(COLD/Posting #11). Ewald experiences another wolf attack, keeps his brain alive with number games, and meets another tribesman.

COLD is available in Japan: <https://www.amazon.co.jp/dp/B076VBJB62>

As I started walking, I consulted my compass. Wife had given me one of her most prize possessions, since a traveler could easily walk in circles in such a cold climate. It had kept me on my southerly route, and I now needed to use it to reset my course. I would veer east, to hit the port of Murmansk at some point. I had only walked due south because Nanra had convinced me I needed to access the tribal villages. There would be other tribal settlements in this new direction, she said, but cautioned that the father away I traveled, the greater the chance that people might not respond to her beadwork.

The weather remained constant, that is constantly cold, but without snow. The season for big storms was approaching and my new friends had explained through hand signals and drawings that I should expect some harsh weather. The drawing had shown spirals of wind and snow and many dotted lines of rain coming down. They pictured all this rain pelting the tiny houses and trees drawn in at the bottom of the page. So, they were warning me that I would be tested again and again. And because of this frightening news – it did concern me – they donated a new piece of equipment. I was handed a type of umbrella. It was a stick that folded out with thin hide, something that could be used to defend me from direct wind, rain and snow. They showed me how to tie it to my walking stick. And when I did, they made sure that the extra weight wasn't too oppressive. Actually it wasn't very heavy for such a helpful contraption. It would be my shield when the bad weather really hit. And if I got tired of having it latched to the walking stick, I could move it to the sled that held my pack of tenting materials. It would hardly be a noticeable addition to the overall weight of my supplies.

The first few hours of being back on the path proved happily uneventful. It was clear that I was out of practice walking. But by noon I fell back into an even stride. Fortunately I hadn't gotten any softer from cabin life. I ate a dumpling from the bag dangling against my waist. I assigned it ‘day fourteen/thirteen dumplings’ so I’d know what was left. And was fortunate that there were no wolves in sight. Walking along I was suddenly struck by a bored and flat feeling. Then some broad questions invaded my mind, along with a gap in memory...

Why was I walking here? Why was I strolling along in the middle of nowhere, in a sub- zero climate. I couldn't answer for a while. It just momentarily all seemed so preposterous. It was as if the cozy home of strangers – the gifts of dumplings, stew, warmth, umbrella – had rotted my brain. Suddenly everything had been too normal, too nice, too boring and predictable. Was I dreaming there? And had there ever really been a Nanra? Of course there had, because I had used her beaded walking stick, clothes, boots, gloves, tarp, everything. She had given me this life.

Crunch, crunch...the snow under my feet was boring too. I couldn’t fight the regularity of the landscape any more successfully than I could fight the memories of siblings, military school and war. Boring walk with no sense to it. I willfully kept my feet going forward, churning faster, but nothing stopped the backwards recollections. Then a scary sound tossed all this aside. Wolves howled somewhere up ahead and I stopped, dropped down on one knee and looked hard in the direction of the noise. I couldn't see anything. 'Boring' had been OK for awhile, but now things were the complete opposite. I didn't want to become something’s lunch. I immediately switched into my wolf-drill.

With extreme speed I removed the brace and bit from my pack, drilled a hole six inches deep into the frozen ground, drove in the walking stick and grabbed the tarp. With a circular motion I flung the material over the stick, grabbed pegs and quickly pounded them in all around the edge with the hatchet. Finally, I dragged my pack inside, laced up the door flap and flipped opened the stink jar. I got a pretty strong whiff of horribleness before my nostrils were plugged. And then I caught my breath and waited. Either I had done an unnecessary drill or I had outraced the wolves, beaten them at their own game as they rushed in for a kill.

The wolf sounds got louder.

This was no drill.

I peered out the peep holes and saw a group of four-legged animals rushing toward me and my tent. There were five...five or six fairly large wolves. I tried to remember Nanra's advice. Don't be afraid. Easy to say. Just don't be scared...when any normal person would be? Her point was that the smell of fear would embolden the animals, make them even more ferocious. And we didn't want that.

I quickly spread some dry-bush on the ground near the laced doorway and lit it with my flint. Fortunately I had brought in my tin plate, to protect hot fire from melting into the ground- snow. Anyway, the smoke found its way out of the laces, carrying the stink with it. Was the stink jar working well enough? I grabbed a finger-full of the stinky goo, smeared it on the end of one of my short sticks and held it over the fire. Where were the wolves? What were they doing?

