Where the Moon Lies

Title: Where the Moon Lies
Author: Azalea J.
Warnings: Angst. Character Death.
Disclaimer: This is a work of Original Fiction. All characters and settings belong to the author Azalea J.
Word Count: Approx. 10 200

- Chapter Two -
Every step brought Finn’s boots crunching down into the deep snow. The further west they traveled, the deeper it seemed to get.

Jesse kept in step beside him, mindful of hidden gullies beneath the snow. The harsh living was more than difficult at times, yet Jesse bore it well; at ten, he’d taken to the wandering life of a tracker quite exceptionally.

Further behind father and son, Kingsley trotted merrily. At eight, she still looked to be barely a filly; she came up to Jesse’s shoulders, and could carry their blankets easily enough, but not much else. But she was still a child; at eight, a horse would usually be in its prime.

The night of Candace’s death, Finn had packed up, saddled the family's one horse, and set out into the wild, sparring nary a glance back. Jesse, two years old, rode with their things, tired and unquestioning, and Finn led with Kingsley in his arms, the foal too weak yet to walk on her own.

He’d buried Candace of course; took the time to send her off properly. He’d cleaned the house and burned the birthing linins.

And left.

The villagers, while circumspect in their daily lives, would notice Candace’s disappearance. And his howling would have attracted other rumors. It wouldn’t have been long before the village men came calling to demand an explanation. Some of the village women had known Candace quite well. He would not risk his daughter to open scrutiny.

For a time they struggled dearly just to stay alive. Finn could more than easily fend for himself; he was, after all, a being of the wild. Taking care of two young children; however, was near impossible. Jesse turned out to be quite the little helper, and Finn praised Candace’s memory ever higher that she had taken care to teach their son the basics of life. It was he who noticed how pale Kingsley looked in those early days, and suggested milk.

This led to a nightly search for a farmstead with birthing cows, and many more long nights of stealing in during the late hours of the night to milk the beasts before anyone in the house had stirred to do the same. Kingsley guzzled the cream and gained color quickly.

After a month of this, the filly grew enough to walk and graze on her own, and learned well enough to feed herself.

Jesse never questioned that his sister was a horse, it all made perfect sense to a child. He called her affectionately ‘King,’ and played with her as a brother would - albeit with a lot more sore ribs from eager head buts and kicks.

Finn fell back on his old trade of tracker with ease; hunting down pelts of both warmth and beauty to trade and sell at any town they happened to pass through. In town he did his best to inquire subtly after the local witch, in hopes of finding one who might be able to lift his daughters curse. The western regions seemed no more benign towards witches than they had been in Candace’s hometown, and were becoming even scarcer. Witches he did manage to meet were wholly unable to do anything.

He bought them clothes and rare necessities whenever he had the money to spare, but mostly they lived off the land.

Yes, a harsh life, but one he was well accustomed to. It didn’t take long for Jesse to get used to it also; and King, of course, seemed as adaptable as any horse, so long as there was grass to graze.

At times he yearned for the life for his children that had been taken from them. A life in a warm home with a loving mother and toys instead of cold blankets and hard ground. A hometown where they could go to school and learn things and meet friends. He pushed these thoughts aside and reminded himself that things were as they were, and learning to live in the wild now would make Jesse - and King - better off in the long run.

Finn kept all of them on the move, and taught his children a respectable fear of other people, though to be courteous to them on the rare times when they needed to speak with them. While there had been no signs of pursuit or inquiry in his direction since leaving Candace and their home, he remained alert, just in case.

Once, Finn attempted to settle in to a more open-minded town he’d found, hoping to get Jesse some proper schooling while he was still young enough to soak it all up. But when a merchant tried to buy that magnificent young mare from him, they left at once, back into the wild.

During the new moons Finn would carefully shelter his children in a hollow or beneath the thick bows of an evergreen, and leave them with their supper and a calmly burning fire. He would take himself far away and transform where they would not be able to see nor hear. It was for their safely, after all, that they not know Finn was a werewolf until Jesse’s time was upon him. He would tell them both then.

Neither Jesse nor King ever questioned his absences.

Had Finn stayed; however, he would have learned something miraculous about his daughter's curse.

Snow crunching merrily beneath his boots, Finn continued to look ahead. It got dark fast this time of year, and finding shelter was paramount. Too, while Jesse kept even pace with his father as always, Finn could tell the boy was getting tired. So was King, who had ceased her loping pace and now walked sleepily along behind them, her head held low.

A loud shuffing sound came from the trees, and as one the small troupe halted and listened intently. Even King stood frozen where she was, her soft breath puffing out of her wide nostrils, her tail flicking eagerly behind her.

Jesse pulled his bow - the small one Finn had made him - from his back with slow, measured movements, his eyes attempting to pierce the spaces between the white birch trees and the snow.

Finn likewise strung his long bow in silence, his eyes darting around, blinking to keep the large flakes from obscuring his sight. Pulling an arrow from the quiver strung across his back, he knocked it, and pulled back until the fletching brushed his ear.

The shuffing continued, and after a long moment, Jesse tapped his fathers leg, nodding to their left.

Following his son's motions, Finn’s keen eyesight made out the thick winter coat of the wolverine, laboriously burrowing through the snow. Finn led the animal with his arrow, then finally relaxed his arm and put the arrow back in his quiver. “Pelt’s too mottled to get us a good price, and we’ve got enough meat to last us the next few nights.”

Jesse nodded and slung his bow back over his shoulder, and King came up to him and nuzzled his open palm while they waited for Finn to repack his. Jesse scratched under her chin affectionately. “King’s gettin’ kinda tired, pa.”

“Mmm. So’re you.”

Jesse wasn't about to argue that.

“See any needle trees?”

Jesse looked around, his fingers moving from King’s chin to behind her ears, scratching firmly. “No… s’all birch and may… and alder.”

