The Wanderer's Anamnesis

“Is that it? Down there?” wondered Suĥ, pointing at the village nestled within the broad valley below.

“Maybe,” replied Armuzat.

“It has to be. It’s certainly big enough,” said Ferą. A heavy snowflake settled onto his furred cheek; he brushed it away.

“I’ll agree that it looks big enough, but it still might not be it,” Suĥ countered.

“Well, if it isn’t Ehušaĥ, we’ll have to stop there anyway -- we can’t risk getting lost again,” said Ferą. “Getting caught outside tonight means a speedy journey to the Otherworld. Let’s go.”

Suĥ and Armuzat nodded and plodded back to the sledges that they themselves drove; the deep blanket of snow creaked beneath their snowshoes. A moment later the train was sliding down the trail toward the distant village. The vağamžes yelped and grunted while they heaved forward the sledges, which were loaded with grain; as the beasts had grown colder so too had they grown more and more restless. Before long the last of the daylight failed, leaving the wilderness bathed in shadow. Evening promised further snow, further wind: midwinter had indeed arrived.

When they reached a steady pace Suĥ coiled his whip, tightened his scarf, and pulled his hood low. Although he still clutched the reins, he tucked his mittened hands into his greatcoat to fight off the bitter gusts. Four days they had traveled, and the cold and the damp had begun to test his will: his face was numb, his fingers were numb, his toes were numb, his heart was numb. He often glanced back to ensure that his brother Armuzat was following just as his father Ferą often glanced back to ensure that he himself was following. I do hope to meet a fire again soon, but we don’t arrive until we arrive, he said to himself, and focused on driving the sledge.

An hour later the forest opened, revealing a high wooden palisade silhouetted against the drab sky. Already the gate within the palisade was open. Drawing back the reins, the three travelers brought the train to a stop outside the gate; they then descended and swept the snow from their coats.

Quickly a crowd of tribesmen gathered in the gloom beyond the gate. One of the tribesmen, a brawny individual, marched forward to meet the newcomers. “Ferą? Ferą the Merchant?”

“I am,” said Ferą. “And these are my sons, Suĥ and Armuzat. Is this Ehušaĥ, belonging to the Tęci Tribe?”

The man clapped his hands together. “This is Ehušaĥ; I’m Voğmi. What a relief! I can’t express how pleased we are to finally see you; we were worried you might not make it. You’ve brought the gečįp, I trust?”

“We have. I’m sorry we’re late; I know we arranged with Mister Etįmeš to get here last night. Your mountains are... well, they’re rather cunning.”

Voğmi laughed. “No harm done; please, though, come inside. We need the gečįp immediately.”

“As you wish,” said Ferą, and he, Suĥ, and Armuzat climbed onto the sledges once more. Driving through the gate, they found themselves proceeding among halls, cabins, and huts blanketed in snow. Wisps of smoke crept from the many chimneys; said wisps remained only briefly, however, before being carried away by the wind.

“The center!” Voğmi yelled, waving them forward. “To the courtyard of the Great Hall!” He and the other tribesmen struggled to keep pace with the train; the sledges moved speedily, for the snow was packed hard.

Shouted summons filled the night. From the halls and cabins Tęcians emerged. Some carried flickering torches, some sacks, some earthenware jars, some drums, some ?nur-pipes, some whistles, some bundled children; most, however, simply shuffled forward with their coats drawn close. Soon the train arrived at the Great Hall, a towering wooden structure adorned with carvings. Before the hall numerous tribesmen had assembled; they circled a huge heap of timber, kindling, and straw and were cleaning snow from it.

“Mister Ferą? You’ve arrived!” said an old man, stepping toward the foremost of the sledges. “I knew you’d come! Bless you!”

“Mister Etįmeš!” Ferą said. He descended from his sledge. “I’m very sorry we’re late! We’ve brought the gečįp, as you instructed; it’s straight from the stores of Demandi.”

“Ah, thank you... thank you,” said Etįmeš. Facing his kinsmen, he then ordered, “Get that fire going!” The Tęcians gathered more thickly; they formed a wall around the heap of firewood.

“What’s going on, sir?” inquired Ferą. Joining their father, Suĥ and Armuzat unlaced their snowshoes.

“The Offering. Now that you’ve arrived, we can give our thanks to the Good Lady of the Winter.” He glanced to the three men. “It is Midwinter Night, you know.”

“‘The Good Lady of the Winter’?” echoed Suĥ.

