Surviving

By Duncan L. Dieterly

Thick silent snow fell faster. Filling the air. Blinding the vision. Thickening the already
accumulated white blanket wrapping the forest. In the gray twilight cresting the hill, a
indomitable white dog bounded forward. His heavy breath wreathed its head as his gruff panting
broke the silence. Chest deep in snow he surged forward working hard with every stride.
Looming behind it was a thickset figure. Head down, covered in snow, wrapped in layers of hide,
fur and leather trudging resolutely in the animals snowplowed tracks. A grim ruddy face deeply
lined and color stained. A full mustache caked with ice. A shaggy short beard plastered flat.
Another long bone chilling day. Would he survive his fortieth winter in his freezing forest? His
breath was labored while his weakening legs ached.
Bending into the wind, he carried several spears across his broad back. Knee deep in the
snow he pressed forward struggling valiantly. Knowing that he had to reach the cabin or die this
night. From sunrise until dusk, the two had been hunting. Again, they found nothing. Without a
kill, theirs was another dismal retreat. The howling wind intensified its cutting bite.
Simultaneously spotting their small log hut below: expectant, they increased their pace.
The low log hut squatted in front of the dark silhouette of a stand of trees. On its right
the tall skull totems stark shadows crowded into its side protecting the tribe. Arriving on the
warped timbered porch the dark night embraced them. Head bowed the man stomped his leg-
wraps clean, hung his weapons on the worn pegs entering the black hut. The snow-drenched
dog, sniffing and pawing, eagerly pushed in behind. The dripping man with shaking hands
struck flint to rock sparking the cooking fire, watching it explode in dancing flames.
Knocking things about the large dog curled up near the fire after shaking wet snow all
over the hut. His ice blue eyes watching. The man absent-mindedly reached out, stroking the
dogs thick fur. Sinking exhaustedly onto the rough stool, glad to be safe he thought of better
times.
In times past, the old hut had been full of life, with his saucy laughing wife Arra and
several husky children’s joyful voices, but that was many winters past. Arra was killed by a
falling tree and his three children wasted away before his eyes with the terrible coughing illness.

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After the required three-day mourning ritual, he carried each of them to the heaven cave. Since
then he lived alone with his brooding thoughts and the dog.
Many winters ago, he had discovered the dog as a fat young puppy nestled next to his
dead mother. Apparently killed by wolves. The dog grew into a powerful hunter. Many a time
during a difficult kill the dog had stood his ground protecting him when he was downed. In
seasons gone, he would sing to the dog by the dying cook fire like his children past but no longer
were there songs in his heart.
The dog had been his sole companion for over four winters. They had shared some great
kills and grand feasts. He remembered the days when they had rabbit, boar, deer and elk hanging
to dry in the smoke lean-to.
Although he continued to sacrifice to the invincible Gods of his people, as he had been
instructed, the once plentiful game disappeared over the years. Now it seemed the longer the
hunt the less the success. In the early spring, he trapped fish in the great river that he dried but
the fish swam away to other waters so his catch lasted fewer days each fall.
The days got colder earlier and the nights were longer. What was wrong with the world?
He should have abandoned this place and gone to the lowland village sixteen days trek from here
last summer but delayed. His mother brought him forth on this land. Living here all his life, he
had grown brave and learned to hunt. Besides the tribe interred in the heaven cave a mile above
the hut required attending. He was the last member of the clan.
When young he had helped his grandfather paint the pictures of the five animal Gods on
the heaven cave walls. They had been over sixteen hunters at their strongest. His tribe had
defended their land driving off all intruders. They had killed many before they were left alone.
Now he was too aged to leave this sacred blood land.
He could recount all the stories associated with the totem skulls placed on the top of the
posts guarding the log hut shelter. Beginning with the great bear skull killed by his great
grandfather down to last panther skull, he killed in the past spring. They represented the tribe’s
hunting prowess. He could also recite all the great past hunts as his grandfather taught him. He
did that for his sons but no longer spoke of them to anyone. Their glory was etched in his mind.
With him as the last of the Lawaconta tribe they persisted

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 Growing weary, unsure as to whether he would see the next spring. In the darkening
shadows, he noticed the heavy animal robes on the sleeping pallet inviting him to crawl inside to
rest forever. Hunger gnawed at his shrinking belly. Exhaustion gripped his body.
Looking down at his gnarled thick stained fingers, in his lap, he accepted the broken and
crooked ones. The left little one had been ripped away by a ravenous wolf. If it wasn’t for his
dog’s brash savage attack he would have been more of a meal for that wolf. Together they killed
it. Gently he rubbed them, pulling each straighter, trying to instill life’s warmth into them. They
ached more each day. Sometimes they did not do his bidding. Rummaging about in the dark, he
located the last dry deerskin piece in a nook in the corner. With his father’s sharp flint knife, he
deliberately cut it into a handful of long slices. When heated they would become supple, sliding
down his gullet to warm his innards.
The only light came from the cooking pit fire. Long shadows danced about him in the
hut. Knowing he must eat before sleeping, resignedly he went outside to check the food box.
Little left there, just three dirt smudged tubers and two wilting wild onions. He took out one of
each. Picking up a large clay bowl, he filled it with fresh snow. His hands were numb as he
looked to the mountains. The heavy snow clung to his face, the seductive moon God was hiding.
Bent and slow he entered the hut putting the vegetables and bowl on the raised rock slab.
He offered his dog a handful of snow to lap. When the dog was done, he took some for
himself filling his mouth with the cold, sucking it into liquid. Then wearily pulling off his
soaked leather coat, long fur shirt and hand coverings, he dropped them on the dirt floor.
Deliberately unwrapping his heavy leg coverings, he hung the soaked thong ties on the edge of
the rock. Sitting, he rubbed his bent toes that were blackening from seasons of mud and
freezing.
Slowly his squat figure stood, taking a deep breath his heavy ribs protruded, he rubbed
his wet whiskers. Closing his eyes, he listened to the wind sing to him its mournful song. He
placed the large stained cooking bowl on the fire rack. He dumped half the snow from the other
bowl into it. It melted rapidly. Sitting on the stool he slowly chopped the onion and the tuber
into small chunks. The knife sliced cleanly. He dropped them into the now bubbling water.
Slowly he added the deer hide slices. Watching the boiling brew smoking, he studied the
dancing pieces, he felt discouraged. His father, a great shaman would regale him with the story
of the dancing pieces but he did not have the gift. One spring his father went out on a vision
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quest disappearing into the mountains mist never to return. Slightly shifting his weight to better
steady himself he knew, It was time. Like an old woman, he had avoided it for many weeks. It
was over eleven weeks since he ate meat. Each dawn they awoke weaker.
They were dying. Sitting down heavily, pulling the dog close to his side. He rubbed
Dradon’s damp lean body, lowly whispering his name repeatedly in his perking ears as he had
done every night for the past eleven winters. Drawing his knife, he swiftly slit its warm throat.
Dradon’s body shuddered against him but he scarcely whimpered. He hugged the dying dog’s
starved frame tightly for several minutes. Then he pulled the bowl over, to catch the dripping
blood melting into the white snow. Life must not be wasted.

The End

Copyright © 2010 by Duncan L. Dieterly

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s
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1475 words

April 5, 2010