“Well that’s ill luck.” Finn straightened and slung his pack across his shoulders. He came over and held out an apple to King, who bit it in half, eagerly. She swallowed, and stole the remaining half, swallowing just as fast. Chuckling, Finn ripped a strip of pemmican in half and shared with Jesse. “We’ll press on for another hour. If we can’t find anything it’ll be another dug out.”

“'Kay, pa.”

Another hour turned up no needle trees with bows low enough and thick enough to provide shelter; no hollows, and no banks; no shelter of any kind. Resignedly, Finn and Jesse dropped their packs, removed their blankets from King, and began to dig.

King tried to help, but grew bored in short form and trotted off.

With mitten-ed hands and booted feet, father and son dug down into the snow. The first layers of fresh snow parted easily. When they hit the lower levels, packed down by the weight of that above, they began to kick and push it aside, until they had two feet of snow-wall, and enough dead grass for the three of them to curl up with their packs.

Hoping out of the small hole, Jesse snagged their packs and blankets and bounded back, while his father lifted King and carried her in - so she wouldn’t crash through the wall trying to get in on her own. She was used to this, and besides a soft whinny, didn’t struggle.

Finn secured their largest blanket above them; it would keep out the night wind and fresh snow, and help to keep in the heat. Jesse rolled out a blanket over him and his pa, another over King, and with their packs for lumpy pillows, they fell asleep to the sounds of King sleepily ripping up the damp, dead grass around her.

In the morning they crawled from their dug out with warm fingers and numb legs. After shaking the snow and grass from their blankets, Jesse hung them up over knobby branches to dry a bit before they left. King snagged one right out of the tree, and started a game of keep-away which served to get their blood pumping, and gave Finn the time he needed to get the breakfast fire going.

Tired and flushed, Jesse hung up the last blanket, and tromped over to their packs to find the bag of grits and oats. Winter rations at their finest.

Finn took the small sack and poured enough for Jesse and himself into the small traveling pot he had suspended on a branch stuck at an angle above the flames. Taking the bag back, Jesse dug inside as he made his way over to King. Pulling out a fistful, he offered it to her palm up. It was all gone in a matter of seconds, and Jesse cast a hasty look over at his father, before plunging his hand back into the bag to offer King one more ration. Her big eyes looked into his merrily; she knew Finn wouldn’t really mind. When Jesse’s hand had been licked clean, she snorted contentedly, and pranced her way over to the nearest alder tree. Birch bark was dry and papery even in the summer, and only porcupines and deer were capable and patient enough to wear away the layers to the juicer fare within. May trees were full of knots just beneath the smooth outer bark. But Alder trees were filled with fresh yew from the outermost layer, and King happily began to nibble at the trunk until she could get a grip with her grasping lips and teeth, and pulled off strip after strip to munch at happily while the rest of her family toiled over the fire.

Jesse and Finn squatted above the snow and ate the spongy mass of cooked grits and oats from the pan set between them - a small teaspoon of sugar and it wasn’t too bad. In the early winter months they might also have some dried berries left to add for additional flavoring, but had exhausted that stock long ago, and hadn’t seen a town for weeks.

“How can you tell if a buck’s full grown?”

“Two or more points.”

Finn nodded, swallowing and allowing the porridge to heat his throat and settle warmly in his stomach. “And the best way to bring one down?”

“Head.”

“You think we’ll spot one today?”

Jesse looked up with a grin, oats stuck to the corner of his mouth. “Not unless it’s a fallow. Most of the herds have moved on west to avoid winter predator territory. And that’s where we’re headed: west, so we can down us some pretty bucks, just after the spring rut.”

Finn rumpled Jesse’s toque with a smile.

After rubbing snow in the tiny pot to clean it out, Jesse melted snow in it, and they used that to wash their faces, necks and hands; before washing the spoons and cleaning the pot more thoroughly. Pot and spoons dried, Finn began packing everything up.

Jesse tromped back over to the blankets, mostly dry, and began rolling them up. These he tied to King’s back with a smooth leather strap and buckle. They were hardly heavy, and she didn’t mind; King had been carrying their blankets since she could walk, though both she and Jesse would be hard-pressed to remember that far back.

It was a clearer day than the other, and the snow had stopped falling in the night. Through the tangled bare branches above they could see the sky was blue as a jay’s crest. King lopped through the deep snow ahead of them, ranging out far but never out of sight. She startled sparrows out of the denser brush and bellowed as only a foal could at a magpie; who puffed itself out and cawed indignantly.

With legs thicker than hers, and heavy boots weighing them down, Finn and Jesse legged behind, but moved at a brisk pace all the same. Finn pointed out trees and birds and named the one’s Jesse had never seen before, quizzing him on the one’s he had. He had Jesse recite to him the location of the best and most life-giving meat in the tiniest of birds, and told him which bark made the best tea for the winter cough, and how to properly brew it. He pointed out poison oak, sticking up ruefully through the snow cover, and Jesse knowledgably informed him of the grasses, even in winter, that could be used to bind a poison oak sting, and would help to sooth the itch and help it heal. Oftentimes Jesse would stop his pa mid-sentence and interject questions of his own. Even if Finn couldn’t get his son a decent education in the maths and sciences, teaching Jesse everything he did know was the next best thing.

For the last week Finn had been focusing mainly on different barks and their never-ending uses. His talk of a tea prompted more questions from Jesse that soon had Finn talking animatedly of the teas his mother once used to make. All sorts of tea - most made from barks soaked and crushed in various ways; other were made from leaves both dried and fresh. The rare tea’s from fermented moss and grasses, some could be flavored and others left alone. Mistress Decanter had been well known for her teas. Finn recalled to Jesse how any ailment - didn’t matter how severe - could be cured with the right tea. At Jesse’s enthusiastic interest, he continued to recount as many of them as he could remember, and the recitation took the sun its daily march.

Finn glanced up at the pale orb with a concealed mix of unsettled eagerness. King was walking behind them now, plodding to and from their path to investigate various interesting things sticking out of the snow.

