This is the 14th story in a series. Click here to read all parts from the beginning.
On the morning after the blizzard, I woke to the cabin door banging shut after it let in a frigid blast of wind. Fragments of a dream fell away—something about a pickup truck on a narrow road in the mountains. I stretched and sat up, feeling stiff after another night of having slept on the rug in front of the fireplace. My head pounded, which I had to admit wasn’t a result of the sleeping arrangements.
“Note to self,” I muttered, “lay off the alien booze.”
Ira hung his snow-covered coat on a peg by the door, next to the coat he’d cut down to a smaller size for me. After yesterday’s creepy discussion of the local predators, I made sure to arm myself with one of the larger knives from Ira’s box before stepping outside. It fit into a loop of the coat’s belt like a dagger and left me looking suitably warlike—not that I had any plans to slay dragons on the way to the latrine.
Last night’s heavy snowfall came almost to my shoulders, with higher drifts in some places. It was a good thing for me that Ira had gone out first. I followed the path left by his much larger body until I got into the shelter of the trees. The branches hung low, but there wasn’t as much snow under them.
(Creative Commons image via flickr)
The outline of the trench that served as the latrine was clearly visible. And whatever might be said about Ira’s cooking, it didn’t induce constipation. My lower parts hadn’t gotten too chilled before I was finished. Shoveling dirt into the used area of the trench didn’t take long, either. Ira had helpfully left the shovel propped up on the dirt mound, making it easy to find. I decided this wasn’t too bad of a start to the day.
Well—it wasn’t bad until I heard a low growl from the trees on the other side of the trench, where large orange eyes gleamed. The bearlike warhagalla looked much bigger in real life than the pelt of its unfortunate relation that I’d been using as my bed. While it might have been an exaggeration to say the beast was slavering, I did see a glint of fangs that were much too long and sharp for my liking.
Trying not to look nervous, I backed up a step, holding the shovel in front of me like a medieval pikeman about to face a cavalry charge. The shovel’s handle was much longer and thicker than anything sized for humans, which made it somewhat useful as a weapon. I wasn’t entirely confident that the shovel would stay in one piece, though, as rusty as it looked.
Absurdly intruding on the scene, a winged rodent flew out from behind a tree, singing sweetly. It was considerably larger than the others I’d seen, resembling a great fat woodchuck. Flying slowly, with its bright pink wings pumping for all they were worth, it came close enough that I had the good view I’d wanted yesterday. Its melodic tones echoed from the snow-covered trees like a hymn at an outdoor church service. If I got eaten, I’d at least have music for my funeral.
With that thought, I finally lost control and hollered, “Oh, will you just shut up already!”
The rodent, looking startled, fell silent—just as the warhagalla sprang.
