So Much More Than Life

So Much More Than Life

Orin strode through the busy market, unwilling to waste a second perusing the variety of goods lining the street. He needed Emerson Tanner, that was his purpose for travelling into town today, not to make idle small talk with the town folk and be plied with a dozen things he had no need for.

Orin was a man of simple pleasures and old habits. The well worn path from his house to the merchant quarter was a testament to his predictability. Go into town, get what you need, then back to the farm. Leave time enough then to fix the fences, feed the goats, and head out hunting before losing the light.

Steady as the river hemmed in by rolling banks he made his way back and forth from farm to town, the path worn even, used to his dependable pace. For Orin never stopped to admire the blooming wildflowers, the setting sun, the deer galloping through the trees. There was no purpose to it, and Orin did nothing without purpose. 

Strange then, when his steady gait hesitated at the door of Emerson Tanner, and Orin stared at what he was certain was a new shop across the street. 

Small, ramshackled, but undoubtedly new despite the weathered appearance. The faded sign above the door was too cracked to read, yet the tart smell assaulting his nose left little mystery to what goods he would find within.

A brand new tanner, eh?

Orin considered himself a loyal man, but as he contemplated the torn jerkin clutched in his hand, something compelled him towards this unassuming hovel repurposed as a tannery.

Emerson ain’t as young as he used to be. His work’s been getting sloppy. 

Emerson had been a tanner for decades. In truth, he had been the tanner. And experience had to count for something. Why, then, did Orin turn away from his well worn path and strike out into the unknown depths of this new, yet musty, shop? 

For years afterwards, he told himself that his jerkin needed special attention. Attention he knew he would be unable to find from Emerson. It was an easy enough lie to believe.  

The shop within mirrored the disarray of the outside, and anticipating the foul odour did nothing to prepare Orin for the stench when it hit him. He was no stranger to rotting flesh, but the hunted animal rarely smelt this bad. 

“You’ll be wanting a new jerkin”

The voice cut through the foetid air, sublime as early morning birdsong, and drawing Orin’s glance towards the gloom of the back of the shop. 

Finding a woman encased in these dismal surroundings was enough of a shock. The young girl Orin laid eyes upon left him completely defenceless. She floated into the workshop, her thick hair turning from ebony, to auburn, to golden wheat as she stepped through the dim light. Her beauty, her utter grace, it demanded to be admired, yet Orin reprimanded himself for allowing such an indulgence. 

She smiled. Such a sweet smile as she held the jerkin aloft, carefully probing the holes with only her sparkling eyes. Orin stood dumb. He did not remember handing it to her. 

“My, my. What a state this is in”

“Wolves” 

Another smile, another chip at Orin’s resolve. 

“Ah yes, it has been a long winter”

Orin said nothing whilst she waited for his reply. He had nothing to say, why waste the words?

“A new one then?”

Without waiting for his response, the young girl glided towards a jerkin covered workbench. Piles of neatly folded leather contributed to the controlled chaos, each bearing intricate designs which Orin was unable to fully discern. Not that he made much effort. Instead, he was transfixed by the hands of this young woman deftly rummaging through the piles, her skin covered in stains, healed cuts, and burns of varying freshness. 

A tanner’s hands. Surely this young thing don’t handle the hides herself. 

“Here, just the thing”

Proudly she held aloft a jerkin, the supple dark brown leather adorned with ivy and vines, and a regal stag carved at the centre. With his head held high he was every inch the king of the forest.

“What do you think?”

Her voice tinkled like a thousand soft bells. This was a work of art, and she had every right to be proud of it. 

“It’s… It’s…”

Beautiful? Yes, Orin would allow himself to recognise that, but…

“All I need is a patch job” 

The smile he received brooked no argument, yet still Orin reached for his battered jerkin, the once supple garment lumpy and coarse from years of patching. He glanced around, his hand groping along the tables as he realised he had lost sight of it.

“Mine’s still got life in it”

“Yes, it does”

Suddenly she was beside him, pressing the jerkin into his hand with a urgency which to Orin seemed unwarranted. Light breath upon his cheek, the heat from her skin seeping into his own, it made Orin’s head swim with the intoxication.  

“But this has so much more than life in it”

Her smile was gone, and at this closeness Orin saw she was not such a young girl after all. Her skin wrinkled, her frame fragile rather than delicate, her eyes full of sorrow. Yet beautiful all the same. 

“I ain’t in need of it”

His own voice cracked and groaned, rendering his words useless in the face of her insistence. Stepping away, and leaving the jerkin firmly in his hand, her eyes hardened as if he had uttered a grave insult. Yet, oh, how they sparkled. 

“Surely it is useless to measure beauty by necessity”

Those words haunted Orin every step of his way home. He didn’t understand them, but they meant something. A meaning dancing on the edge of consciousness if he were only able to grasp it. 

He had taken the jerkin, unsuitable though it was, and asked for a patch job all the same. Orin was a man who never planted anything unless it could bear fruit, who never paused to watch the sunset unless to judge the time, who never had a spare smile or kind word unless it would get him something he needed in return.