Jesse’s store of questions seemed to be exhausted - for the moment - and he lapsed into silence with his father as they both began to search for the night's shelter.

They were lucky tonight; cresting a small rise they spotted an eroded soil bank just a few yards from their trail. Pushing through the snow to reach it, Finn eyed the large fir growing crookedly from the bank; its roots were thick and struck the bank at odd angles, coiling and roping. In the crook of the thicker roots, backed by the bank, with the spruce bows tangled thick overhead, Jesse and King would be perfectly safe and warm.

Working together, with King grazing nearby, Finn and Jesse unrolled the blankets and made a bed big enough for the boy and filly, with another blanket covering the opening; so much better than a dugout.

Finn started a fire beneath the outer bows of the fir, where the snow wasn’t very deep at all, and got snow melted and heating over the fire. Meat from their last kill was stored in a grizzly’s bladder at the bottom of his pack; this he unrolled and began to slice up into cubes with his bowie; each cube dropped into the lukewarm water.

Jesse took King away from the fire, and together they made a game of kicking aside snow from questionable bulges. In winter, some herbs and wild vegetables remained preserved - though wilted - beneath the snow. Sometimes they were lucky and found something to add flavor to their supper.

From a few yards away, King whinnied, and Jesse raced over to see what she’d unearthed. “That’s great, King! Pa!”

Finn grunted from the fireside, laboriously rolling up the leftover meat and sticking the bladder back in the bottom of his pack.

“King found some onion!”

Finn looked up, his eyes bright. “This deep in the forest? You sure it ain't rabbitbush?”

Jesse bent and tugged up the sinewy greens. “How the hell can you mistake rabbitbush for onion?” He grumbled, tromping over to show his father. “See?”

“Well kick me on my hooch. Onion.”

With a proud grin Jesse sat in the snow by the fire and snagged his pa's bowie from its sheath. He sliced up bits of the onion that weren’t completely brown or wilted, and sent them plopping into the water, now frothing merrily in the pot. The onion floated back up to the surface and bunched around the cubes of meat already cooking.

As Jesse cast aside the remains of the plant, Finn tossed him a small potato. “Last one.”

Bowie in hand, Jesse sliced the potato into the pot as well.

After her discovery, King nibbled around and kicked at the snow until she’d unearthed another tuft of onion. Nipping at it, she chewed and swallowed voraciously, then kicked around for more. After a while of searching without luck, she made her way back to her brother and lay down behind him. Jesse leaned back on her as he sliced, and comforting heat passed back and forth between the siblings.

Finn was rifling through his pack, which was starting to look as wilted as the onions. “We’re going to have to do some foraging tomorrow, Jess."

“But this forest’s too young and bare. The whole thing's leaf trees, this is the first needle tree we’ve found; there's not gonna be much to find.”

“True. But we’ve only half a bag of flour left, half a bag of grits, no potatoes, two more apples - which King’ll eat tonight - and the last of the skunk meat.” Finn looked up at Jesse. “Mid-winters a hard time, Jesse.”

“I know.” And he did, there hadn’t been a winter yet when they hadn’t run out of food. Foraging was bad these parts, they could only carry so much, and they had to be careful to only carry what wouldn’t spoil too quick.

“Alright.” Finn tucked one apple away, and tossed the other over to Jesse, who passed it on quickly to King. “When I return tomorrow morning, you and I’ll shave this tree down to add to our flour supply. We’ll search around and see if there aren’t any more onion growing around - you find one, sometimes you find a whole garden. King can watch camp and we’ll go out and see if we can’t down anything as well. We might also find an alder with catkins the birds have left alone - though prob'ly not. We’ll stay another night and make flapjacks in the morning. Then head out. Sound like a plan?”

“Sounds like a dang good plan!” The idea of flapjacks had Jesse's stomach doing flip-flops.

By this time the fire had calmed; the water in the pot bubbling contentedly. Finn took one of their two spoons and stirred it carefully. Jesse leaned forward eagerly.

“Still needs a bit of time.”

Jesse sank back against King with a sigh.

The sun was casting their shadows far out across the snow by the time the stew had been consumed and everything cleaned. Jesse began to pack things neatly away in the hollow while Finn went out from under the fir and began snapping off more branches for the fire. They wouldn’t need it; even with the clear sky and silent air threatening a calm night, the hollow and blankets and each other's warmth would be more than enough to keep them warm all night long. But it settled Finn’s nerves more to know there was something extra protecting his children while he was away. Dumping the branches in a pile a foot from the fire, Finn bent and rumpled Jesse’s hair. “You two good?”

“Yeah, pa. We’ll be fine.”

Finn knelt down beside King and scratched her nose. “You good, pretty girl?”

King snorted, pushing her nose into his hand.

“Right then. I’ll see you two in the morning.” Finn gave a short wave, then walked off briskly into the forest.

Jesse watched him until his silhouette had faded among the birch trees, then turned back to tend to the fire. Behind the hollow, the sun was setting rapidly.

King noticed. Restlessly she got to her feet and began to trot around their camp, snorting and tossing her head.

Jesse poked the fire and grinned at her. “You’d better be back under here by the time that sun sets or you’ll be one frozen girl.”

She eyed him merrily, and pranced back to the fireside.

Grunting with exaggerated weariness, Jesse pushed himself up from his knees and went back two feet to their bed, taking his time. Pulling out one of the blankets, he held it out to King just as the sun set.

For a moment, the entire forest was bathed in the pink embers of the sun; time seemed to stop in that moment; the whole world gone silent. And then everything went a pale blue and suddenly got a lot colder, and a naked King took a last stride to her brother, and accepted the blanket with pale fingers. “Thanks, Jess.”

“No problem.” Jesse went back to the fire and King followed, sitting down next to him and curling up to his side, swaddled in her blanket. Jesse never told his father of his sister's changes; it never even crossed his mind that his father did not already know.

Throwing more sticks on the small flame, Jesse asked his sister with a laugh in his voice. “What got into that magpie’s feathers today?”