“You don’t know of her?” asked Etįmeš.

“I’m afraid not,” said Suĥ.

“The Good Lady of the Winter lives in the forests surrounding. She’s a powerful being, but a gentle one. She guides us from the end of autumn until the beginning of spring; without her help we wouldn’t make it through the winter. They say that she resembles a massive ĥęrfa with fur of silver; she sleeps, though, through the summer, not through the winter, because she is a being of the Otherworld. We give to her because she gives to us: on Midwinter Night we burn gečįp and butter and brandywine. That’s why we’ve hired you to bring the gečįp.”

Ferą shook his head in amazement. “So you’re going to burn it? When you said you needed gečįp urgently, I assumed you were starving.”

“Well, we would’ve been starving soon, if you hadn’t brought this -- only the Good Lady’s grace allows us to survive. A couple of weeks ago we discovered that most of our stored gečįp had spoiled; when we realized we didn’t have enough for the sacrifice, I set out to find some more, whatever the cost. I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to lead you back here myself, incidentally -- I had to get back in order to prepare for the ceremony.”

The tribesmen had managed to convince the straw and the kindling to catch; faithfully they nurtured the burgeoning flames. With scoops they splashed brandy and tossed soft wads of ihąc-butter into the timber to encourage the fire to spread. Mumbling, the throng stood back and watched eagerly. Suĥ removed his mittens, shut his eyes, and held out his chapped hands to hunt for warmth. Before long the tiny pockets of snow that remained within the heap started to melt, causing clouds of steam to burst forth. The bonfire had been born.

“You must be exhausted!” Etįmeš said abruptly. “Would you like to head inside? I’ll have food and drink and beds readied for the three of you. We’d be privileged to offer you our hospitality.”

“We’d be privileged to accept it,” Ferą said with a low bow. “Thank you.”

“May we take the gečįp from your sledges while you’re inside?”

“Absolutely. Although I must ask: Might there be any room for our vağamžes in your stables? We’ve run them ragged, and I’d like to avoid leaving them outside tonight.”

“Of course! Of course -- you needn’t even ask,” replied Etįmeš. “We of all people understand the danger that the winter nights can bring. I’ll have them taken in immediately.”

“Actually, it might be better if my sons and I did it. Our vağamžes tend to be a bit feisty even when they’re in good temper,” said Ferą. “If you have somebody direct us to the stables, we’ll do it now.”

“Certainly,” Etįmeš said, bowing.

With the aid of a young girl Suĥ, Ferą, and Armuzat proceeded to stable their vağamžes. The beasts snorted, growled, battled against their bridles as they were led to shelter. The stables proved crowded already; this, combined with the sheer number of tribesmen that he had seen in the village, suggested to Suĥ that those dwelling within the mountains and valleys surrounding Ehušaĥ were visiting expressly to attend the festival. Meanwhile, the Tęcians heaved the sacks of gečįp from the sledges, slit them open with long bronze daggers, and poured the grain itself onto the ground around the now raging bonfire. The odor of smoldering sap and brandy and butter swirled through the air.

“Well, the trek was difficult, but it was worth it,” Ferą said as they made their third trip toward the stables. “Five bronze ingots and twenty good hides! They’ll fetch a high price at the market.”

“Are we going to get some new carts?” asked Armuzat, fighting with Sąta, one of the vağamžes. Again and again she jerked her leather bridle taut. “If we do get them, we can -- ”

But then, all at once, Sąta’s reins snapped; Armuzat collapsed to the ice below. Sensing her opportunity, Sąta fled. In an instant she had retreated into the darkness in the direction that the train had originally come.

“I’ll get help!” said the girl.

“Don’t worry -- it’s all right,” said Ferą, although his tone admitted frustration. Turning to Suĥ, he said, “Go get her!”

“Yes, At,” said Suĥ, and he rushed off on foot. More than once Sąta had discovered a way to escape; she worked harder than her peers, but she also possessed a proclivity toward cunning defiance. Slipping into the shadowy streets beyond the bonfire, Suĥ jogged southeast. The chatting, the laughter, the music faded. Before long he spotted a va?amže lurking among the huts huddled immediately inside the palisade. “Sąta! Come here, Sąta!” he called out. With his words the va?amže bolted, however, and her path took her through the open gate.

