The Last Day of Winter

Trigger Warning: This story contains a mild mention of blood, minor violence, and slightly scary imagery.

A biting cold nipped at Grevan’s ears as he trudged through the waist deep blanket of snow covering the field in which he laid as a child. He reached his cracked mud-stained fingers up to the dark leather collar draped over his shoulder, pulling it up to shelter his exposed neck and ears. He continued to plod through the frozen wasteland that laid before him, his old joints cracking and creaking like an old wooden ship rocking at its moorings. Grevan looked down towards the snowy earth. He gazed into it, reading the small splotches of red that told a story of predator and prey, of man’s struggle to walk the knife edge between starvation and succumbing to his natural instinct of becoming one of the beasts that shared his alpine home. He stepped slowly and carefully, feeling the ground through his tanned leather boots, gauging each step for sticks before committing his full weight.

He slowly began creeping through the veil of trees at the edge of the field, for a moment pausing as he felt his heart begin to beat faster. He took several icy breaths, hoping that the frozen fog he let out wouldn’t betray his position amongst the bushes. Peering around the trunk of a large birch tree he could see his mark, a lean rabbit, limping in agony from the leg Grevan had so skillfully managed to hit with his sling. He dropped one end of the wrapped cord, placed a smooth round stone into the leather pouch, and grasped both ends loosely allowing the stone to sway back and forth in it’s saddle. He took a moment to thank the rabbit for it’s sacrifice, grateful that on this, the last day of winter, he would be able to fill his belly. As he grasped the cords tighter, he thought for a moment that the rabbit knew, that it had seen him and was preparing itself to run. Fear entered Grevan’s heart as the thought of losing this meal entered his mind, the guttural noises within him urging him to action. With one swift swing he brought up his sling, whipped it in a horrific arc around his body and loosed the stone.

Crack! The stone connected with the small white mammal as it dropped to its side. Like a bolt of lightning Grevan unleashed himself. He tumbled and ran, his aged joints and ligaments crying at him to take it slower, to ease himself into his attack, but with the heart, pride, and stomach of a young man he pushed onward towards the rabbit. Before it could right itself and make its escape, Grevan grasped the creature and released its soul back into nature. With a primal scream Grevan let out all the anguish that had plagued him on this hunt, his heart and body hurting for his actions that would keep him living. He placed the creature in his shoulder pouch and began the long trek back to the grove that he called home.

Some hours later with the warmth of the fire bringing relief to Grevan’s aching muscles, he sat in solitude waiting for the meat to become hot and tender. Spring is coming, it is nearly time for new life, he thought. He looked down at his wrinkled and cracked hands as he reflected on what this life had brought him. A kind of warm peace had found his heart in recent times. Where he had once trod with bluster and arrogance, he would now stride reserved and humble, a jagged stone worn smooth and round by the river of time. Seasons past had taught him that it wouldn’t take much for him to switch places with the rabbit he so eagerly waited to feast upon. Harsh winters and dark nights spent huddled around a fire too small to fully warm his heart had begun within him a metamorphosis. With his only companion being the pangs of hunger from days without food he had learned that life was fragile, and even he could succumb to the forces around him. Just as the harshness of winter had changed him, so did the warm summers ripe with fresh honey from beehives, red berries that would bring a sanguine smile to his lips, and breezy days among the wildflowers. They had curbed his desire to tame these lands, and instilled within him a desire to observe and respect the land around him.

With the scent of cooked rabbit wafting towards him he could wait no longer. Grevan reach forth towards the scarlet flames before him and with a swift cat like swipe he held this delicious treat in his grasp. He looked over the skewered rabbit and eyed it greedily. I really should be saving some of this, but winter will end tomorrow and that is something worth celebrating he thought. As he began licking his lips, he closed his eyes nearly able to taste the savory juices of his hunt when like a crack of lightning the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up.