Grabbing the hatchet in my right hand and pistol in my left I sat there nervously, my back to the stick, ready for a fight. I looked around and got ready. The wolves were getting louder, yelping on all sides. And then I saw a paw digging in toward me. I hit it hard and the wolf withdrew with a howl. Two other paws tried the same trick, with the same results. This time, I saw the indent of a wolf snout against the tarp surface as well. I struck out with a hatchet, making sure to use the blunt end. I didn’t want to cut the tarp with my blow. There were no other wolf heads against the tarp after that.

I waited for quite a while and peered out the back peep holes. No wolves in sight from that side. I cautiously loosened the top lace and looked out in the front. A wolf was lying there, not moving, about seven feet from the entrance. . Perfectly still. It must have been the one I hit in the head. Of course I wasn't going to fall for that old trick – wolf playing possum. Was it dead? Or was it slyly laying in wait?. How could I tell? I decided to wait for a spell longer. Hours went by and the wolf still didn't move. Finally I decided to venture out. I emerged slowly after wrapping my left hand in some thick cloth padding. Keeping my pistol at the ready I remained cautious. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was dead. I must admit I was pretty scared. I finally got close, looked hard then kicked the body. Nothing.

I removed my three-inch hunting knife from its scabbard, held the head down and slit its throat. It was better to just act quickly than to double-think anything. Deed done! I held tight as the blood drained out. I then allowed myself to consider cooking and eating the animal. Nanra had not recommended a full-scale skinning and dressing of any animal I killed, but she told me I should consider selective cutting off of meat (thin meat strips), leaving the rest for other animals. Taking her advice, I sliced off four thick steaks from the hind legs after parting the ligaments and other tissues in the way. Those steaks could possibly save my life up the road, when the dumplings were gone. That's all the meat I took from the wolf. Most of the carcass remained. Did wolves devour their own? I didn’t know. And I didn’t want to wait around to find out. All I knew was, I had killed a wolf like Nanra predicted.

Still afternoon, I tried to make good time away from the attack. In the end, each little bunch of progress would serve me well for reaching my final destination. Conscious of Nanra's mapping of the region, comparing that to my recent tribal map, I aligned my direction to the compass she had given me and kept going. Her map showed the village I had recently stayed in, so she had been correct about that. And the forested area had been well represented as well. The map had shown that I was barely on the cusp of a large forested area that lasted hundreds of kilometers, and that I would hit several other villages before I emerged into the barren tundra again. She had laid out the path in very straight inked-in lines, laid in without any handwriting style to speak of. She wanted to avoid any chance of the map referring back to her, if I was caught or killed. Just protecting our son.

Even the composition of the ink was a concern for her. Would someone uncover that the ink used was her ink? I told her I doubted that. She was just about the most cautious person I had ever met.

It was two hours before the sun began to settle low in the trees. It felt good to make some progress. With fourteen dumplings left I decided to eat two for dinner that night when I camped. I decided to stop early, to get set up without pressure. After throwing up the tarp tent and pegging the edges, I crawled inside and ate the dumplings.

Out in the wild, with no companions, no witnesses, it was only me, myself and what I brought to each day's activities that counted. So I would try to maintain some of my soldierly standards. It sounded so nice and proper when I labeled my activity in a certain way. I ‘dined.’ No untoward habits or slovenliness would be tolerated. Of course Nanra had reinforced my good manners when we sat together at her table. Eating utensils were always lined up properly. And use of napkins and polite requests were favored, instead of just grabbing plates and food with over-reaching. Did it really matter if silverware was placed a quarter-inch off from being perfectly straight on a table? I’m afraid so. Letting little things slip led to other things not-so- little slipping. Believe it or not, these tidy habits, which I had trained myself to follow, had helped me survive the war, and later the prison camp. It seemed that when a person let the small things deteriorate it left room for big bad things to follow. I saw men fail in various ways when they lessened their vigilance.

Enjoying the heat from my fire I devoured my dumplings, exhibiting moderately polite eating habits, wiping off my mouth with my handkerchief (another valuable gift from Nanra) while fire flamed from the hearth. And I tried not to belch. Now I had eleven dumplings left.

The night of day fourteen passed without incident.

At first light I carefully checked the surrounding campsite through peepholes, carefully surveying the front and back areas for wolves – other predators waiting to pounce. With the coast clear I emerged and took another survey in all directions. All I saw were the same snow-laden birch branches that had been in place before I arrived. Nothing moved in any direction. No wind. I had to laugh at the utmost isolation of where I stood – was I the last person on Earth? I knew better than that, knew there were nearby villages where many huddled by fires, sat with family members, did their winter work inside, occasionally fetched wood outside, kept their loved ones alive. Luckily, my wife was good at doing that for herself. And I was part of her plan. Separate, we had a chance to be among the living.

