Slipping out of the gate proved as easy as Charlotte had hoped in these still-dark hours of the early morn. She avoided the camp of the Dinee traders by slipping through the trees. Laurent’s hunters would set out with the first rays of daylight, so she pressed hard to cover as much ground as she could—eastward, toward the faint lightening in the sky.
The icy cold breeze tingled against her face, but she warmed soon enough with the effort of her hike. As daylight crept over the land, it didn’t bring with it the warm rays of the early winter sun. Thick clouds pressed low in the sky, dulling the mood around her.
Yet she didn’t let the weather dampen her spirits, even as the frigid wind swirled. She’d made the first bold decision of her life. Stepped from the shadows to choose a path for herself. She would see a world she’d never known and determine for sure whether she’d been missing anything.
She skirted the first two mountains she reached, keeping the cloud-covered sun ahead of her. But the third peak stretched wide in a range that rose so high, it would’ve blocked out the sun if that orb hadn’t already risen to crest its zenith. There would be no way around this massive slope. Maybe a short rest and a bite of food would give her the energy to start upward.
The respite helped, but by the time she’d climbed foranother half hour, her legs had turned to pudding, and she could barely catch her breath. Sweat dripped down her back, despite the icy wind buffeting harder the higher she climbed.
Something stung her nose, but she hadn’t the energy to focus on it. Then another frozen drop brushed her cheek, and one more landed on her chin.
Snow.
She pushed the last few steps to reach a boulder where she could sit and rest again. Her chest burned for air, but her frigid inhales seemed to sear all the way down. The soles of her feet ached from the rocky points that had pressed against the bottom of her moccasins. Some of those jags felt as though they’d bruised her bones.
As she stared out over the land she’d covered—not even a third of the way up the mountain—exhaustion weighed on her spirit. Could she manage two days of this? Certainty no longer strengthened her spirit.
But she wasn’t locked into making the journey in two days. She could rest as she needed, even taking double the time since she’d brought enough food.
The falling snow grew thicker, cooling her more quickly than she’d expected. Her face had nearly grown numb, so she pushed to her feet and aimed herself upward again. Snow was always more likely at greater heights, but once she made it over this mountain, the weather would be better.
Wouldn’t it?
Damien finished setting his last beaver snare as the first flakes fell. He’d been watching the sky grow darker allmorning, the clouds pressing lower and thicker. This snow would be a big one, and he’d much rather spend it in the cave with a toasty fire than out where the wind and wet would keep him miserable.
He’d found a protected nook where Gulliver could wait out the storm and had even spread an oilskin over the area to keep the mule mostly dry. Now he just needed to get his supplies and enough firewood down into the cave. Too bad he didn’t have time to hollow out a tree trunk and make a canoe to access the cave opening, like some of the voyageurs and natives did. If he stayed in this area long, he would work on the task. For now, he’d be racing against the weather to get enough supplies into the cave before his footholds iced over.
He set to work gathering firewood. He’d need enough to last a couple days, just in case. The last thing he wanted was to be iced in the cave without any firewood, and the lake not yet frozen enough to hold his weight. He wouldn’t think that likely to happen with the first snowfall, but these clouds looked like they held enough icy moisture to fall for days.
He’d already used much of the dry wood in the area for his fire the night before. A recent rainfall had left the land damp, so he headed toward a group of trees where he would likely find dead wood sheltered from the rain.
It must’ve taken hours to gather enough logs and carry them down the cliff to the cave. Snow had covered the ground by the time he finished, piling up to cover his boots.
On his last trip to the top of the cliff, he checked on Gulliver again, taking a moment to scratch the mule’s favorite itchy spot. He nuzzled Damien’s side in appreciation. His one true friend. The only companion who could stand him, even on the hard days.
He patted Gulliver’s woolly neck once more. “I’ll be back up to check on you when I can. I think you have what you need for now.”
After bidding the mule a finalau revoir, he trudged out of the sheltered cove and to the cliff’s edge. After strapping the last of his supplies to his back, he took a moment to stare out over the terrain.
The lake spread in front of him, and beyond that to the right were the woods where he’d gathered his firewood. To the left and stretching high above the trees rose a range of mountains, only a faint outline among the curtain of white. Would he eventually cross those peaks? What lay beyond? Did the village hidden in caves reside somewhere in that land?
He’d love to find it on this journey, but the chances seemed slim. Like finding a single drop in a vast ocean. He knew only that it was tucked in the mountains several days west of Fort Versailles. From what he’d heard the men at the fort say, the caves were nearly impossible to see from the outside, only discoverable if a man happened to stumble through the opening. And only a very few had managed that.
As he turned his focus away from the mountains to his immediate surroundings, a motion snagged his attention. Probably only falling snow playing tricks on his eyes. But as he squinted through the flakes, the movement became more pronounced.
An animal trudging toward the lake? It walked with a jerky step, so maybe the creature was injured. Why hadn’t it taken shelter in the trees?
As he studied the figure, awareness slipped in. A person. A man trekked through this storm, half covered in snow. The fellow marched forward as though determined to reacha specific destination, though that was the most exhausted march Damien had seen in a while. More like a dragging.
Did this stranger know of the cave? Was he trying to reach it for shelter against the weather? If this was a native, maybe even one of those who’d drawn pictures on the chamber walls, that may well be the case.
When the fellow finally reached the edge of the lake, instead of skirting the edge to come around to the cliff where Damien stood, he simply dropped his pack to the ground and sagged down to sit atop it. He sank his head into his hands, as though he could no longer hold himself upright.
Something stirred inside Damien. Something too close to compassion. How many times had he wanted to slump down like that man did? He’d done exactly that more often than he could count back in the cottage he shared with Michelle, during those dark days after he lost her.
Only their parish minister’s determination had pulled him from that despair. The man’s strong words had forced him to get up and move on with his life—for his sister’s memory, for he’d had no desire to live for himself.
Maybe helping this fellow keep going could be his one good deed. Michelle would want him to try.
