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alittlehinkyCricket has spent the last half hour conversing with a serpent, in a quiet corner at the back of the Cafe. No one, so far as he can tell, noticed the tiny green thing twined around his wrist, although maybe someone wondered why he was talking to himself.
“I’m a’ight. Legs actin’ up a little. Nothing I can’t handle.”
“I know he’s safe. I dreamed him.”
“Yeah. I prayed.”
“I reckon if it helps, then, I’ll keep it up.”
He’s up now that the little snake is gone, and he wanders slowly through the room, relying on his cane. The blisters on his legs are mostly healed up, but the ache isn’t going away. The braces feel heavy, but he needs them. So he goes slow as he walks to the door, steps through, and peers at the sky.
He never takes off the coat Loki gave him now, afraid it’ll get stolen, and it seems to get warmer when he’s outside. He’s not cold now, except for his hands and his nose, but he’s hungry, and part of him worries about the ache in his legs that won’t go away. He’s always been thin. His body’s starting to eat itself, maybe, from the inside out.
It seems like all he’s got to carry him through till spring now is love, and a strange gift from Winter. He smiles at the whirling snowflakes; the fall is light right now. A few steps out, he comes into the ruts where people have been walking to and from the Cafe to the Bunker, and he goes that way, slow and easy.
He’s been foraging before, back home. It’s almost useless to try in weather like this. Roots and plants are buried too deep. He’d never get through the snow to them. Ice fishing is probably too dangerous, at least alone. He could bring it up to one of the leaders, but they’d probably only tell him to stay inside and look after himself, and if the opportunity arises they’ll send a scout or a fighter to try for fish. That’s actually reasonable, though he hates to admit it. His legs are hinkier than usual. He could fall right in.
But there are evergreens around the Plaza. Not many, but some. And there are other trees, bare and near-frozen, but their bark can be taken.
“Aunt Winnie used to make pine needle tea,” he says aloud, and in his mind he’s talking to Loki, his Loki, even though he’s not physically present. “It’s got vitamins in it. Might keep some people going a little while.”
Granted, it has to be the right pine, one that’s edible, but he knows where there is one, not far off. It’s a white pine, he remembers. Five threads to a bundle of needles, and little white lines on the spines of ‘em. The trees closest to the buildings have fared better, so far, than the ones further away on paths. The wind freezes things, burns even evergreen leaves and cracks and fells branches. Turning, Cricket steps up onto the snow and chuckles to himself when he finds he still doesn’t sink. Good. He wouldn’t get far without this secret gift.
“I have to do something now, see,” he explains to the people who aren’t there, listening in his head. This time it might be Loki, or it might be the Old Man. “On account of I won’t be able to much longer. Dunno if rickets can come back, but if it can, it will any time now. Not much good to be able to walk on snow if I can’t walk at all.”
He goes softly, careful in spite of the gift he’s been given, tapping his cane to test the solidity of the snow in front of him. He might not sink in it at all, but he’s not sure what would happen if he stepped on a thin crust of ice over a deep pit or broken glass. He doesn’t want to find out. The topography of the plaza is very strange now.
He finds what he’s looking for in short order. It’s smallish, for a pine tree, heavy with snow and ice, branches stretched over an abandoned store. It’s still within the ring of torches, and Cricket doesn’t feel afraid as he approaches.
He’s a mountain boy, and he knows how snow does around trees, making a kind of well around the base of a trunk, one that’s often hidden to humans that approach it because of the low sweep of branches. They rarely got more than two or three feet of snow in Franklin, so stumbling into a tree well was more of an annoyance than a disaster, but here and now, it could be too deep to crawl out of, if he falls. So he’s not going to fall.
He taps against the lower branches with his cane, knocking snow free, and circles the whole tree before getting out his knife and cutting. Even being able to stand on the snow, it’s a laborious process. He reaches as high as he can, cuts branch after branch, and eventually whips off his belt to wrap them into a bundle. It’s going to be heavy. It’s probably also not going to last long back at the shelter.
He eyes the tree, realizing there’s more that could be gotten. Not by him, maybe, and taking all the branches might kill the tree, but if they have to, they have to.
One of the cut ends of the branches is leaking a little sluggish sap, and he catches it on his knife blade and puts it in his mouth, chewing it like gum. The inner bark of this tree is edible, too, but he can’t carry much more, and if he ventures any closer to the trunk, he’ll trip into the well around it. Instead, he picks up his bundle and heads back for the Cafe.
The trip back is painful, arduous. The bundle of branches is heavy. Once he gets back inside, he can cut the caps off the needles and trim the branches a little. It won’t be tasty, but people can chew on the inner bark of them as they thaw. Any waste can go into the fire and it’ll smell good.
“Ever read the Little Mermaid?” he asks the non-present Loki, stepping back into other peoples’ tracks neatly. “I think I’m dancin’ on knives, here.”
