This is the 18th story in a series. Click here to read all parts from the beginning.
“It’s after sunset and almost fully dark. What would you say to a moonlight hunt?”
Ira had just finished spinning a long and convoluted tale about how he’d acquired the warhagalla pelt on the floor by the fireplace. After tracking the beast for days through icy mountain passes, with two companions swept away in an avalanche, he’d cornered it in a rocky canyon and killed it at close range with a spear at midnight. Or so the story went, anyway; I didn’t believe a word of it.
(Creative Commons image via flickr)
Not that I was in any position to comment, after having been stuffed into a drawer for the past few hours. All I could do was listen while Ira cheerfully went on gabbing with the marauders that he’d invited to dinner as if they were his best buddies.
“Just today, there was a warhagalla in the forest nearby, almost twice the size of this one. I have plenty of spears. We could go hunt the beast right now, following its tracks in the snow. Quite a challenge, wouldn’t you say? The pelt goes to the last man standing.”
A loud thud, followed by raucous laughter, followed almost immediately.
“Maybe another time, when you’ve had less to drink and are able to stand,” one of the men chuckled.
“Yes, you’re probably right.” Ira’s voice came from floor level, and I heard scuffling sounds as he pulled himself up after what must have been a very impressive pratfall. He even managed to sound regretful as he added, “You’ll want to get back to your camp before it’s fully dark, then. Let me give each of you a spear and a rug, as gifts to remember our friendship. Next time you pass this way, we can hunt together.”
Ira bustled around for quite some time, gathering up his parting gifts and saying lengthy farewells, before the door finally swung shut behind the departing group. He didn’t pull the drawer open to let me out right away, which of course was smart, making sure they were all really gone. It felt like an eternity went by while Ira washed the dishes at a leisurely pace. When the drawer finally slid open, I stumbled out, blinking in the candlelight and feeling very stiff as I took off my coat and my wet shoes.
“There’s no dinner left for you, I’m sorry,” Ira said, while I lined up the shoes and socks on the hearth to dry. The warhagalla pelt was still in its place, but all the other rugs were gone, along with most of Ira’s spears.
“You can have some dried meat,” he offered, holding out a jar.
I suspected it was rat jerky, and I didn’t have much appetite after smelling mothballs all afternoon in the drawer. Taking a piece anyway, I stretched out my cold and wrinkly toes toward the fire’s warmth.
“Ira, you don’t have any reason to be sorry. You’ve been more than kind. I’m the one who should apologize, for putting you in danger by staying here. Even though I hadn’t realized you were taking a risk by giving me shelter, I should’ve known better. Now you’ve lost all those rugs and spears.”
“I gave them away,” he corrected, in the tone of a teacher lecturing a rather dull student, “and the marauders would have shown up whether or not you’d been here. This wasn’t really a loss; I keep more than I need, so that I have enough for gifts. My mother taught me always to befriend strangers. Whatever I give comes back to me, eventually. That’s how the magic works. When the gang next comes this way, they’ll bring me something that has greater value.”
Wiggling my toes, which by now were starting to feel more normal, I tried to make sense of Ira’s assertion. My first thought was that it might be some kind of religious belief, like Wiccans I’d met in Knoxville who believed they got back threefold whatever they put into the universe. Then, glancing at the fur coat that I’d hung back on its peg, I followed that logic to its uncomfortable conclusion.
“I was a stranger, and you invited me into your home,” I said slowly, reasoning it out as I went along. “You spoke the friendship charm over a meal, and then you cast a language spell so I could understand you. The next day, you gave me the fur coat, which was especially valuable to you because it had been your mother’s. So, that means I owe you something of greater value…”
“You owe nothing.” Ira cut me off sharply, raising his voice for emphasis. “Gifts must be freely given. Otherwise, they are not true gifts. Whatever comes back is never the result of a debt or obligation. It is simply a matter of balance in the world.”
This was definitely sounding like religion. I didn’t have any idea what to say. I had nothing of value besides the clothes on my back, which wouldn’t have come close to fitting Ira even if I had wanted to give them away.
“I guess you can have my Timex, if you want it. But time doesn’t seem to run the same way here,” I said dubiously, looking down at my left wrist. My Ironman watch, set to Eastern European Summer Time, was showing ten A.M. on July 12, and the band was much too small for Ira regardless.
He glanced at the watch without much interest. “The people of our cities had timekeeping devices, long ago. It’s not a life I would want, having so little connection to the natural rhythms of the seasons. Keep your device, and don’t concern yourself with what you might give me in return for the coat. Maybe you’ll find something valuable in the forest, or in a ruined building; or an idea for a gift will come to you in a dream. Everything comes into balance when the time is right.”
I still felt mostly clueless, but this time I just nodded and said, “Okay.”
