101 Vhalar 721
The snows had come. There had been a few tentative flurries before, even a wet, heavy snow shower or two. But the air was fully laden with winter now, and the snow this trial floated down in tiny specs that stuck firmly to the frigid ground once they landed. There was only a light dusting of it so far; one could reveal the grass beneath by just blowing on it. Nor, from what Oram could read, was this snow likely to total more than two or three inches deep. It was just the right amount of snow.
The windows in Oram’s house were few and small, nor were they conveniently placed for idle viewing, so Oram, Skai, and his animals had all gone outside to watch the snow. Even Choir had emerged from his spirit form to prance about in the silently falling white stuff. The lame old caretaker seemed the least enthused about the spectacle, and after just a couple bits he started busying himself rather than just standing idly, muttering as he tended to his own mule, Mongrel, made a cursory check of the other animals and their welfare, then put on his gloves and hat and announced he was going to get some firewood.
Oram owned one log of Yellow Dragon wood, and that burned steadily in the kitchen fireplace. But Skai liked tending fires in both of the house’s hearths in order to stay comfortable when he wandered away from the focus of the kitchen, and that meant feeding the kitchen fireplace’s counterpart, the one along the wall of Oram’s bedroom, with a constant supply of wood. Not needing the heat due to his Ezere mark, the hunter kept the fire doors on his side of the fireplace closed, so that more heat could flow into the central breezeway and the rest of the house. Perhaps he would find that yellow dragon tree he had visited before and cut himself another log. He hoped that Faith Augustin had listened to his suggestion and not completely cut down the tree, rather than letting it regrow its branches; with so many cold Scalveens seeking the warmth of fire, the temptation to over harvest would no doubt be strong.
The dull report of Skai’s axe at the chopping block from the back of the house brought Oram’s thoughts back to the present. He looked around at his animals. Gandersauce was on the porch with him. Mule and Mongrel both looked bored; it probably wouldn’t be too long before they just wandered back into the stable. Wether and Ornot were poking at snow-covered bushes, jumping back with startled bleats whenever their efforts dislodged a particularly large amount of snow. He still had the snowshoes he had made last winter, though the treads needed to be redone. Perhaps he could pad and/or wrap them with birch bark.
Time passed quietly. More snow fell, although it started to taper off. At length the two mules did indeed get bored with the novelty of the snow, and returned to the stable. The goats, seeing them, followed suit. A little later, Gandersauce tired of the Chief Ranger’s company and flew into the loft. Only Choir sustained his enthusiasm, rolling around in the snow, running around trying to catch flakes in his mouth as they fell, digging his snout into the white mounds and tossing chunks of snow into the air with a quick lift of his head and a delighted snort. Twenty arcs ago, Or and his brother would have delighted in the snow, too, laughing and playing as their father watched and called encouragingly to them, occasionally pelting one of them with a snowball. Those twenty arcs had passed, and things changed.
Once more it was the sound of Skai’s activity that brought him back to the present, this time the stomping of boots on the porch as the caretaker announced, somewhat short of breath, that he reckoned they had enough wood for several trials. Indeed, he had a good-sized quarter tucked under each arm, with his axe somewhat awkwardly clutched in his right hand, as he waddled back into the house, this time with the clear intent of staying inside for the rest of the trial. Oram noticed that the stable door was open, and he decided to go close it up, after checking the conditions inside. Skai, to his credit, had cleaned, changed the hay, and topped off the water and food in the troughs. He had done everything except close the door, so Oram could not get very upset at having to do that last bit himself. He could not really feel mad about anything at the moment. A bit melancholy, yes, but little else. The trial was too peaceful.
The snow had almost stopped falling by the time he went back in the house.