King laughed, her voice quiet and weak when she spoke. Raspy. “I think I stepped on something it wanted to eat.”

Jesse really did laugh this time. “Did you know you can make tea out of a rock?”

“How?”

“It has to be a special kind of rock - it’s yellow and it breaks into pieces when you try to pick it up. You soak it, and it dissolves!”

“Really? I’d like to see that someday.”

“Me too.”

“Can I have the other apple now?”

“Oh! Yeah.” Jesse got up and fetched the apple, sitting back down he resumed poking at the fire with his stick, and King bit into her treat juicily.

Water ran down her chin and her eyes danced as she wiped it up then licked it off her fingers. “It’s easier when you can just eat the core and everything.” She said.

“Yeah. It’d be nice to have a winter coat that snow can’t get under.”

“It is!” She smiled at him, her mouth shining with the apple juices. Her eyes were the same dark green now as Jesse’s and their pa's; her hair just as black, her skin just as tanned. Only her voice was different: rough and unused. Soft.

They talked long into the night. In the summer, when it was warmer, they could run and play tag together. Winter was quieter, all about conserving heat and energy, but this was fine. Things were fine. Jesse told King everything Finn had told him when she had been too far ahead to hear, and in return King revealed all the interesting scents she’d smelled over the course of the month, things she’d seen, and questions she had. Jesse continued to feed the fire until all the sticks were gone. And then, finally, they retired to bed, letting the last of the embers burn themselves out. Curled up together in the hollow, sharing their heat and trusting the blankets to keep it all inside, they slept like children.

---

As Finn walked away he held Jesse’s trusting smile, and King’s bright eyes, in his mind. He renewed his promise to himself that just as soon as Jesse reached his thirteenth summer he’d tell him what he really was. He’d reveal his wolf form to his son, and explain Kingsley’s curse to both of them and make sure they understood. He’d explain to Jesse that he too would be a wolf one day, and it would be difficult at first to control the instincts of the wolf. Finn would tell his son that despite this, he would grow to love his wolf form more than he loved his own soul.

He would tell them, he promised, all in good time, and in good time before Jesse’s first change.

Far enough away that even King’s scent was little more than a memory on the air, Finn shucked his clothing, folded them, and tucked them away at the base of a spindly birch tree.

As the sun set he didn’t fight the wash of sensation that washed over him, and welcomed the change with an old ache in his heart. Too long. Always too long.

His canines descended first, as they always did. They bit through his gums and stung painfully before the flesh line had a chance to heal around them. Then his eyes went from green to gold and his vision shifted, becoming more acute, more focused, than even it was in his human form. Slowly the rest of his body followed suit. A bending spine forced him to his knees as nails became claws, fur grew in tufts, and his tailbone elongated until the thickly furred appendage could wag back and forth energetically.

He wanted to howl, but wouldn’t. He was still too close to his children and he wouldn’t risk them hearing a predator was near.

The change took only moments, and as soon it was complete Finn bolted off into the forest. He ran hard. Three-foot deep snow was not a problem for the fifteen-stone animal. His large flat paws fairly flew over the drifts, barely sinking, kicking dry powder behind him as he raced. His throat burned, trembled ached with the need to howl, but he suppressed the urge; he was still too close.

He darted through the forest; winding around trees, leaping rises and lumps in the snow. He panted and his tongue lolled out the side of his jaw; his yellow eyes shone with joy reflected from the stars. His tail was fairly being yanked along behind him.

The forest stilled as he passed, breathing quietly in awe and respectful fear.

He ran as hard and as fast as he could.

Finally reaching a distance his human mind deemed safe, he planted his paws firmly in the snow and came to an abrupt and jarring halt. He sat back on his haunches, let his head fall back, dropped his jaw and let loose a howl from the very pit of his stomach. Breath after breath rushed from his throat, escaped his fangs as a ululation of the freedom and power and joy that was his wolf form. He howled long and hard; feeling the black moon cresting above him, adding to his strength - to the intensity of his feelings. It inundated his senses, his entire body, thrumming. His lungs and chest and throat worked in tandem, continuously, ceaselessly filling the silent night with his song.

After this he ran again, more loping this time and more controlled. He scented the night, ears pricked and eyes keen. Paws silent as they sped him across the snow. He smelled squirrel and skunk, the occasional bird, and one porcupine. But it wasn't until the scent of large game reached his nose, that he began to track in earnest.

He scented the animal’s glands on trees it had rubbed against while grazing the bark. Soon he spotted its track in the settled snow and followed the ever growing smell of meat.

He turned his nose to the air. There was no wind, but it was always a southerly wind in these parts; if it decided to pick up, it would not carry warning to his prey.

Stifling the growls that curled in his throat just below his larynx, Finn lowered his belly to the snow, and crawled the last few yards overlooking a burn. Rubbing its antlers into the higher boughs of a fir stood a four-pointed fallow deer. Finn’s mouth filled with saliva.

He watched it carefully as it ripped at the bark; rubbed it with its antlers, until the moist inner bark lay exposed for it to taste.

Muscles coiled behind his shoulders and along his legs. He readied himself for the hunt.

So intent was he on brining the deer down and back to his children, Finn never heard the twang of the bowstring until the arrow’s shaft had sunk deeply into his leg. The deer heard it. With a start it bounded out of the burn and away through the trees.

Fallow quite forgotten, Finn stared at the arrow in his leg.

There were hunters, two of them, crouched behind a thicket downwind of him. He'd run right past them and never noticed. He cursed his single-mindedness.

A second twang echoed out and another arrow struck him in his flank, just above his soft underbelly.

He whimpered and took a step back. His human mind was still trying to work out what had happened, while the wolf was trying to decide whether or not he should flee, or charge the two who dared offend a wolf. As a werewolf, an intrinsically magical creature, he would not die of an arrow wound.

