The forest tracks were easy enough to trek along. All but the youngest, or oldest, could move from camp to camp easily enough that way, but the herds often kept deeper into the forest where the trees grew thicker and the tracks were muddier and far harder to follow.
‘You’d never have the patience for the hunt,’ Godek scoffed. ‘You women are skittish like summer bees. And you especially.’ He laughed as he prodded her in the direction of the camp with a hard jab of his spear butt. ‘Even the winds could not be so restless or the leaves so chatty.The hunter had to be ready to run too, even in the deeper parts of the forest where the roots grew thickly and sometimes all but smothered the trails. For all its size, an elk buck or deer could run fast and deep, and a boar more so. The men often talked about the great chases through the woods and the hardness of the kill. But most of the time they lay in wait, hardly moving, sometimes hidden in the undergrowth or the trees for days as they watched for the first signs of prey.
Under the skins, baby Tomaz kicked again and she held him close, not wanting to leave the warmth of the tent as she cast anxious glances to the sleeping form of old Katchka. She was too young to see that the woman had suffered more than most through the long winter. Not that Katchka would ever admit to it, and Iwa was too young to see past the woman’s scolding tongue. In fact to most of the clan she had seemed as she ever was, hobbling through the snows after some healing root or muttering her prayers as the clan made their way past the grizzled pine where a Leszy lived. Only Katchka was able to see the forest spirit, though many of the women prayed to it, for it was said that you could foretell the future in the pattern of the bark, or the way that the moss grew across the wood.
Sometimes the Leszy would weave a spell into the branches, still thick with ice, and there were those who’d hear the spirit’s laughter when the wind hummed through the tree and the Leszy dropped sodden lumps of snow on those below. The Leszy would often behave like that, and Katchka was one of the few who could hear its merriment as a thick clod fell on someone’s head. But, whenever the clan came across the tree, they would know that the herds had turned towards the river and the cold was about to wane.
Few of the clan bothered Katchka on the long march, except when they were sick. Nobody could mix hawthorn and ivy like her and she could sing more of the healing songs and chants than any of the other women. Even old Stefina didn’t know half as many, for all her age and pride.
At first it’d been cold, hard enough to freeze the breath on your lips, so that the women ached as they set up the hide tents in the gully where the clan kept their winter camp. Katchka was about then, scrabbling for roots, working their flesh into a thick paste with her mortar and pestle. She’d even managed to go into the forest for days looking for raskovnik, though that magical herb eluded her no matter how hard she searched.
Then the cold had lessened and the snows subsided a little, but the winds turned and, instead of the dry cold that blew down from the mountains, the air was filled with a hard, wet cold that seeped from the river into the women’s clothing and deep into their bones. Katchka felt it reach into the bottom of her spleen and her breath became laboured. Her limbs did not move as they once did and, after a while, she found that her legs had begun to ache though she still insisted on keeping up with the younger women. ‘The winter will claim me soon enough.’ She’d pause to arch her back and look over at the great snow-crusted spine of the mountains. ‘Who then will be there to remember the old ways once I am gone?’
No, not even Stefina could do that. So Katchka kept on with hardly a murmur and only a few of the sharp-eyed women ever guessed at the agony that dogged her steps. Yet, no matter how she tried, the pain seeped out, souring her temper and quickening her anger.
Even Iwa was more weary than usual. Katchka had often been rough with her and the old woman had always said that she only allowed the girl in her tent out of respect for her father. Everyone always looked to Yaroslav even though he was not a hunter, and being his daughter had always made Iwa feel special. However, he was often distant with her, so different to the man who sat and joked long around the fire.
Maybe he remembers my mother. Iwa was quick to stifle the thought. There were times when she saw a different side to him, warmer and more caring, but recently he’d become withdrawn whenever she was near, as if always too caught up with his own thoughts. Under the skins she felt baby Tomaz kick once again and, much against her will, she cradled him to her. If only the thing could keep quiet. ‘Soon we will be at the summer camp and I’ll bring you the prize of the catch, roasted over the fire with loganberries. But you must not be angry if I get hungry and pick at the sides.’
But it was no good. Tomaz began to cry, his tiny body shivering with tears. ‘Be still, or you’ll bring Katchka down upon us. The thaw hasn’t driven itself into her kicking
