Rudi stretched and yawned. The sun was probably barely down outside, but they were all ready for rest.
"I'm part Anishinabe myself," he said. "One-eighth. My father's mother's mother was Ojibwa. My blood father came from your part of the world-farther north and east a bit, if I remember the old maps."
Ingolf nodded. You wouldn't have thought it from the way the young man looked, except maybe the high set of his cheekbones and the slightly tilted eyes.
"And I'm a member in good standing of the tribe called hungry, " Edain said.
He mixed meal from a bag in his pack with melted snow and set the dough on a thin metal plate over the fire that he greased with a pat of butter. It rose and browned, filling the shelter with a mouthwatering smell that was not quite like baking bread but close enough; Ingolf felt his hunger return as warmth and the scent reminded him of just how much effort his body had put out today. The meal was premixed with baking soda and a little salt, a Mackenzie trick he admired; it gave you something a lot better than the usual travelers' ash cake.
The rest of their supper was the last of the pork chops and trail food; after today they'd be down to leathery, salty smoked sausage for meat to go with the hard cheese and dried fruit. Oatmeal and some of the fruit went into a pot of water, to cook overnight in the ashes and be ready for breakfast.
"When you're hungry enough, this all tastes good," Rudi said.
"When you're hungry enough, your bootlaces taste good," Ingolf said tolerantly. "Hope we don't come to that on this trip."
Though we probably will, sooner or later, he thought, and went on aloud: "Now for another trick."
He'd collected the saplings he needed along with the firewood, and he had plenty of leather thongs in his pack; a few minutes' work gave him two teardrop-shaped snowshoes, a little crude but usable. The Mackenzies watched carefully as the shavings peeled away from the wood beneath his knife and he tied the ends together and knotted the webwork across. The only tricky part was the square opening in the middle and the loop to catch the toe of a boot.
"I've heard of those, but I've never actually used them," Rudi said, turning one over in his hands. "Skis yes, sometimes, snowshoes no. Not much call for them down in the valley."
"There's nothing like them for deep snow in the woods," Ingolf said. "Especially when you don't know the ground; you've got better control than you do on skis, even if it's slower. Your turn."
He watched closely, but the two younger men were both good with tools and used to handling wood and leather, and produced passable if not elegant results.
Then they played paper-stone scissors to see who'd take which night watch. Nothing was likely to hit them from the outside in weather like this unless it was a par ticularly mean bear, but someone had to keep the fire carefully, given the combination of open flame and the tinderbox materials of their shelter.
Then the two Mackenzies made their evening prayers; it made Ingolf feel a little self conscious about the way he'd gotten lax over the years, so he said a rosary. It would have made old Father Matthew smile, anyway.
"Wish we were over the mountains already, though," Edain said, wrapping himself in his sleeping bag and stretching out on the crackling, sweet scented boughs. A smile: "Mom told me not to get my feet wet, you see."
Garbh curled up against his stomach; now that it wasn't so cold in here it smelled powerfully of wet dog, the wet leather of their boots and gear and the tallow that greased it, and the more pleasant scents of fir sap and the sputtering coals and the slowly cooking oat meal. Even the muted howling of the wind was comforting, with a full belly and a soft place to sleep.
"Wish we didn't have to leave at all," Rudi added. "Curse the Prophet and whatever it was you saw on Nantucket both, Ingolf. Nothing personal."
"Not much point in cursing it, any more than the weather," Ingolf said, twisting to find a comfortable position. "Mind you, times like this I wish I was settled down somewhere with a nice warm girl and a good farm, myself."
"No, it doesn't help… but cursing it makes me feel a little better," Rudi said, flashing him a grin.
"I'd settle for the nice warm girl right now, meself," Edain said. "Not that you two aren't good compan ions for the trail, but you're a mite hairy and smelly for perfection."
"Bite your tongue," Rudi said. "You might be camping out with my half sisters."
"No offense, Chief, but…" Edain said, and shuddered theatrically.
"You two done much traveling together?" Ingolf asked. In other words, "Why did you pick this kid?"
"Just a wee bit, you might say," Rudi said. "And he was with me up at Tillamook last year, when the Haida hit us."
"So was Garbh," Edain said, and thumped the dog's ribs.
"Yeah, but she wasn't so useful," Rudi said. "Tell the man about it, Edain-we're all going to be together a long time, and we need to know one another."
"Chief-"
Modesty, Ingolf decided, listening to the protest in the tone. Who'd'a thunk it?
"Wait a minute," he said. "Wasn't that the fight where Saba's husband got killed?"
"Sure and it was," Rudi said. "He was on a trading trip; the Brannigans and their kin are all good at that. Myself and Edain and a few friends had been travel ing up north, seeing the sights, you might say, and went along with Raen and his wagons for the last bit when they headed to Tillamook. I know the baron there, and could introduce them. Then…"
Edain stayed silent. Rudi snorted. "You tell him or I will, boyo!"
"Everything was fine until we got to the coast," Edain said at last, starting slowly, as if dragging things out of the well of memory that wanted to stay submerged. "This was… by the Wise Lord, more than a year ago now. Fall of the year before last. We were riding along and singing-"
County Tillamook,
Portland Protective Association
Coastal Oregon
October 1, CY21/2019 A.D.
It was upon a Lammas night
When corn rigs are bonny
Beneath the Moon's unclouded light
I lay awhile with Molly…
The song died away, muffled in the clinging mist, and they rode on in silence; though usually you couldn't get four young Mackenzie clansfolk to shut up, riding abroad for adventure and strange sights. The air was too thick, and the way it drank sound made the song forlorn.
I feel like a ghost, Edain Aylward Mackenzie thought, peering through the fog.
Then he shivered a little at the thought, spitting leftward to avert the omen and signing the Horns. Thick morning mist off the sea puffed and billowed about them, and moisture dripped from the boughs of the roadside trees. Drifts wandered over the graveled way; the fetlocks of the horses stirred it like a man's breath in smoke. Slow wet wind soughed through the Coast Range firs behind him, louder than the sounds of the little caravan's hooves and wheels; the Association baron and Rudi Mackenzie rode directly ahead.
"These clansfolk have come all the way from Sutter down to see about your cheeses and smoked salmon," Rudi said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards the wagons. "Not to mention that attar of roses stuff you wrote about. If trade's not below your notice, Juhel."
"Men with wheatfields and vineyards in their demesne and Portland on their doorstep can afford to get picky about derogeance, " the young baron growled. "What I've got is trees, grass, cows, potatoes and fish. God has given this land and these people into my charge-and now that I'm Anne's guardian, the whole of goddamned County Tillamook's on my plate till she's come of age, not just Barony Netarts. It's up to me to see to it the people prosper. I'm sick of courtiers making jokes about Tillamookers in wooden shoes."
Edain listened and snorted quietly to himself. He'd seen enough in this visit to know that any Association aristo would say that sort of thing, and a lot of them were right bastards all the same. Evidently Rudi thought this one meant it, though-he'd gotten to know the man while he was up north in Protectorate territory on his yearly visits.