The decision was taken away from him when a third hunter flanked him unseen and unheard from behind. The hunter knocked an arrow with cold, deft hands, and shot him between the eyes.
The arrow penetrated his skull and sliced through his brain in one merciful stroke. Finn died long before his body tumbled down the edge of the burn and lay cooling, his fur waving in a breeze that had come up suddenly from the north.

His last thoughts were of Jesse and King, alone in the hollow.

---

A chill wind came with the morning, and Jesse huddled long in their hollow with the blankets and with King in defiance to the day beckoning him from just beyond his bed. Finally he had to get up, and with a sigh set about preparing for the day. The blankets he left where they were, as they would be staying for one more night before moving on. With King prancing along behind him, he strode into the forest and began collecting firewood. King helped by carrying one branch at a time in her teeth back to their camp.

With a sizeable pile of dry wood and the breakfast fire crackling sleepily, Jesse sat back to wait for his father to return.

Finn leaving at the time of the new moon had always been and always would be. He always left before the sun set, and he always returned just after the sun had risen - usually with a kill.

After an hour, when Finn’s familiar black hair and worn leather jerkin didn’t appear out of the trees, Jesse shrugged, and figured he might as well set about the day's tasks. Flour didn’t make itself. It wasn’t the first time Finn had been late. He’d be back by noon, at the very latest.

Whistling a tune, Jesse began kicking more snow away from the fire, until he’d unearthed a stretch of bare soil large enough for his work. He removed a small, thick plank of stained wood from his father's pack, along with a smooth river stone, and then he fetched the bowie.

Working diligently, he set into the fir tree with the knife, cutting away the rough, outer bark, and laying bare the soft, juicy, inner stuff. King; meanwhile, dozed. The inner bark he cut off in strips - didn’t matter what size - and tossed them into the travel-worn pot at his feet. He kept this up for most of the afternoon, slicing and dropping shaving after shaving into the pot.

When the pot was full, he sheathed the bowie and took everything back to the fire.

King got up and wandered over to his side, laying behind him so he’d have something solid to lean against.

For a while he gazed out into the trees. The wind was blowing steadily, casting snow this way and that. There was nothing to see but birch trees and shrubs and snow covering it all. He looked up at the sky through the needles above: it was bleak. It would storm in the night.

Noon was still a few hours off.

Working with the river stone and glazed plank, Jesse began to pound the strips into smaller strips. He kept pounding away as the sun worked its way overhead, King dozing on and off behind him. He didn’t look up until his stomach rumbled, reminding him he had yet to break his fast. The sun was still high overhead, but it had begun its decent.

A raw feeling settled in his chest, and he sat there for a very long time, worrying.

Finally, though, he had to do something. Reminding himself that Finn always came back, Jesse set about heating water and cooking up the morning mix of oats and grits. He sent King out to forage for greens, and she soon returned with more wild onions. Gratefully, he added them to the water, and watched the mass froth with eyes turned inward.

“King…”

Her head rose from where it had been tucked in against his chest.

“You think you can find enough to eat beneath the snow? I want to save the grits…”

She stared at him for a long time, then finally got up and wandered away. Her body language told him she was worried, too.

Sighing, Jesse ate his porridge without even tasting the onions. His mouth felt large and dry.

King found enough dried grass beneath the snow to keep her from starving, but all the same, he fed her a small handful of the mix.

He spent the day grinding and pounding at the strips of bark, and by the time the air had started to grow colder, had reduced it to a thick, dry, paste. This he left on the plank, and moved the whole thing in closer to the tree, so the wind wouldn’t disturb his progress.

King returned to grazing as he began supper. He cooked up the last of the meat and ate it without any onions. He would have stayed up longer, his eyes red and tearing up as his searched the trees for his father, but he was having a dick of a time keeping the fire alight with the wind scattering the kindling as it was. And the wind was only growing fiercer by the hour.

Finally, he allowed himself to pack all their stuff securely away in the hollow. He checked the blanket acting as their tent to make sure it was secured, and ushered King inside.

The wind howled all night long.

Neither of them slept much.

In the morning Jesse opened the flap to find the wind even worse. It had started snowing, and outside was a whiteout. He cursed, and tied the blanket back on the root. “We’re not going out today, King.” He was grateful they had this hollow; whiteouts were deathly even with shelter - a dug-out would have been the death of them.

She whinnied softly, perturbed and jittery. She needed exercise.

Dragging the plank and his bark shavings out from under a root, Jesse busied himself with pounding and grinding. The bark paste had dried some over night, and now as he flayed it with his stone, it began to break off in bits. It was difficult to gauge the passing of time without the sun or moon or their respective light to mark it, so he only took a break when his wrist had grown too sore to carry on. Replacing the plank beneath the root, he fed King a palm of grits, and lay himself down hungry. Not long after, he fell into fitful sleep.

The wind and snow kept at it into the next day, and Jesse continued to pound away at his bark. More and more it was beginning to resemble a yellowish powder, and he was quite pleased with himself for this. Finn was quicker at it: more talented.

The following day Jesse woke to find his one side cold, and jerked up with a sudden plummeting feeling of fear. He threw aside the blanket at strode out into the cold morning with eyes wide and heart thumping, and he only calmed down when he spotted King ripping bark from a birch tree she’d quite evidently lain bare.

His stomach rumbling, Jesse set about cooking up the last of the grits for his breakfast.

Finn had promised him flapjacks.

He sat around the fire for a long time, grinding his bark into a fine powder. Grind after grind after grind. He continued to ground at it long after it was fine, trying to think, and trying not to think at all.

Eventually he opened up his fathers pack and pulled out their bag of flour. Adding his powder to the fluff inside, he closed the bag and shook it too mix it up. Fir tree bark was indispensable as a flour supplement in the wintertime; they used it every winter, when they could find it. It didn’t taste much like flour, but it had what the body needed. If you mixed it in with real flour, you doubled your stock, and you hardly even tasted it. “Kingsley.”

Her head came up immediately, and after one look at him hunched over the fire, she trotted over.
His lip trembled as he hugged her head. She nudged his breast and whinnied softly, trying to comfort him, and asking for it herself.

