMT -6
Even before she was finished rubbing tanning solution into the goat hide Liz was began to notice a rather enticing odor wafting over from the area of the firepit, wondered what Einar might be up to but finished her task before going to check, not wanting to have to clean the brain solution from her hands more than once.
As the roast heated and began cooking over the fire Einar hurried from tree to tree up behind the cabin, collecting globs and oozes of pitch, scraping them onto a piece of aspen bark in an attempt to replenish their supply ahead of coating the cache baskets, which he hoped they might finish that night. The stuff was quite plentiful, fortunate, as he did not want to have to resort to using part of their precious supply of bee’s wax in the waterproofing process. It had too many other uses, pitch making a poor substitute for some of them. Even several dozen yards into the timber up behind the cabin Einar could clearly smell the goat roast as it browned and sizzled, hurrying down to it as soon as he had collected a useful quantity of pitch. Couldn’t have it burning. Liz wouldn’t like that. Which it had not done, not yet, but definitely needed turning, and another application of the improvised honey mustard, too. He couldn’t see Liz, figured she must have gone inside to wash up.
Sitting there watching the roast steam and spit and pressing his stomach against the hunger brought on by the sight--and smell--of the thing, Einar figured he might as well make the most of his time, begin melting pitch and coating one of the baskets, which he did, placing bits from their renewed supply on a smooth, angled rock near the fire and catching them as they liquefied and rolled down towards the flames. Using a bit of aspen inner bark to catch the pitch and brush it onto the basket--he wanted one of the bear fur brushes they’d used in coating the shingles, but didn’t want to disturb Liz and could not leave the fire, anyway, lest he return to find his supply of pitch having rolled down into it and caught fire--he coated the entire inside of the largest one. That hot pitch hurt his raw fingers, left him wishing for a tub of good cold water in which to cool them--snow had all melted away from around the firepit and was well on its way to being gone from the clearing, or he would have used that--but he had no water, and certainly didn’t want to quench them in honey mustard, so simply kept at his work, enduring, knowing the task would soon be finished. After a time--he should have known it would happen, having used melted pitch in the past as a quick bandage on a bad scrape of one sort or another--the pitch formed a coating on the damaged areas of his fingertips, protecting them from further hurt as he worked with the hot, sticky stuff, moving on to the outside of the basket and thoroughly coating it, as well.
With the pitch being antiseptic and quite sturdy, Einar knew the fingertip protection ought to do him some good, last well and allow him to use his fingers a good bit more normally than he might otherwise have been able to. Funny the sorts of things one ends up being reminded of, entirely by accident…at least on my part. This is a real good one to remember. Fingers feel kind of stiff now, but that’s a lot better than raw and oozing and tremendously sensitive to the least bit of heat, as they were when I started this job. A job with which he was now nearly finished, adding the last touches to the rim of the basket up where the lid would go, before moving on to the lid itself, coating first one side and then another to make possible a waterproof seal. All the time he worked he had been keeping a close eye on the roast, turning it this way and that and occasionally brushing on more of the sauce, a fresh wave of wondrously delicious-smelling steam enveloping him each time and leaving him to wonder how he would ever wait until suppertime to dig in and begin devouring that roast. Same way as he always did, that was how--by placing the food off limits in his mind and consigning it--for the moment at least--to the realm of dream, look but don’t touch, imagine but don’t… Liz was coming, and quickly he shook himself from his world of hungry dreaming, flexing fingers and rubbing hands to remove the excess bits of pitch and dousing the roast with yet another layer of that wonderful sauce so that both its sizzling and its odor should be fresh when she reached the fire.
Warming her hands over the flames as she inspected the soon-to-be supper, Liz sat down beside him. “Look what you’ve got done! One of the baskets all ready to go, and an incredible dinner prepared, too! I don’t know what you’ve got on there, but it sure smells better than anything we’ve had in a long time. How are your fingers? Did that salve help?”
“Sure, salve helped. And so did this pitch.” Held his hands out to her, fingertips stiff and somewhat shiny with solidified pitch and Liz fearing at first that he must have burned himself with its application, caused further harm but the way he was using his hands--though no guarantee; she’d more than once seen him walk on frozen toes or broken bones without complaint just to prove to himself that he could--assured her that not only had he avoided further damage, but had stumbled upon a fine method of protecting the fingers while leaving them at least somewhat useful. A good thing, good especially because it reminded her of the “old” Einar, the incredibly bright and resourceful man who had so often scraped together bits and scraps that she would herself have entirely overlooked and piecing them together to get the two of them safely through one difficult patch or another, and she had hope that if she could only convince him to go on eating on a regular basis and getting a bit of rest now and then, she would be seeing more and more of the old resourcefulness and presence of mind that had seemed to be somewhat absent of late. With its diminishing had come, she was pretty sure, a lessening of the dreams that had so troubled his sleep and the hair-trigger alertness which had kept him always on edge during the days and led to so many near misunderstandings between them, and she would have been glad of those changes, had she not been fairly certain that they were coming about only because he was slowly dying. Not a good tradeoff, and she wanted the old Einar back, quirks and all.
Together they enjoyed Einar’s honey mustard basted roast, carrying it inside to eat when finished, as the light had by then faded entirely and the night begun growing quite cold, and Liz found herself quite delighted with Einar’s attempt at making the mustard. All it needed was a bit of vinegar, and they’d have a sauce that could be used throughout the winter to spice up the meat of whatever wild game they happened to be eating at the moment. Vinegar--another project to work on, and we ought to be able to do it for sure, but not until we get a couple of these caches set out. That’s got to be first priority. Time to start packing this first one I think, seeing how much we can fit.
|
|
AlaskaSue
Member
One of the Frozen Chosen
Posts: 64
|
Post by AlaskaSue on Oct 3, 2011 18:29:24 GMT -6
I'm with Liz! Great to see Einar being his old resourceful, creative, inventive self. A lot of what he knows from experience and privation is really good to keep in mind for survival situations. Like his pitch bandaids - how cool is that! And his mustard 'gas' from the other chapter -- I've read of mustard plasters for pneumonia; the method he stumbled on sounds effective, and I hope he won't damage his healing ribs if he tries it on purpose! Meanwhile, sounds like they are in for a treat for their supper! Necessity being the mother of invention, they are sure in a place where they really do find some creative solutions don't they! Thanks for sharing their tale!
|
|
|
Post by FOTH on Oct 4, 2011 15:27:24 GMT -6
I'm with Liz! Great to see Einar being his old resourceful, creative, inventive self. A lot of what he knows from experience and privation is really good to keep in mind for survival situations. Like his pitch bandaids - how cool is that! And his mustard 'gas' from the other chapter -- I've read of mustard plasters for pneumonia; the method he stumbled on sounds effective, and I hope he won't damage his healing ribs if he tries it on purpose! Yep, the results of those lessons are what have kept him going a lot of times. As for the improvised "mustard gas" plasters...hopefully he won't have to try that until after the ribs are healed, if at all! Thanks again for your comments, they are always appreciated.
|
|