Quietly Suĥ sighed; his breath billowed out in a silver cloud. I could go back, throw a blanket on Čevca or Telca, and ride after her, but who knows where she’d be by then? he asked himself. Trudging forward a few steps, he attempted to glean whether she was lingering just outside the palisade or whether she had entered the lush forest of andas. I should try to find her, at least. She’d probably find her way back, but I don’t want to risk it.

I’ll look around a little bit longer.

Pulling his mittens on once more, Suĥ hurried through the gate in pursuit of Sąta. To his disappointment she had vanished. Soon, however, he spied a fresh set of va?amže tracks leading into the woods. “Come here, girl!” he shouted, but in reply he heard only the pattering of a thousand sullen snowflakes thrown down by the wind.

From his pack Suĥ retrieved his snowshoes: if he was to follow he would need them, for the tracks testified to the depth of the pale blanket. When he had again bound the snowshoes to his boots he marched into the wilderness. The trail meandered among the looming andas, their needled branches drooping low beneath the weight of the snow. Growing tense, Suĥ struggled to continually orient himself. Regardless of how carefully he studied his surroundings the trees, the hills, the boulders, the sky, the snow blended together in a maddening fashion.

Just a little bit longer.

Farther and farther into the forest Suĥ hiked. His body became a knot of ache and numbness. On several occasions he stopped to yell for Sąta, but his efforts yielded no reward. And still the trail continued: print after print after print after print. His head began to throb. Am I any closer now than I was an hour ago? he asked himself. “Sąta! Sąta!” His voice had become hoarse. To soothe his throat, he stooped and scooped some snow into his mouth.

“Sąta!”

The wind whispered. The snow steadily drummed.

She’ll find her way back. The scent of the village will lure her back eventually. She’ll be all right.

I hope she’ll be all right.

Turning, Suĥ retraced the ragged trail left by Sąta and by he himself. His tired mind wandered as he shuffled forward. What will I tell At? And what if she doesn’t come back? The longer he hiked, the vaguer the trail became: wind and snow had united to hide it. Occasionally the young man paused, shivering, and scanned the snow. Did I really come this way?

Then, suddenly, Suĥ was struck with the sense that he was following a particular stretch of the trail not for the second time but for the third time. He recalled noting an eerie, twisted anda as he searched for Sąta and recalled noting it again a short while after he started back. Yet there it was again. Apprehensively he examined the trail beneath his snowshoes. Sąta’s prints, and... ... and two sets of my own.

Fear stung him. At some point the trail had become tangled. He looked around frantically. Which way did I originally come? For a moment he plodded in the direction that he had been going. But what if that’s the wrong way? The cold bit harder, deeper than ever now.

“Anybody?” he shouted. He clenched his teeth to silence their chattering.

“Anybody?”

I have my tinderbox. But what here would catch? -- it’s all wet. I could try to build a shelter out of some branches, but... He shook his head; the pain held fast. Or maybe I could still find my way back? Chances are good that I could still reach the village if I could just focus. But I have to choose soon... I have to choose now. Removing his mittens, he blew on his throbbing hands in a vain attempt to warm them. I just need a moment to think...

He shuffled to a nearby boulder, brushed away some snow, and leaned upon the naked stone. I’ll just rest here for a little while...


#


Slowly, slowly Suĥ awoke. He felt heat -- light -- a kind stillness. After some time he began to recognize that he was no longer stranded in the winter wilderness; rather, he lay within an immense den, an animal’s den, upon a bed of dried anda needles. He still wore his greatcoat, but the snow and the ice had melted, leaving the leather soggy. Strangely calm, he observed the sanctuary around him. The stone and the soil had been settled by mosses, lichens, and roots; the air smelled pungent; the entire place seemed alive. Opposite him waited a dark, spacious burrow, the only obvious entrance to the den. Although he was able to see more clearly with each passing moment, he could detect no source of light; this, however, did not bother him.

Then, a presence arrived -- a massive presence which he knew to be far larger than the den itself. Scurrying back, he pressed against the wall behind him. How the presence had been able to join him in the den he could not understand; nonetheless, it had entered, and it hovered above him: a point of attention and intention enveloped in concepts. Constantly shifting, the being displayed itself in abstractions instead of details: blurs, tones, notions, stories. A ĥęrfa? An osrezuĥ A fish? Silver? Water? Flippers? Antiquity? Strength? Profundity? Loneliness? Although he sensed intense power emanating from the being, he did not feel as though he was in danger.

“Who are you? What are you?” Suĥ wondered aloud.

“I am called the Good Lady of the Winter.”

