Page 35 of A Land So Wide

G reer woke sometime later to the impossible sounds of a crackling fire.

Bits of wood sparked and popped, and she could feel the embers flush her cheeks, her chest, her body, all the way down to her fingertips and toes.

She kept her eyes shut, certain it was a dream, certain she’d seriously injured herself in that stupid, thoughtless fall, and that she was actually lying in a snowbank, delirious with blood loss and exposure to the cold.

Men at the mill told stories of getting turned around in the woods, of wandering with shoes wet after fording a creek, and of the phantom tendrils of heat that would wrap around their limbs, causing them to remove more clothing no matter how cold it was, no matter how strange it seemed.

Then they’d pull off their shoes, revealing toes shriveled and blackened into stumps—if there were even toes left behind at all.

The onlookers would shriek with dismay and glee before solemnly promising to never wander too far into the woods, to keep to Mistaken’s knowns, to always respect the power and uncertainty of nature.

Greer had never made such promises. She knew herself too well, knew she would forever be drawn into the wilds, knew her curiosity could never be sated. It would take far more than the cautionary tale of a missing toe to keep her from roaming.

But now here she was, far from home and so grievously injured she’d conjured up an imaginary bonfire to trick her mind into accepting what was happening to the rest of her body.

She wondered how long it would take to die, if she was close now.

It must be soon, Greer reasoned. The great unknowable end .

It was a surprisingly comfortable way to die, ensconced in a cozy world of fanciful heat. There was no pain, no fear.

“Are you awake?” asked a voice, tearing into Greer’s reverie, and the fear came then, dousing her with an icy shock so surprising she sat up, eyes flashing open.

There was a blaze after all, a very well-made one, much bigger than her campfire from the night before.

What time was it?

The sky above was dark but not quite fully. The air had a soft, velvety quality, stained a rich navy, not black. The sun had set, but twilight hadn’t yet turned to dusk.

“Who are you?” Greer asked, squinting to make out the figure sitting on the opposite side of the fire.

His face was obscured by waves of heat and dancing shoots of flame, but Greer could see that this man was not Ellis. He sat taller, stretched wider, and took up space with more confidence than Ellis would have dared.

Dark eyebrows hooded over equally dark eyes. If Ellis Beaufort was autumn—warm and burnished gold with laughter and heat—then this stranger was winter itself, harsh lines, sharp shadows, and the eerie stillness that grabbed hold of the world after a deep snowfall.

“Who are you?” Greer repeated, tilting her head to see through the flames. She caught a glimpse of sharp cheekbones, a long nose, and a thin mouth.

“How’s your head?” the stranger asked instead of answering her. “You took quite a spill. I’ve never seen starlings attack like that.”

“They weren’t attacking. I slipped.”

I slipped making my way down to you, she wanted to add, but it didn’t seem right to blame this stranger for her accident, not when he’d clearly tried to help her, building this fire, covering her with a blanket she only now realized she’d sunk her fingers into. It was wonderfully warm.

Beaver pelts, she thought absently, feeling the soft and bristly fur against her skin.

Her bare skin—

In alarm, Greer searched the campfire for her mittens. Had she lost them in the fall? A quick inspection showed that her fingers were fine, without even a trace of frostbite, but she couldn’t hope to continue her journey without them.

“You fell into a snowdrift,” the stranger said, missing nothing. “Your mittens and cloak were soaked by the time I reached you. They’re drying there.” He jerked his chin, gesturing toward a fallen log where her articles of clothing were laid out with thoughtful care.

Only then did Greer realize her cloak had been removed. Squirreled away under the furred blanket, she’d not suffered its absence.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “I…I’m Greer.”

The stranger nodded.

A feeling of unease spread over Greer. She’d studied the map until its lines were imprinted across her memory.

She could recall each bend of the river, every small lake, every rocky crag.

There hadn’t been a dotted town, a settlement, or even a trading post marked anywhere near Mistaken.

The closest sign of life was the village of Kennebrinlette, and that had been miles away, nestled at an inlet on the coast. Greer hadn’t been able to make out even a glimpse of the ocean from her vantage point before she fell.

So where had this stranger come from?

And how, with so many untold acres of wilderness, had he come across her just as she needed help?

“I suppose I’m quite lucky you saw me,” she began, straining to keep her voice even, to not show fear.

He grunted in acknowledgment, then picked up a long stick propped beside him and poked at the fire, pushing a log toward the middle of the inferno.

“I didn’t think there were any settlements this far inland,” she tried again, trying to avoid framing her curiosity as an actual question.

“No?” he asked, finally speaking.

“Or north,” she prodded.

His expression changed, slipping into the smallest of smiles. “We certainly are north.”

