Winter’s Claim

Hey guys,

Apologies for the large gap in content recently, as usual, life always finds a way to muscle in on my writing time! Here’s a piece I’ve written about a group of mountain trappers, who we find discovering a dead comrade. I really enjoyed writing the characters on this one, Erik and Raafe being favourites of mine. It’s not action packed, but hopefully you’ll get something out of it.

As always, I’d love to hear any thoughts or feedback you might have on the piece.

Cheers,

Jevan Thompson

 

“I told him not to stray from the group…I told him…stubborn pitting bastard.” Raafe said looking down at the corpse, his voice laden with sorrow. But there was so much more than just sorrow that coloured his speech. Guilt, remorse, anger, and pain had all intertwined, but there was still more.

Something much deeper lay far beneath the surface of his words.

It was loss.

The indescribable wrenching of the heart, knowing that someone who was a living, breathing, feeling part of the world, will never live, breathe or feel again.

The icy wind scratched at their uncovered faces, the elements of the mountains uncaring for their plight. Colster stood still, attempting to ignore the cold seeping into his bones.

This was the second member that had died on the expedition, more specifically the second member to succumb to the harsh conditions of the Snare mountains. The dangers that surrounded them were constant up in the Snare, but they were a necessary part of the profitability of the trade venture. There was a reason so few came to the Snare to trap for furs, but the rarest pelts happened to be in one of the most hostile environments.

There was the familiar dull crunching of snow as Erik approached, his thick boots sinking up to the calf with every step. As Erik was the quartermaster of the expedition, Colster was surprised to see him out of the warmth of his tent.

“Who is it?” Erik asked as he walked, his voice just carrying over the whipping winds.

Raafe spat on the ground and looked over to trudging quartermaster with a hard stare.

“Digger.” He said.

Erik had finally reached them and stood over the dead man, breathing heavily from the effort. He wasn’t a slim man, nor a strong man, in fact he didn’t possess a single physical attribute usually associated with a group of hardened mountain trappers. What he did have however, was an incredibly sharp mind, able to make sense of the complex world of arithmetic and mathematics. Numbers and figures came easily to him, making him an important part of the team, even if he couldn’t track or hunt.

Raafe on the other hand, was the polar opposite of Erik. A veteran from the Imperial’s 6th regiment of foot, who had seen a dozen skirmishes all across the world. His body had been tempered by his military service and meant he was well suited to the rigorous labours of a trapper. He was wise, but lacked a learned education. His education had been with spears and soldiers, not with pens and scholars.

Erik nodded to himself, looking into the frozen eyes of the corpse.

“James Digby. I’ll begin organising his affairs… It’s a terrible shame, but at least his family will have something out of this dreadful situation.”

“They won’t.” Raafe said coldly.

“He’s no family?” Erik asked calmly.

Raafe shook his head in response.

Erik nodded again before continuing. “Well. I shall check over his final writ and see what I can find. If there’s mention of family, we’ll find them when we get back. Raafe. Chief.” He addressed both of them before he turned away, trudging through the deep snow once again.

There were a few moments of silence as Colster and Raafe stood in a quiet contemplation, until raafe shattered the quiet with a sudden curse, spitting on the ground again.

“I told him Chief, I pitting told him…They’ve all known from the start.” Even though his voice was rasping and low, he couldn’t disguise the cracking in his tones. Colster turned to him and placed a mittened hand on his shoulder, gripping firm.

“This isn’t your fault. They knew what they were getting into. They knew the risks.”

Raafe looked away, unable to meet his eyes.

“I want the men to see this.” Colster said, patting him on the shoulder again before turning away and following Erik’s imprints through the snow, leaving Raafe alone with the corpse. When the footsteps through the snow finally receded, Raafe’s head pivoted, ever so slowly, ever so subtly over his shoulder.

He continued his quiet survenance for a few moments and when he was eventually satisfied, he sank into a squat, resting on his heels, low to the ground and low to the corpse. The hardened veteran of a dozen skirmishes, well versed in the art of combat, took one of his hands and ran it through his hair, his eye’s screwing shut tightly against the wind. The closing of his eyes was explainable, the tears which trickled down his weathered face were not.

**************************************************************

The pages of the tome gave a gentle rasp as they were turned, Erik as delicate as a lover with the old book. As the quartermaster, he kept the care of many different ledgers and documents, but this particular tome was one of the most important in his sizeable collection. It detailed positively everything about the crew that could be needed to know.

Each member had his own personal section, full of notes on their families and places of living, hometown, dependants and of course, their last will and testament. Erik carefully leafed through the pages until he came upon James Digby’s name.

There was little on the page, even for a crewman from a small village in the middle of nowhere. Most at least had entries for their families, but under James Digby’s lonely page, there was but one paragraph.

James Digby, known by his friends as “Digger”. No family to speak of, no place to call home. Not a follower of the four or a believer of any other gods for that matter. The only request in his writ of passing was to leave all worldly assets to a Mr. Cale Auland, a cobbler in the great city of Titan, in the fourth ring. 