But some hot pine needle tea will taste good. For a given value of good. And the sap he’s chewing is a little bit sweet. He’ll drink and rest, and go out again like this as long as he’s got the strength.
“I’m a’ight. Legs actin’ up a little. Nothing I can’t handle.”
“I know he’s safe. I dreamed him.”
“Yeah. I prayed.”
“I reckon if it helps, then, I’ll keep it up.”
He’s up now that the little snake is gone, and he wanders slowly through the room, relying on his cane. The blisters on his legs are mostly healed up, but the ache isn’t going away. The braces feel heavy, but he needs them. So he goes slow as he walks to the door, steps through, and peers at the sky.
He never takes off the coat Loki gave him now, afraid it’ll get stolen, and it seems to get warmer when he’s outside. He’s not cold now, except for his hands and his nose, but he’s hungry, and part of him worries about the ache in his legs that won’t go away. He’s always been thin. His body’s starting to eat itself, maybe, from the inside out.
It seems like all he’s got to carry him through till spring now is love, and a strange gift from Winter. He smiles at the whirling snowflakes; the fall is light right now. A few steps out, he comes into the ruts where people have been walking to and from the Cafe to the Bunker, and he goes that way, slow and easy.
He’s been foraging before, back home. It’s almost useless to try in weather like this. Roots and plants are buried too deep. He’d never get through the snow to them. Ice fishing is probably too dangerous, at least alone. He could bring it up to one of the leaders, but they’d probably only tell him to stay inside and look after himself, and if the opportunity arises they’ll send a scout or a fighter to try for fish. That’s actually reasonable, though he hates to admit it. His legs are hinkier than usual. He could fall right in.
But there are evergreens around the Plaza. Not many, but some. And there are other trees, bare and near-frozen, but their bark can be taken.
“Aunt Winnie used to make pine needle tea,” he says aloud, and in his mind he’s talking to Loki, his Loki, even though he’s not physically present. “It’s got vitamins in it. Might keep some people going a little while.”
Granted, it has to be the right pine, one that’s edible, but he knows where there is one, not far off. It’s a white pine, he remembers. Five threads to a bundle of needles, and little white lines on the spines of ‘em. The trees closest to the buildings have fared better, so far, than the ones further away on paths. The wind freezes things, burns even evergreen leaves and cracks and fells branches. Turning, Cricket steps up onto the snow and chuckles to himself when he finds he still doesn’t sink. Good. He wouldn’t get far without this secret gift.
“I have to do something now, see,” he explains to the people who aren’t there, listening in his head. This time it might be Loki, or it might be the Old Man. “On account of I won’t be able to much longer. Dunno if rickets can come back, but if it can, it will any time now. Not much good to be able to walk on snow if I can’t walk at all.”
He goes softly, careful in spite of the gift he’s been given, tapping his cane to test the solidity of the snow in front of him. He might not sink in it at all, but he’s not sure what would happen if he stepped on a thin crust of ice over a deep pit or broken glass. He doesn’t want to find out. The topography of the plaza is very strange now.
He finds what he’s looking for in short order. It’s smallish, for a pine tree, heavy with snow and ice, branches stretched over an abandoned store. It’s still within the ring of torches, and Cricket doesn’t feel afraid as he approaches.
He’s a mountain boy, and he knows how snow does around trees, making a kind of well around the base of a trunk, one that’s often hidden to humans that approach it because of the low sweep of branches. They rarely got more than two or three feet of snow in Franklin, so stumbling into a tree well was more of an annoyance than a disaster, but here and now, it could be too deep to crawl out of, if he falls. So he’s not going to fall.
He taps against the lower branches with his cane, knocking snow free, and circles the whole tree before getting out his knife and cutting. Even being able to stand on the snow, it’s a laborious process. He reaches as high as he can, cuts branch after branch, and eventually whips off his belt to wrap them into a bundle. It’s going to be heavy. It’s probably also not going to last long back at the shelter.
He eyes the tree, realizing there’s more that could be gotten. Not by him, maybe, and taking all the branches might kill the tree, but if they have to, they have to.
One of the cut ends of the branches is leaking a little sluggish sap, and he catches it on his knife blade and puts it in his mouth, chewing it like gum. The inner bark of this tree is edible, too, but he can’t carry much more, and if he ventures any closer to the trunk, he’ll trip into the well around it. Instead, he picks up his bundle and heads back for the Cafe.
The trip back is painful, arduous. The bundle of branches is heavy. Once he gets back inside, he can cut the caps off the needles and trim the branches a little. It won’t be tasty, but people can chew on the inner bark of them as they thaw. Any waste can go into the fire and it’ll smell good.
“Ever read the Little Mermaid?” he asks the non-present Loki, stepping back into other peoples’ tracks neatly. “I think I’m dancin’ on knives, here.”
But some hot pine needle tea will taste good. For a given value of good. And the sap he’s chewing is a little bit sweet. He’ll drink and rest, and go out again like this as long as he’s got the strength.
