In the Forests of New France
This is not a place or a time to stop for the night. The wolf's howl speaks of only one aspect of the myriad dangers lurking in these forests. Yes, there are men who spend their lives braving this land, but you are not one of them. It is as Severin says, you think; you were never cut out for this life. Your mother had mentioned that she thought you might have been happier in France, but it was not your choice to be born here, in these wild lands so far away... Maybe Montreal would be better, you think, and use the image your mind has formed of Montreal as a spur to your determination to move onward.
You turn back in the direction from which you assume you came, hoping that is a good enough indicator of in which direction home lies. You have no way of knowing how far you must travel, and it's getting dark. Stumbling forward, half blind by your own faulty vision and the gloom around you, you struggle onward. You're hungry, and again use the image of your mother's cooking to steel your resolution to make it as far as you can before you collapse from exhaustion. Thirst seems a more pressing concern, but you trust that the rough deer trail you seem to have followed will eventually divert to water. It seems to you, from what you've seen and the stories you've heard, they generally do.
You walk for nearly an hour, feet sore, throat burning from thirst, the humidity of the late summer night bringing sweat from your scratched body. The salt stings the small wounds, and you wonder once more what brought you this far. You search your memory, but still can find no recollection of the time between Severin's departure and your arrival in the clearing. What brought you to consciousness then, even, is beyond your reach. That distresses you, but you know from the old men's tales in your home village that sometimes unwanted memories flood to the surface when one sleeps. That thought brings with it an unexpected twinge of dread.
Distracted by your thoughts, you lost track of your path and became unmindful of its dangers. Your right foot hits the base of a small fallen tree, the toe of your boot catching beneath. You fall with a crash, snapping branches from the tree as your body makes contact with it. You flounder upright again, but your ankle is on fire. You move it experimentally, which reassures that it is not broken, but the pain is still bad. You're not really sure you can walk further on that leg tonight, but yet this is no place to rest...
You turn back in the direction from which you assume you came, hoping that is a good enough indicator of in which direction home lies. You have no way of knowing how far you must travel, and it's getting dark. Stumbling forward, half blind by your own faulty vision and the gloom around you, you struggle onward. You're hungry, and again use the image of your mother's cooking to steel your resolution to make it as far as you can before you collapse from exhaustion. Thirst seems a more pressing concern, but you trust that the rough deer trail you seem to have followed will eventually divert to water. It seems to you, from what you've seen and the stories you've heard, they generally do.
You walk for nearly an hour, feet sore, throat burning from thirst, the humidity of the late summer night bringing sweat from your scratched body. The salt stings the small wounds, and you wonder once more what brought you this far. You search your memory, but still can find no recollection of the time between Severin's departure and your arrival in the clearing. What brought you to consciousness then, even, is beyond your reach. That distresses you, but you know from the old men's tales in your home village that sometimes unwanted memories flood to the surface when one sleeps. That thought brings with it an unexpected twinge of dread.
Distracted by your thoughts, you lost track of your path and became unmindful of its dangers. Your right foot hits the base of a small fallen tree, the toe of your boot catching beneath. You fall with a crash, snapping branches from the tree as your body makes contact with it. You flounder upright again, but your ankle is on fire. You move it experimentally, which reassures that it is not broken, but the pain is still bad. You're not really sure you can walk further on that leg tonight, but yet this is no place to rest...