It was a sad thing, to see the man’s legacy written in one measly paragraph, but Erik consoled himself with the fact the man obviously had someone who would miss him. The tent walls shook and flapped as the wind’s great lungs blew onto the camp, but he had become accustomed to the noise. The sounds that once kept him from sleep, were now oddly comforting, like a steady rhythm easing him into a state of peace.

Stretching out his fingers, wiggling them all individually to stave off the cold, he picked up a writing quill and uncorked a bottle of ink. Dipping the nib, he began to write underneath, ensuring he didn’t spill a drop of the black liquid onto the pages.

Deceased on the second era, the age of man. Year 312. Mid Winter. Day 260. Claimed by winter.

He paused, trying to find more words to add to the page, but nothing sprang forth to his mind. A life time seemed to pass as he stared at the writing, but alas the words refused his efforts. He was unused to this particular kind of work, the organisation of the camp was his main focus. This particular task was something that he didn’t think he’d have to do, let alone twice.

Silence reigned over the tent, save for the background of the tent walls struggling against the mountain’s efforts.

How many times am I going to have to amend that book? He wondered to himself.

Before his mind could answer, a struggle sounded from the tent entrance, rousing him from his own thoughts. Raafe strode in. Although he physically looked like the same Raafe that Erik had always known, he could tell straight away that something was different.

His jaw was set, just as always. The resolute jawline of a warrior was something Erik admired, for his own was softened by comfort and he had taken to hiding it underneath a well kept beard. Raafe’s eyes were narrowed slightly, as sharp as a knife and twice as deadly. His nose was still crooked, a constant reminder that Raafe was no stranger to trouble. But it was how he carried himself that gave him away.

Gone was his usual confident posture. Gone was the swagger in his steps. Erik had once thought Raafe’s stance repulsive, reeking of arrogance and superiority. It was only later in their professional relationship he understood it was not arrogance Raafe displayed, but conviction. A conviction that Raafe thought himself dangerous. It wasn’t a show, or a cheap attempt at intimidation, being dangerous was as natural to him as breathing.

But now, Raafe’s shoulders were hunched over, not spread broadly. It was as if he was trying to hide himself away, to avoid the eyes he usually sought out.

And so, this shadow of Raafe stepped into the middle of the tent, his eyes wandering around the shelves and furniture with curiosity. He must have studied the books and ledgers for a good twenty seconds, all the while Erik waiting patiently.

“It’s a comfy old place in here isn’t it?” Raafe said softly, almost to himself.

Before Erik could respond to the blatant reference to his lavish surroundings, at least compared to the other members of the crew, Raafe held up a hand to quiet him.

“Sorry Erik, I don’t mean to dig at you…Just thinking out loud.” He said, his eyes still not meeting Erik’s.

Erik gave a slow nod, a very powerful tool in a merchants disposal. For a nod can have many meanings and can convey otherwise unexplainable emotions in just a slight move of the head. In this slight movement, he conveyed his acceptance of Raafe’s apology, but also a sense of understanding, as if he knew exactly what the man was going through. His father, old and gray now, would have clapped silently if he was with them in the tent.

Erik’s lips started to move, ever so slowly, as if he was trying to find words to speak. After a few heartbeats, he finally met Erik’s eyes.

Erik had seen this look before, on countless of men both in his employ and potential rivals to his business. It was a very specific look that only someone as experienced as himself could detect, after all knowing people was his business. Many people thought merchantry was just about numbers and figures, but Erik knew it was really about people. How to read their expressions, their intentions, their desires. Knowing what to say to get the right response was pivotal in his profession.

Although Raafe was trying his best not to let it show, it was like a bonfire on a moonless night to Erik.

Failure.

His attitude towards the man instantly softened, his body relaxing in his leather chair. This wasn’t an act of weakness Erik was pouncing on, but a display of sympathy to a fellow man. His cutthroat, entrepreneurial days were behind him now, the days of capitalizing on any weakness, on any chink in the armour were long gone. Eventually, Raafe’s lips stilled and he coughed, his signature frown returning once again. He spoke again, this time professional and sincere.

“I’m going to need some flash powder for tomorrow. A small cask, which we’ll split into several of the pots.”

Erik recognised that Raafe was covering up his vulnerability with duty. He knew full well that any one the trapper seniors could have signed out the equipment, but he simply nodded his head and got the supplies logbook from a nearby shelf.

“Is it wildcats or wolves?” Erik said casually as he found the correct entry in the book.

“Neither. We’re after the bear.” Raafe said.

Erik stopped from his writing and looked up at the trapper.

“The bear?! You don’t mean the-” He started.

“The longtooth, yeah that’s the one. The scouts have found it’s nest, it’s holed up for the winter, but we’re gonna get it.”

It was quiet for a few moments as Erik contemplated the task ahead of the men. They had taken many foxes, rabbits, deer and racoons, but a bear was a shock, certainly the biggest venture they had set their sights on.

“I think Colster wants a win for the lads. They could damn well use one.” Raafe spoke softly.

Erik nodded again, this time conveying agreement and understanding.

Masterful work to say so much in one little movement of the head.