Greer shifted, pretending to stretch, while letting her eyes roam, searching for her belongings.

Her cloak and mittens were on the log, and she spotted her rucksack, laying on its side just out of the stranger’s reach.

She wondered if he’d gone through it while she’d been unconscious.

Running her hands over her body, she was relieved to find she still wore the beaded necklace, but was alarmed when she realized her knife was missing.

Had the stranger removed it?

Or had it been lost in the fall?

Gingerly, she touched the back of her head, feeling at the goose egg, which ached with a pulsing, tender throb. She was surprised to find there were no wounds, no lacerations.

“No blood,” the stranger spoke, noticing her examination. “That’s good. You’ve no idea the kind of creatures out here that would be drawn to the scent of your blood.”

“How lucky,” she said, echoing her earlier sentiment.

He nodded. “I imagine you’ve got quite a headache, though. How’s the rest of you feel?”

Greer pushed herself up, testing her limbs, while surveying the camp and the stranger who’d remained so well hidden behind the flames.

He wore buckskin trousers and an impressive pair of furred boots.

They lashed up his calves, coming nearly to his knees.

His coat was enormous, the wool worn shiny in spots.

Though it was cold enough for Greer’s breath to puff in a frosty haze, the stranger wore no hat, and his hair was shorn close to his scalp, far shorter than the men of Mistaken wore theirs.

It was fuzzy, like a peach, and a brown so dark it was nearly black.

“I think I’m all right,” Greer decided, scooping up her cloak. She was surprised to spot her knife on the log, hidden by the drying garment.

“That was beside you,” the stranger said, gesturing again with the tilt of his chin. “It’s a wonder you didn’t land on it. That would have been a nasty stab.”

“With lots of blood.” She smiled, slipping the knife back into her pocket.

“That’s a terrible place to keep it,” he observed. “You should have it sheathed against you. Easy to remove, hard to lose. On your calf, maybe.”

Greer nodded as if it were possible to produce such an item magically, simply because the stranger said she ought to. She grabbed her mittens and eyed her pack.

He hoisted it to her. “I’m no thief.”

The bag thudded against her chest, and she scrambled to catch it. “I didn’t think you were,” she said, but she retreated quickly to the far side of the fire, giving him a large berth while allowing her to keep a close watch on his movements.

He shrugged as if her obvious safeguard didn’t bother him in the slightest, and it was the nonchalant expression on his face that made Greer decide to be bold.

“Are you a trapper?”

“I suppose you could say that,” he said, responding in a way that made it seem like he’d answered her question even if he’d not.

She nodded toward his boots. “They’re very fine,” she observed. “Caribou?”

“Grizzly. Same as your blanket.”

Her eyebrows rose with genuine surprise. “You hunt grizzly?”

His lips rose.

“I’ve never seen one in person, only their tracks,” she admitted, regarding him in a new light. “But I’ve heard stories of how big they can get, how ferocious and fast.”

He leaned in as if about to impart a grave confidence. “The secret to hunting something so ferocious and fast,” he began, “is to always be a little more ferocious.”

Greer’s smile felt small and weak. “How long was I asleep?”

“You were unconscious,” he began, drawing out the word to mark the distinction, “for a few hours. Two or three.”

“Still twilight, then,” she said, glancing to the sky.

“This time of year, there’s more night than day…Does it really matter what part of it we’re in?”

Greer supposed it wouldn’t to someone who was not from Mistaken. She wondered what it would be like, not to feel the ticking by of every hour, not to be held captive to the comings and goings of the sun.

“The night is terribly pretty, though,” the stranger allowed, his gaze lifting to the stars, a half-smile tugging at his mouth.

For one terrible second, his eyes flashed a faint red, reflecting the firelight like the shine of an animal.

Greer startled, but when the stranger shifted, the illusion was gone.

She massaged the back of her head, wondering if something had been damaged after all.

Bursts of light were supposed to signal a concussion, weren’t they?

Greer wanted to ask the stranger, but hesitated, unwilling to show any sign of weakness.

“Are you hungry?” she asked instead, fumbling with the flap on the rucksack. “I’ve a bit of bread and jerky. We could share.”

It was a generous offer, especially since she knew how little there truly was, but the man shook his head.

“I set a few snares while you were out.” He cocked his head toward the shadows.

“I’ll see if we had any luck.” As he stood, his gaze fell heavily on Greer.

“It would be incredibly foolish of you to try running off in the dark while I’m gone.

There are all sorts of things in these woods that would be upon you in a heartbeat. ”

“But not you?” she guessed, sounding braver than she felt.

Another half-smile. Another strange trick of eye-shine that Greer longed to believe was in fact a trick. “Not me,” he agreed, then slipped into the trees.