Hunters Marks

Midwinter. First day. First year alone.

You have died, my brother. I buried you beneath the great oak in front of our home. The one with the foxes. Do you remember? What a feast we had when mother taught us how to drive foxes from their dens. I buried you in that very den. Be rest assured that no worms will disturb your rest, for I dug deeper and wider than the mother fox, and I filled your grave with pebbles from mother river. You will rest surrounded by stone. I carved “Nyson” deep into the trunk, so that those who can read the Hunters Marks will know who rests there. 
I am all alone now. I have no one to listen to, save myself when I read these words. I found father’s old journals. But he did not write in the Hunters Marks, and now it is too late to learn his script. I will never hear his voice again. 
I still hear mother’s voice. I hear them in the woods. Carved deep into the stones and the stumps. But she only talks of the migrations of elk and deer, the ranges of shepherds, the territories of bears and wolves, the best fishing spots, and wear to lay traps. 
I should burn father’s journals. They are useless to me, and it is very cold.


Two and a half months since my previous entry.

The Wolves’ borders have changed, brother. Always we have shared our lands with Redmane’s pack. But three times I have seen the Sons of Twistedclaw hunting west of the crescent birch-grove. This has not happened before. I must learn why. 
But first, I must learn the scent of TwistedClaw’s pack so that I may range safely among them. I hear the howls of the two packs nearby. Blood will be shed. I shall go tonight.
Mother, it pains me that I will lose more of your words. You marked the boundaries of the wolf packs well, but the boundaries have changed. I will have to erase some of your Hunters Marks. I am sorry. 


Midwinter. 1730 AD

My crossbow bolt sits comfortably above our fireplace. I had the arrow oiled, and had a stand built for it out of olive wood. It looks so elegant there upon the mantle. It is strange to think that I pulled it from the thigh of TwistedClaw’s own carcass.
I kept the bolt as a curiosity at first. It was smaller and sharper than the arrows father tried to teach us to make. We really should have paid more attention to him. After I learned the twisted-claw scent from the arrow, I began to notice another scent underneath. It was like father's scent, but also like food. 
I am surrounded by that scent now. It is wonderful. As I write, Anizette brings me a mug of mulled cider. She asks me what funny letters I am writing, and I tell her to run along. She thinks I am her papa, though her true father, Claude’s true husband, is a skeleton buried beneath the house. 
Equipped with Twisted-Claw’s scent, and his pelt, I ran freely among his pack’s territory. I didn’t even have to change all the way. The pack was too busy fleeing Redmane’s to notice.
I found this village, which is now a town. It is so easy to get food here brother. At times I wonder why mother ever raised us out in the forest. Then I remember our home, the moss-covered barrow. I remember the fresh forest breeze, and the noise that it made as it raced through the trees, carrying autumn leaves. I remember the elusive white elk that we have hunted many nights but never caught. Then I no longer wonder. 
My real child still sleeps in Claude’s womb. When it is older, I will take it to your grave beneath the Great Oak.


Midsummer 1740 AD

I pointed to the great oak, and asked little Ambroas who lives there.
He looked for a moment, then sniffed the air. "You live there, papa," he said. 
I laughed, and he thought I was laughing at him, though really it was in relief that he was truly one of us. Then I told him his real name.


Midwinter 1741 AD

More famers have moved west, and the wolves' borders have changed again, bother. Little Nyson and I will go into the forest tonight, to redo the Hunters Marks.