“Something must have happened. ...And we’re almost out of food.”

She nickered and tossed her head. More than ever he wished she could just speak to him all the time. He missed her raspy whisper. He missed his pa's familiar rumble.

For a moment he sat rubbing at his sister's nose, trying to remain calm and puzzle things out, as Finn had taught him to do. He finally went for the only real option they had. Working quick and diligent, he packed everything from his pack into his fathers, cleaned up camp, and tied the blankets to King with the pot on top. She stared at it gloomily, but accepted the slight weight it added to her pile. Hefting his father's pack, Jesse led the way, following what was left of his father's tracks.

They had to find a town and he had no idea where one might lay. Finn had always been wary of towns and passed that caution on to his son and daughter; they only entered a town nowadays for trading. But a town meant food, so they’d head this way and hope to find out, and if they found their father along the way, so much the better.

The wind had obliterated Finn’s tracks not fifty yards from their camp. They searched around for an hour, trying to pick them back up, but eventually had to give up, and simply continued on in the direction Finn had been heading.

Jesse kept his eyes out for game - anything - while King cast about for greens as they moved. Jesse managed to shoot a magpie with his father's bow, but that was all. He ate the entire thing. King continued to pull bark from the trees.

A week later found them alive, but very, very thin; Finn had been a master tracker; no matter how few animals were about, he almost always shot something. If they never saw anything from one camp to another, he’d head off on his own, leaving the camp to Jesse and King. He would return sometime in the night, and in the morning Jesse would fall excitedly on whatever it was Finn had brought back. Finn had passed on all of his knowledge and skills to his son, but Jesse had never really taken note of how many times those late night hunting trips had saved them. What had his father done differently?

Shelter was not a problem. Shelter was something Jesse had been trained to find or make or deal with since before he could remember. Food; however - food was becoming a problem.

When they stumbled into a tiny town two days later, it was with more exhausted relief than any anxiety Finn might have instilled in the two of them. All the same, Jesse left the bowie and his father's bow with the pot and their blankets behind a tree outside the town borders. He took all the pelts from where they were folded neatly in his father's pack, and made sure they rested on top of everything else. Then he and King walked as normally as they could up to the nearest open stall.

“Hi.” He offered up his brightest smile.

“Hello.” The woman behind the stall smiled pleasantly back. “Can' say as I know you, boy.”

“M' ma sent me over from the town yonder to try and sell some of our father's pelts. We’ve near run out of sugar, you see, and we need the money.”

“You came all that way?”

Running with his lie, Jesse beamed. “Ma says me and King here were born in the wild.” He patted King affectionately, and she whinnied softly.

The woman's eyes landed on his horse for the first time. “Well, if you’re wantin’ ta sell pelts, you’ll want Dee, fifth house down the road.” She pointed. “But if'n it’s money you need, I could make you an offer for that little mustang. She’s a fine one.”

From what he'd learned from his pa, his mother had been a beauty among beauties, with fair hair and pale, smooth skin. Finn had always been darker, with tough, calloused skin, tanned even in winter, with a full head of pitch-black hair. From them, King had come out a vision, with a tan hide, black muzzle, mane, and tail. Quite obviously cross-bread, she appeared mustang, and was quite the commodity wherever they went.

Jesse’s throat tightened, and he had to make a conscious effort to stop himself shouting at the woman to take back what she'd said and never look at King again. Instead, he patted King and said as if he really wished he could take he up on her offer, “Ma’d kill me.”

The woman slumped back in her chair, her eyes still on King. “Shame, that.”

Jesse led King quickly away.

He was remembering fast now why Finn hated towns so much.

The house she’d meant turned out to be a grocery, and Jesse looked at it doubtfully. He’d need the grocer later to get food, but he wouldn’t have the money for food until he sold the pelts. Well, maybe the man traded. He looked at King ruefully. “They won’t allow Horses in there, King. Stay sharp.” She snorted, and trotted over to the wall. With her rump safely to the wood wall, Jesse went inside.

The shop was small, and because it was small, the shelves and tables piled high with winter stock gave it an oppressive feel. Making his way to the back counter, Jesse chimed a little copper bell set by the register. At the sound, a giant of a man came out from the back. “Yes?”

“Was wondering if you traded, sir, and if not, could you direct me to someone who does?”

“Whachu tradin’?”

“Pelts.”

“Oh? Let’s see ‘em, then.”

Surprised, but hiding it, Jesse slung off his pack and took out the pile of folded pelts. There were five of them, total. All tanned and preserved professionally.

The man picked up the first, a fox, eyed it, and set it aside. He looked Jesse straight in the eye and asked, “Whacha tradin’ for?”

“Sugar.”

“Eh?”

“And flour, oats, potatoes, and lots of apples, if ya got ‘em.”

They man’s eyebrows shot into his receding hairline. “Stock, eh?” he looked back down at the hides. Pulling each one forward, he appraised it, before moving on to the next. Jesse knew they were good; he’d helped his father tan many like them. Besides the fox pelt - a rich summer tawny they’d kept for emergencies - there were two marten pelts, white as snow, and a deer, shot with its full winter coat. The man ran a hand over his mouth, disturbing the thick black beard that covered most of it, and turned to go into the back.

He returned with a roster. “Ya got a pack?”

Jesse lifted his father's pack and, to his utter bemusement, the man put the roster on the counter and slid it over. Putting a pencil on top, he said. “Take as much as you can stuff inside. Just make sure you write it all down.” Jesse must have been gaping, because the man smirked. “Ya cai'n’t fit more in that pack then what these are worth.” He fingered the fox pelt lovingly.

“A… aye. Thank you, sir.” As the man left the room with the pelts in arm, Jesse hurried around, putting things into his father's pack. A dozen potatoes, a sack full of flower, a sack full of grits, two dozen winter-wizened apples, a small canister of sugar, another of yeast, four strips of jerky, and - after a quick look at the deserted counter - two loafs of freshly baked bread, squished in tightly on top. He returned to the countertop, and wrote everything down studiously. Shouldering his pack, he started out.