As soon as the voice had spoken, Suĥ perceived a dramatic transformation in the being’s nature: at once it was a she, a hulking, silver-furred ĥęrfa, a guide, a protector, a mother, a goddess. He watched in awe. Almost immediately, however, the form started to seep away; as it did so, his courage grew. “You’re the Good Lady?” The words Good Lady appeared to embolden the waning form.

“That is what I am called.”

“Who calls you that?”

“The Tęcians,” it responded.

“But I’m not a Tęcian,” said Suĥ, leaning forward. “What should I call you?”

“You will call me what you wish to call me.”

“Indeed.” Removing his mittens, Suĥ set them down on the bed of needles. “Where am I? What am I doing here?” he asked dreamily.

“You are in... the Sacred Den,” the amorphous being said, as if trying to remember. “I have brought you here.”

Sąta ran off. Walking for hours. Pain -- numbness -- night -- wind -- snow. Footprints upon footprints. Confusion. Dim impressions of his final moments in the elements leaped into Suĥ’s mind. I should be dead. Maybe I am dead. “Am I in the Otherworld?” he asked.

“Yes,” the being replied.

“I’m dead?”

“No.”

“You’ve saved me?”

“Yes.”

“Because you help those within the forests? Because you’re the Good Lady?” Again the words Good Lady strengthened the form; again, for an instant, he beheld a silver-furred ĥęrfa.

“Yes...”

“But you’re something more, aren’t you?” Suĥ asked. “Somebody more?”

Silence.

“Who are you really?”

Silence.

“Whoever you are, you have saved my life, and I need to thank you,” Suĥ said solemnly. “I need to thank you. Who are you?”

The form shimmered. “I... I am...” A long pause ensued. “I do not remember,” it eventually said.

“What do you remember?”

“I remember... I remember... song.”

“Song?” “I remember... oceans.”

“There are no oceans here.”

“I remember swimming,” the voice said cautiously. “I remember flying. I remember... searching.”

“‘Searching’?”

“I remember exploring many places. I remember being many people. I remember thunderclouds gathering far above the ocean waves. I remember tīqũs gleaming -- thousands of them, all gleaming. I remember hunting zgats in the plains. I remember fatherhood and the taste of hur-fruit and the sun setting behind the mountains while a cool breeze blew. I remember sadness. I remember fear. I remember joy. And I remember coming here... I remember coming here a very long time ago.” While it spoke Suĥ watched the entity adopt different qualities and forms; some were familiar to him, some were wholly alien.

“You’re not from here? Where are you from?”

“Far away. A different time. A different place.”

“Why did you remain here?

“I am caught here,” it said.

“Why?”

“Long ago I came here to learn, to experience, to understand,” it said with effort. “I willed too weakly, though, and I listened too often. I... I remember the Tęcians suffering through the winter... I remember helping them. But over time their perceptions bound me: they shaped me, they named me. Ultimately I began to believe the legends myself.”

“You aren’t the Good Lady?”

“I am... yet I am more,” said the voice. “I am much more.”

“Who are you really?”

“I am... I am... me.”

“Well, that I understand,” laughed Suĥ. “I’m me, too.” Picking up his mittens, he stood. “Thank you for saving me.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m all right now, I think -- warm and rested -- and I can’t allow myself to impose upon you any longer,” said Suĥ. “Thank you again.” Approaching the entrance of the burrow opposite, he glanced back. “I’m looking for a va?amže; she ran into these woods. Have you seen her?”

“I have,” replied the being. “She has since returned to Ehušaĥ.”

“Thanks,” he said with a grin.

With that Suĥ proceeded into the murky burrow. Although he soon left behind the light of the den, he was able to follow the walls easily enough. He carefully felt his way along, sometimes encountering roots and stones protruding from the soil; the burrow twisted, dipped, rose. Sweating, he eased his greatcoat from his shoulders and tucked it beneath his arm. In time he spotted a faint glow far ahead: the mouth of the burrow. He quickened his pace.

Suddenly, Suĥ discovered himself outside. He did not stand in a world gripped by sharp winds and snow and ice, however, but in one blessed by the onset of spring. The perfume of flower blossoms drifted on the gentle breeze; the leaves of the ?lavs had begun to unfurl and soft shoots reached from the earth; vernal constellations glittered in the night sky. Slowly he spun, mystified. Behind him he now found only a high hill -- no burrow, no sign of his own passage through the youthful grass.

It appears as though I have a lot to learn and a lot to explain, he thought, shaking his head. He then started for the hilltop.