It took Grevan a second to realize exactly what feeling had invaded his psyche. Was it excitement? No, was it happiness or joy? No. In his mind he could see himself crouching in the bushes behind a birch tree, poised to strike with his sling, but why could he see himself? Looking around he felt a pain in his leg and could see red streaks in the snow below his cotton white paws. He was the rabbit, and what he was feeling was the hunter that laid in wait preparing to strike. Grevan opened his eyes, now zeroed in on this feeling, he knew he had but seconds to act. Grevan hastened to his feet, ignoring the deafening cries of his joints and muscles. He glanced behind him to see several sets of amber colored eyes looking back at him through the tree line. As he began his crucial sprint he tossed the rabbit to the side hoping to distract one or two and flung himself towards the fire. He reached down with his weatherworn hands to grab a large branch that was sticking out of the flames. The encumbering numbness brought on by the cold made his fingers feel like wild dogs, refusing to follow commands. He cried out as he demanded his fingers grasp the stick, and without stopping he continued his break for freedom. Sprinting forward in a mad dash to get into the far woods, he brought his hand forward to find that his fingers had relented and done as he had asked, for he was wielding the makeshift torch. Glancing back behind him he could see four bodies in pursuit. Demons of white and grey nimbly weaving their way through the drifts in the field, amber eyes focused on him as pink tongues begged for the succulent sanguine feast that Grevan would provide them.

Grevan looked forward, and back again, quickly judging if he would find shelter among the trees, his soul begging him to fly like a bird. The wolves were gaining, each stride bringing them closer to their meal. No, its so close! It’s the last night of winter, I only have to make it one more night! He thought. It cannot end like this. His muscles groaned and cried under his weight singing an opera of agony, a song of sorrow, a prelude to his demise. Grevan could see the Wolves coming closer, hear their pants behind him. He swung wildly with the torch behind him, refusing to stagger his steps. Looking back he could see one had pulled ahead of the rest. He brought his arm back and with a twist and tear he threw the torch. Without watching to see the effect that his throw had, he ripped his body back around and continued his sprint, his chest burning with each heaving breath.

Grevan waited to look back again, waiting for the sound of a wolf’s cries. Praying that his throw had hit it’s mark and the beasts would be dissuaded from continuing their hunt. With his heart pounding in his chest, an oppressive clock now counting down the seconds to his demise, Grevan turned his head around to see that the creatures were nearly upon him. His steps slowed as he came to a stop, he closed his eyes and waited for the end. In his mind’s eye he could see back to all the things he would miss the most: the first apples of the fall, watching the salmon swimming upstream, laying in a field of wildflowers and letting the bees land on his toes. He waited for what felt like an eternity to feel the tearing of claws and the gnashing of teeth to begin rending the flesh from his body, but he found no release from this tension. With his eyes still closed he waited and noticed a change in the air. His nose that had been running seconds before was dry, and the biting cold that he had become so accustomed to now carried a warm and gentle breeze. It hugged and caressed his face as he began to open his eyes. His muscles no longer ached, and his coat felt much lighter and looser on his wiry frame. As he gazed towards where the bringers of his death had been and he was greeted by an incandescent sunrise, the dawn of a new season.

Looking around he could see that with the winds of season’s change the forest had yet again brought new life to those who resided here. The snow and ice had gone, and new buds began to sprout on the trees around him. He looked at his now supple and smooth hands, un-sullied by the elements of a harsh winter. He doffed his heavy coat and let the bare skin of his chest bake in the morning sunshine. Breathing in the soft smell of spring he thought to himself, maybe this is it, maybe this is the end. Would it be so bad to live young and spry again? While his body had changed, his mind was still wise, aged like a tall tree no longer striving to break through the forest canopy, but basking in the rays above. He finally mustered the courage to glance down. At his feet he could see four small black bundles of fur, each gently warbling across the ground, softly grunting, and whining at the change of events.

Grevan walked back to where he had thrown the rabbit, grabbed it, and brought it back to where he had nearly met his end. He knelt down and fed each of the pups a small piece of his hunt. His gravelly voice rang out as he said “Perhaps next year you will be successful, and maybe I will change from the hunter to the hunted”