“Oi.”

Jesse’s hackles rose. He knew it had been too good…

The man was smiling down at him, his finger resting pointedly on the roster. “Ya forgot summat!”

“Eh?”

The man lumbered out from behind the counter, plucked a jar of syrup right off the top of a pile, and handed it to Jesse. Jesse looked at it as if it were a giant bag of gold. “I - You haven’t seen a stranger around here lately, have you? He’d have hair like as mine, looks kind of scruffy at first, but his clothes are tidy?””

The man’s eyebrows went right up. “No… can’t say as I have.”

“Well… Thank you.” Jesse said, and left.

---

It didn’t take them long to find their things and saddle King back up; they were off into the forest before noon, skirting the town through the trees, and continuing on their way on the other side.

At noon they stopped. King munched happily on two apples and a handful of grits, while Jesse gobbled down the jerky strips and got a fire started. He mixed flour into the pot with melted snow, and after digging in their pack, managed to produce an egg wrapped carefully their only spare shirt. Finn had been saving it. Trying to think only of his growling stomach, Jesse cracked the egg into the pot, and stirred the whole mess into batter. He made sure to make it thick.

Pouring out the batter onto the glazed wood plank he’d used for grinding the fir bark, he made sure it was level, and the puddle stayed in the middle of the plank, before he leant over and scrubbed out the pot quickly with snow. Putting the pot upside down in the flames. Jesse waited for it too heat up, then lifted the plank, and poured the batter onto the upturned bottom of the pot. This was the tricky part - there was nothing to stop the batter from running off the sides of the plank into the snow or into the fire, instead of onto the pot. He used his fingers a lot.

Setting down with the plank of wood twenty minutes later, Jesse lifted his spoon and spread the fresh maple syrup around on his two flapjacks. It smelled deliciously sweet. The first bites were of candy melting in his mouth, the syrup was just right, brewed so it was still tart, but sweeter than anything he’d had in what must have been two years. The flapjack was hot and sticky and settled in his stomach like it had gone missing long ago, and was just now returning home.

Packing things up, they carried on in the morning.

After a week it became painfully clear that Finn was not going to jump out of a snow bank and apologize over and over again for stupidly getting lost. He wasn't coming back.

They tried not to think about it, and over time, they mostly managed it.

Without the sheltering arms of their father, and his constant supply of meat and talk, the two of them learned to get on. And they learned it fast. King became even better at foraging, since it became her only breakfast, oftentimes. For supper she received one handful of mix, and one apple. Jesse honed his hunting skills, since that became his only supper. For breakfast he had porridge, with the occasional apple slice or green thrown in. The bread was a treat for as long as they could make it last, and Jesse made flapjacks whenever he managed to procure an egg - which was almost never. Working this way, they managed to stretch their rations for months at a time. They avoided settlements until things started to run low, then headed in to trade. Jesse’s pelts weren’t as gorgeous as his father's, but he was learning, and fast.

They almost never ran out of food.

Days were spent traveling and tracking, nights were spent quietly sitting by the fire after supper, either tanning a hide while Jesse talked; or playing, or just sitting together while Jesse talked. Jesse only stopped talking when they went into town - or on the night of the new moon; then, it was King’s turn to talk. Those nights, they made flapjacks together, and once King had tasted the syrup, she went after it even once she’d changed back, oftentimes dragging it out of Jesse’s pack and licking at the rim greedily while Jesse’s back was turned. For all they ate of it, the syrup lasted them an astonishing long time. When they did finally lap up the last tantalizing drop, obtaining more became their highest priority.

They wandered for a year, traveling west mostly out of habit.

Summer was joyous. Food grew around them in abundance; King loved to nip at the new shoots appearing everywhere, foraging became as simple as reaching down and plucking something from the earth. They could eat their fill, having little need to ration anything more than water. And King wasn’t cold during her time of change; instead of huddling together, they ran and played and laughed until her two legs became four once more, and she cantered around to drag an exhausted Jesse by his collar back to their blankets to sleep the day away.

Winter came again, and they fell back on old habits not ruefully, but with a sense that that was just how things were.

It was during one of those rare times when they’d run dangerously low on their rations, when things changed drastically for them both.

They hadn't eaten in a day, and they never had a chance to find shelter; the storm came on them like wasps swarming a nest offender. Knowing stopping was death, they pressed on through the night, wading through the snow and struggling not to be pushed over by the wind. When the air began to calm down near morning, Jesse found them a dense thicket, and they crawled in under the branches, curled around each other, and slept fitfully those last wretched hours before dawn. Cold and sore and bewilderedly tired.

As the sun breached the forest all around them, Jesse curled himself tighter to King, and deliberately ignored the dawn, his stomach rumbling desperately for its quarter.

Finally waking around noon, Jesse took pains to remove the dried twigs from King's mane and tail, and shook himself out. He shielded the glaring sun from his eyes as he looked around. The trees were closer together here then they had been further back east; the sun was still just as blinding. "Well… the storm can't have knocked us too far off our trail…" Jesse grinned down at King. "Not like it matters, eh?"

King nickered and pranced on the spot; just happy it had ceased blowing and snowing.

They carried on.

Just as the evening shadows began to lengthen behind them, and Jesse had begun looking for a place to bed down, they literally stumbled onto a road. Picking himself up from where he'd slid down the eroded ditch, Jesse looked up the road both ways. It was well worn, hard-packed dirt; wagon tracks evidently fresh. He could spot dog tracks next to the wheels.

"You think we can risk a town?"

King gave him a look, tossed her head, and started off down the road.

"Yeah. Don't really have a choice." Jesse stomped off after her.