Yes, he had taken it. There was little point in arguing. Before he left that putrid hovel, she had one final insistence to make, drawing the soft jerkin from his grasp to sew a small patch of leather on the inside, just above and left of the stag's head. Upon inspection, Orin noted the patch, circular and hardly bigger than his thumb, was adorned with a posy of heather, carved by gentle and precise hands. 

“How many hunters carry heather with them, do you think?”

Orin was forced to shrug. As far as he knew, no hunter fell in with superstitions anymore. 

“Well, you shall no longer be left wanting now”

A sweet tone. Youthful, stripping years from her weathered face. 

Beautiful. Old, but beautiful.

Orin revelled in the memory of her soft touch, though there was little time to dwell on it. The winter had turned harsh after a pitiful summer and a disappointing harvest. The once vibrant forest rendered barren, making the wolves bolder and the village livestock ever more tempting. 

Night descended fast, and remained longer than any welcomed, already bitter cold by the time Orin picked up his trusted bow and slipped the jerkin over his head.

Sturdy yet supple. Excellent work, all told. 

Heading for the door, Orin paused on the threshold, his hand lingering above the handle of his hunting knife. He had no plans to use it, yet something urged him to slip it into his belt. There was no harm in being prepared. 

Despite the cold, the night was sublime. Clear skies with a gibbous moon lighting his path, and a bright frost glittering underfoot. A perfect night for hunting, even though stealth would be difficult to achieve. The wolves would hear him coming half a mile off, but he would hear them too. 

Orin was known to be a fine hunter. One of the finest this side of the river. He was also known to take little pleasure in it. Deer and hare alike wished to roam the forest freely, yet he cut them down as savagely as the wolves. A man had to eat, so he took only what he needed to survive. Something he shared in common with the wolves, who had as much desire to live as himself. 

Hunting the wolf was bad business. Necessary business, true, he could not deny it. Any further loss of livestock would bring the spectre of hunger closer to the doors of the village. To keep it away was his priority, his role. The farmers paid him well enough for his skills, and there was no sense in trusting the dogs for this task. Too easily scared. Too easily tricked. 

Had there been another way, any other way, Orin would have taken it years ago. Yet the winter descended with relentless predictability, making the wolves relentless too.

He was deep within the forest’s depths when he finally heard it. Paws creeping through the frosted grass.  

They’re here. 

A smart hunter understood wolves. Not mere beasts, no, they were communities. Tight packs, ordered, each member understanding their place. Like Emerson Tanner, or Orin the Hunter, each had a function. No room for deviation or creativity. And beauty? Orin’s day was filled enough and left no room for such pursuits.

The body of a small wolf leapt past Orin as he quickly stepped aside, his arm splattered with foam from its snarling teeth. 

A young one, that. A warning shot. 

Orin turned sharply, his bow ready, and loosed an arrow into the darkness, one warning shot deserving another. The growl which followed signalled that it was not heeded.

His ears pricked at the sound of crunching behind him, and instinct alone made Orin bolt down the path. If he could lead them away from the village, and injure them enough to ensure a few weeks' peace, he could avoid killing them altogether. He held no special fear of the wolves. That was not the reason he stayed his hand.  

   The wolves were close on his tail, their feet pounding over the glittering grass. Half a dozen was Orin’s guess. Not too bad as odds go. 

Jumping behind a tree, Orin loosed another arrow, a yelp telling him his aim was true. 

Hope I only wounded the poor beast. 

Yet the pack continued to advance. A bad sign. A few more shots would normally send them scattering, but these creatures were desperate. And desperation is a dangerous enemy to face.

Loosing more arrows did nothing to stay the approaching pack. If they would not heed the warning, he would be forced to change tactics whilst he had any arrows remaining.     

Grasping the nearest branch, Orin swung himself up into the tree, as the iron vice of a wolf’s jaws fastened on his ankle. With barely enough time to yell out, he was yanked to the forest floor. 

They came in from behind, too, you fool! 

Too many of them. Far more than was needed to face one hunter. But when it comes to battle, what sense is there in keeping the odds even?

The young wolf placed its paws firmly on Orin’s chest, slowly advancing towards his face as one by one the pack emerged from the shadows. Nothing could be heard above the growling of the beasts and the blood pounding in Orin’s head. 

Slowly, deftly, Orin slipped his hunting knife from his belt, blessing the instinct that insisted he bring it. With one fluid motion he swung out at the wolf. It anticipated his movement, but just barely, yelping as it leapt sideways, the knife cutting across its eye. 

Half blind. Odds are getting better. 

Orin jumped to his feet, fitting a shaft in his bow and preparing to take aim just as the half blind wolf lunged forward. Young and full of fire, it easily pinned Orin to the ground, but not before the arrow was loosed. It found its path easily, straight through the wolf’s head.

Without even a final yelp, the young fool thudded to the ground. This time the warning was loud enough to send the other wolves scattering into the forest, leaving Orin alone with his fallen foe.

He retrieved his arrow, taking time to wipe it free of blood before kneeling beside the wolf, bowing his head in reverence, one hunter to another.

