And there they sat, at her feet, revealed and laid out upon a thick blanket. Page upon page, folded scraps; a rock placed in the centre to keep them in place as the wind whipped around the camp. Her eyes were somewhat entranced by them; the way the flame of the camp fire flickered, lighting up the drawings and ink lines so that they danced on the vellum. One would look upon her and think of her as emotionless, yet she sat there in some strange yet not visible turmoil, there were no tears to show as the bitter cold taunted them to stay where they were, no glance of despair or anguished cry. She simply remained still, fixed by thought and the dancing fire, numbed and placate.
Trudging back with her hide-ladened sleigh from Pynti-Peldot, Rhoana had crossed nobodies path. The call of the odd bird echoed through the ravines and the whistle of high winds flung through the trees accompanied only by the odd creak and crunch of distant fallen snow and ice. Ja-Kuru, the ice canyon, flinging an orchestra of sounds for miles on end, was always a long and laborious journey – but it needed to be done. Trade had been going well with the long-lived men of the south, ever grateful of the hides and handy work. In return, extra supplies of food, those which grow and legend herbs said to heal.
The journey, imbued only the differing shades of white on the landscape, save for this there was little in the way of colour. On occasion you would find the offerings of The Lossoth people, wooden constructs with cloth and hide tied about them – highly colourful in comparison to the bleak landscape. These constructs were made as an offering of safe passage for any who walked by them and similarly provided clear way markings for those who would likely be lost upon the stretches. After leaving Ja-Kuru, the horizon stretching snow broke into cold stone cliffs where trees erupted from the ground. The white was broken up into black bark, grey stone and the odd remnant of aqua coloured moss.
It was here, when a strange stirring seemed to accompany every move Rhoana made. Though many of the sounds of Forochel, to the unlearned, would seem foreign, sinister and strange – they were the everyday for the Lossoth people and so they knew the sound of other feet upon the ground. Instead of turning her head and calling out to whoever had decided to pursue her, she stayed to her path. The sun had long past the highest peak, and the dark of winter slowly threatened to creep in. Rhoana eyed a flank of nearby trees to her left that stretched upward into the mountains and with one deft movement disappeared amongst them, leaving her sleigh in the middle of the pass. Hiding by one of the wide pine trees, crouched at its base, she remained alert as she strung up her bow, flitting her eyes between her task and the pass. Removing an arrow, she stood, poised and ready. A shadow crept into her vision, she tightened her aim, drawing back the arrow with a creak.
The shadow manifested itself into the form of a young, local boy making his way to her sleigh. Rhoana lowered her bow momentarily, watching from afar as he began to rummage amongst his own belongings before disrupting hers – She raised it again, in mock aim, before striding out of the trees... there was a lesson to teach.
“Why have you been lurking in my shadow like some preying Surmäja!?” She hissed through her teeth.
The boy looked up startled, even more so when he noticed an arrow aimed directly toward him.
“I mean nothing, no harm!” He raised his hands slightly, one was clasped around a heavily bound parcel.
“I know,” Rhoana finally lowered the bow and returned the arrow to its quiver. “No skulking, poika. Unless you are enemy to me or our kin.”
The boy slowly lowered his arms and held out the parcel,
“No enemy, I bring this.”
Slinging her bow across her back she reached for the parcel,
“What is it?”
“I didn't ask, but I bring it, like he said.”
Rhoana eyed the boy for some time before running her hand over the top of the parcel, easing her fingers through the bindings and unclasping it.
What struck her was powerful, an elation yet a sinking of the heart combined. What lay in her hands was her books. Maps, drawings, her crude lettering. All that was lost when she fled the green lands.
“How?” her voice escaped with her breath, the question pertaining to many things. But, she focused and spoke yet again, with some vigour,
“How did you get this?”
The boy continued to speak, rattling on and explaining the story of a southern man insistent on the delivery of the parcel to Rhoana's family – to which he had found, and they had explained of Rhoana's journey to Kauppa-Kohta. He had followed her tracks on his journey back, but only just caught sight of her. She asked for an explanation of the gift-bearers appearance, the boy hadn't caught his name, but through description, she guessed at who it may have been.
“I thank you.” Rhoana closed the loosely bound book and wrapped it in its bindings, for a moment she softened and offered the boy a smile. “You've done well, take this...”
She rummaged around one of her pouches and procured a small smooth bone with delicate scrimshaw work and a leather thong running through its centre.
“Thank you...”
The boy, accepting the offering, stood somewhat hesitant by her sleigh. Rhoana cocked her head toward the village at the bottom of the valley with a returned stern expression.
“Go! And remember, your lesson.”
The boy nodded and ambled down the valley side with speed. Rhoana followed at a steady pace, pulling the ladened sleigh, meandering down toward the lake of ice and the village of Kauppa-Kohta. Upon her arrival she said little to those she would normally greet. Instead, she climbed up the mountain side where her home resided. She lifted the heavy hide, painted and daubed with brightly coloured glyphs and patterns, that covered her hut and dragged the sleigh beneath the shelter. She removed her package and returned outside.
A heap of wood and kindling, placed within a circle of stone, spitting and crackling as the first of the flames took to it. Black smoke bellowed out as Rhoana sat at its base, the book to one side as she skinned the carcass of a small hare and rubbed salt into its flesh. Her eyes flitted between the book and her hands working the preparation of food. Placing the small animal on a crude spit, she wiped her bloodied fingers on the soft leather of her bodice, and reached for the pile of roughly bound vellum. Opening it, she turned each page, allowing the flood gate of memories to release and swarm over her. The maps and drawings depicted the whereabouts of animals worthy of hunting, landmarks and waterholes. Outcroppings of trees and sheer cliffs, where birds called and where elk roamed. The further she went through the pages she noticed new additions, places she'd not roamed or visited and with delight she poured over them, confused and yet excited by what she saw, until she noticed a signature at the bottom of each new page. Olver Greyhern. She ran a finger over the ink, the name ringing with clarity. Elated that he had somehow found her works, he was alive, amongst a myriad of other thoughts, and yet a numbness settled in, a resounding sadness as she floated amongst memories. She placed the book down with the new maps splayed out about it, and finding a rock she placed it in the middle – for fear the wind would take them. And she remained there, for as long as the fire could sustain her.
Some days later she had finished her trade and had made her way back to the farthermost northern reaches to meet with her family. It was evening and all the relatives, distant and near, had gathered in Riku's hut. Rhoana had spent the moments in dusk to reveal the maps to her niece, telling tales of her journeys – to which Kirri was delighted. Once evening set in, the elder folk sat around a large fire in the central room. Rhoana clutched her book to her chest as she watched the elder and wedded women sing in a choral dirge, their voices strained in an unknown sadness, raw and heart wrenching. Food was passed around as though it was plentiful, words were uttered quietly as the women sang, and all looked upon them in the quivering light, with awe. Riku looked over to his Pikku, his little sister, and caught her gaze. She smiled toward him, with sustained effort and as he smiled, uncertainly, back she became unnerved, settling her gaze back upon the singers. He remained watching her unable to shake the moment where she smiled; for in that moment he could see the special light in her eyes had become dim. Once again he had lost her.