The town was larger than they were used to, which explained the road; they had a school house and two blacksmiths - which was exceedingly rare, as people tended to quickly favor one workman over the other, eventually driving one of them out of business. The grocery was large, one half of it a seamstress shop. There was a cobbler's, an apothecary - Jesse stopped; now that was odder than the two blacksmiths: an apothecary was the same to most folks as shouting out witchcraft! at the top of your lungs.

He stood and stared at the apothecary so long, the two of them started to garner strange looks. When Jesse noticed this, he tucked his chin into his collar and headed straight for the grocery. He patted King before going in, promising softly not to forget the apples. He'd done that, once.

The shopkeep wasn't in, but the seamstress, by name of Mistress Bradbury, was co-owner and happy to assist him. Unfortunately, her eye for hides was not much to speak of, and Jesse offered to come back later.

"Nonsense, Adelaide's only gone out for her four O'clock break. She'll be back right soon."

"I'll just wait outside, then." He turned to leave.

"You're more than welcome to the hearth."

He smiled at her, his biggest, most charming smile, and said, "My pony doesn't like to be left alone for too long. Thank you all the same." And walked back into the chill outdoor air. He almost regretted not taking her up on her offer for the hearth, but King wasn't the only one who disliked being left alone. Scratching King affectionately behind the ears, Jesse sat down beside her, leaned back against the wall of the grocery, and pulled out his father's hat. Beneath the brim he could fake being asleep, while keeping watch. They really didn't have a choice in the matter, Jesse knew King wanted to leave now just as bad as he, but they needed grain at the very least, and they only had one apple left. If this Adelaide didn't return in an hour, or returned and didn't know the worth of his hides, he'd barter as best as he could. If that didn't work, he could try selling the pelts to one or both blacksmiths, and use the coin to by rations. But they couldn't leave without grain.

Despite his vigilance, Jesse almost did fall asleep, but the sudden jingle of the bell on the grocery door startled him, and he glanced up just as a blue skirt disappeared into the shop. Hoping it was the keep; Jesse gave her a few moments to get settled, then stood, made a show of stretching, and entered the shop.

The shopkeep, Adelaide, was a tall woman, with dark hair and freckles covering every inch of her face and neck and hands - probably her arms too if the sleeves of her dress didn't cover them. She had a pretty face, a forgiving nose, and the most piercing, intelligent eyes - Jesse was very close to bolting right then and damn the rations when her eyes met his.

"Would you be Adelaide?"

"Aye." Unlike mistress Bradbury, who was helping a woman in her side of the shop, Adelaide did not press him or insist. He felt he could like her.

"I'd like to trade for rations."

"And the trade?"

Jesse came forward with his pack, and withdrew the pelts. He hadn't quite mastered his father's techniques, but he had learned some, and the two pelts he presented to her were as gorgeous as they had been when worn by their animals.

He'd been worried this woman would know little more than Mistress Bradbury, but he needn't have feared. Adelaide lifted the first pelt from the countertop, a fisher, and smoothed the fur with her other hand. She twisted it over and inspected the cuts, flipped it upside down so she could eye the salted and dried underside. Then she hefted the second pelt, a full-grown beaver, and her eyes grew visibly soft as she stroked along its waterproof hide. He had needed the tail for himself, for a new set of winter mittens; but this lack didn't seem to displease her much at all.

As she examined and touched, Jesse stood still and patient, for he could feel her assessing him just as much as his pelts. Finally she set down the beaver hide, and looked at him straight. "Let's hear your trade, then."

"Bag of oats, bag of grits, a dozen apples, a dozen potatoes." He had enough sugar to last them a while, and their flour store was in no danger.

"No apples," Adelaide told him firmly, and Jesse visibly blanched, "and no spuds, neither. Shipment's a bit late."

"Carrots?" Jesse said, anxiously.

Adelaide nodded.

"Carrots instead of apples, then, and eggs and flour."

"Oats and grits - mixed?"

"Preferably." It was always cheaper that way, as folks didn't usually like the taste, but he needed cheap, and the mix was heartier for you than straight oats.

"A dozen carrots - how many eggs?"

"… Six."

"Six eggs, no flour."

"You can't be out of flour!?"

"No, what I meant was your pelts aren't worth the eggs and the flour."

Jesse thought quick, then told her firmly, "They are. Even missing its tail, that beaver's worth a dozen eggs alone."

"But the fisher isn't worth the mix and the carrots."

"Put in more grits to make up for the oats, and toss in the flour."

"Five carrots."

"A dozen. One winter dry carrot isn't worth the oats."

She thought on it, and then stuck out her hand. They shook on it.

Adelaide took the pelts over the counter, stashed them beneath, and went about the store collecting his order. The eggs she wrapped carefully in brown paper before passing them over, and he stored them carefully in the pot at the bottom of his pack, bundled in the spare shirt, beneath the plank, to keep the weight of everything else from pressing down and crushing them. Piling everything else in on top, he thanked her, and left while she was still writing everything down in her roster.

Outside, he went up to King, and looked at her meaningfully.

She knew what that look meant, and snorted disgustedly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't forget, they just didn't have any." Jesse pleaded with her, holding out one of the shriveled carrots.

She sniffed it, then snubbed it; prancing away from him, nose in the air, their blankets bouncing on her back.

"Come on, King…"

Before he could get on his knees and groveling, a stern voice rang out from behind him."'Ere, boy! Whatchu doin' there?"

Jesse stood straight up and turned around, his spine so ridged it poped. He immediately spotted two men coming toward him, smiling almost friendly-like; he couldn't tell which had hailed him. They came up on him fast, their lanky legs carrying them quick across the road. He eyed them carefully.

"Asked you a question, boy." They were still smiling.

"I'm trying to get my pony to eat a carrot."

There was a bellow from behind, and against his best instincts, Jesse turned his back on the men. A third man was grappling with King, trying to drag her away from Jesse.


-TBC...


A/N: Half of the survival stuff Jesse does is true and can be done / works, the other half I'm guessing at and/or made it up. Also: I think I may have gone deaf to the rules of the apostrophe... if you notice any grammatical errors please don't hesitate to point them out.