A silent prayer, that was all Orin could offer his deceased brother now.

And truly it was a worthy battle, my brother.   

Satisfied that his task was done, Orin turned from the wolf, about to retrace his path home when an unwelcome noise froze him to the spot. 

Another growl. Deeper. Stronger. Not so young, but full of as much fire. A growl which made its intention clear. Vengeance was required for the death of her kin. 

With just enough time to turn before the she-wolf lunged at him, Orin rolled across the clearing, the belly of the mighty beast soaring within inches of his face. The she-wolf landed lightly, turning easily as Orin stumbled towards a nearby tree. She possessed a sure footedness Orin did not. His only hope for survival was to find cover, and soon.

The tree was within touching distance when the she-wolf leapt over the body of her reckless child, her front paws slamming into Orin, pinning him to the ground with the weight of her body. 

Every sinew within her was taut and risen to the surface like yards of rope. She was strong, Orin was stronger. But strength meant very little when vengeance was at play. With all his might, Orin was able to throw the she-wolf sideways, one hand on her neck to hold back her snapping jaws, the other groping blindly for his hunting knife which was no longer in his belt. 

They rolled over on the hard ground, the advantage hastily seized by each fighter before being snatched away only moments later. This could not go on for much longer and, with grim certainty, Orin knew his stamina was no match for hers. 

He threw her sideways once more, not managing to fully disengage, but able to clamber on top for a brief moment. That was all he needed to spot the hunting knife no more than a few feet away, and easily within his grasp, before the she-wolf twisted and bounded on top of him. 

Orin had no intention of dying that night, so it was a surprise when the unbidden thought bubbled so clearly to the surface of his mind.

Good end for a hunter. All things must eat.

The she-wolf snarled and snapped, no sign of her strength waning, and in one foolish moment Orin let go of her neck to make a grab for his knife. Sensing her opportunity had come, she pulled her head back, baring her slathering jaws as she plunged her teeth into his chest. 

With a scream, Orin’s fingers closed around the handle of his knife, and with a jerk which was more a convulsion than it was a thought out plan, the blade was thrust deep into the she-wolf’s heart. 

Slumping heavily onto Orin’s battered body, the she-wolf died almost instantly, her final low growl quickly giving way to silence. The entire forest was completely devoid of any sounds now, the smarter animals running instantly from the fighting of two such savage beasts. Orin’s final thoughts were of the creatures which had remained. Those who stayed to watch the fight, intent on knowing the outcome before the rest, stilling their chittering to bow their heads in silent prayer. 

The darkness gathering behind the trees crept forward, swirling at the edge of Orin’s eyesight, his laboured breathing growing shallow as the pain bloomed in his chest. 

A soft wind brushed his cheek, warm and sweet. The breath of summer which was long gone, chased away by the inevitable winter nights. 

Frost crackled nearby, and he turned his head, expecting to see the pack returning to feast on the meal which demanded such a heavy sacrifice. At first he could see nothing except the moonlight playing on the frozen earth. Then it flickered, took form, took life, her dainty feet leaving no imprint, her delicate frame cutting through the darkness, and her hair turning from black, to auburn, to golden wheat with each step. 

She smiled at Orin, that same sweet smile, as she raised her hand to her breast, resting it just over her heart. They were flawless now, without a single stain or burn, the ivory fingers gently tapping her chest. 

Orin reached towards her, his mind calmed knowing he should die in such sweet company. He blinked. Then blinked again. 

The she-wolf was still slumped atop him, rendered stiff and heavy by death. And still his hand reached towards the centre of the clearing, now glowing in the feeble light of dawn, the frost melting on the grass, and a soft sheen of dew sprinkled on his cheek. 

He was alive, and more importantly, he was alone. 

I should be dead. She got my heart as well as I got hers. 

With more effort than he thought he was capable of giving, Orin rolled the poor beast onto the forest floor. There his hunting knife stood proudly, buried in the she-wolf’s noble heart. Yet here he was. Alive. Injured but alive.

He stumbled upwards, retrieving his knife, feeling for his bow, unable to walk more than a few steps before being forced to rest against a tree. The young woman had been here, and not here all at once. Orin knew it could not have been her, not with her hands as clear from blemishes as virgin skin. He wished he had been able to kiss those ivory fingers. To take the hand from her breast and…

His hand shot up, resting above his own heart, just to the left over the stag’s head where his fingers found the small patch of leather sewn on the inside. He traced the carving of heather, misshapen from the wolf’s mighty jaws, but still intact.

With his hand never leaving his breast, Orin traced his path home. It took far longer than usual in his injured state. He did not mind. The sun was warm, setting the dewy ground sparkling and the birds singing sweetly. Stopping as he rounded the trees into a clearing, Orin smiled at the bundles of pink, red, and gold heather swaying in a breeze softer than a woman’s sigh. 

The air was sweet, the sight was beautiful, and it was a true pleasure to take as much of the morning as he pleased to linger in the clearing. 

Orin remained a hunter. After all, every man has his role to play. And until the end of his days a sprig of heather remained tucked into his belt, to match the leather posy sewn just above his heart.