My breakfast of day fifteen consisted of eating one of the two pelmeni that I had placed in my front pocket for defrosting. So now there were ten left. 15/10. This was the second time I had ten dumplings left. I didn't like the way I was running out of food by the numbers. Maybe I would re-number them, or even use the alphabet instead, using an ‘a, b, c’ designation. Still, I continued to keep score for what it was worth. I'd eat the other one for either lunch or dinner.

Starting to walk, I thought of my old life back in Germany. My family. My mother. My brothers. Where were they all at this exact moment in time, and what were they doing? How many time zones separated Siberia from our family home in Southern Germany? Six...seven perhaps? If I was walking around at eight in the morning, then my mother was probably still asleep, still cozy in her bed. Stuttgart bed for my mother, and military bunks, camping on the ground, or possibly even inhabiting prison cots for my brothers. If they had been captured, my brothers could have been shipped to one of several prison camps in Siberia. I had lost track of their whereabouts by the time I led troops out of the trench. Sure death had made my mind expel all thoughts, worries, and memories. When the human mind – my mind – had focused on what was to be its end, there was nothing else left that needed examination, except maybe how my family would take the news.

I imagined my father, as if he were still alive, pipe in mouth, a puff of smoke just released, asking again why his wife was crying. Yes, I think my mother would have sobbed...at least a little...for me. She had loved me, I felt, especially when she could sneak a hug or plant a little kiss on my forehead. At least I think I can remember that affection from her when I was young. And my brothers? They would definitely have cried for me, because we’d been pals of sorts. All in all, I guess that god had figured that my death would affect too many people, and it couldn’t be allowed to happen just yet. It was possible he had other plans besides killing me with bullets (hypothermia?). But whatever the case, I would do my best to hold up my end now. That meant that I shouldn't do anything so foolish as to get myself killed in the meantime.

I switched my thoughts back to the job at hand – walking at a constant pace without over- tiring. I made a game out of it, seeing if I could alter the seriousness of the endeavor. I was walking...strolling actually...on a little 5000 kilometer jaunt. On a little camping trip. Just a long hike. That’s all. That was how I bracketed the truth of the matter. I knew that the manner in which I described my activities greatly altered my energy levels, and the outcome. It had been that way all through the war, and especially during my incarceration at the camp.

When the guards suddenly left for Moscow, threw open the gates, that shattered all the rules and daily habits. And many of the prisoners couldn't handle the transition. That's why grown men had acted like irrational children, running frantically out into the snow to their sure death. They had strung themselves along with mental constructs for so long that the leap to total freedom was way too much to bear.

Action, re-action.

As soon as the force-field of the camp routines and harsh guard’s discipline was removed, there was no sanity.

Just re-examining this again gave me fear.

I needed to keep my head above water, more now than ever.

By noon I had covered a good deal of ground and felt happier. I was the kind of person who needed to get things done. And if I was successful at delivering more work than I believed I was capable of doing in any one time-period, then I gave myself some extra credit. And whileI had no real rewards to bestow upon myself, no gold stars to put next to my name like they’d done in kinder-garten. But I could still bestow a mental award upon myself.

You did well, Loeffler, I thought to myself as I settled down on the tarp for a noon respite. I then ran the usual questions:

Should I eat another dumpling now?

Was I really hungry enough?

If I allowed too many dumplings to be devoured on any single day I would come up short later. I needed to slow the usage of foodstuffs, mainly the precious pelmeni.

I was watching out for the big picture. And since I had already repeated the countdown of dumplings, I decided it was now time to consider some new kind of renaming. I didn't feel like repeating a normal countdown...11, 10, 9, 8 and so on. Even with the security of having frozen wolf-steaks in my pack, I wanted to improve the rationing of my food.

I decided I would not only be the Officer- in-Charge-of-hikes, but a working-man too...and also a husband. I was three people then, there in the plains of Siberia, not to mention (4) a son and (5), a brother to those back home. That equaled five people whom I had to carry inside my psyche.

I ate my dumpling while trying to clear my mind of extra thoughts.

Snow started falling sometime while I ate my lunch.

Nine dumplings left.

Was nine a nice round number? Nice enough.

Nine dumplings on the 15th day = 9/15. Could my age of 21 figure into all this? Nine added to fifteen was twenty-four.

I made a mental note that I would stop and celebrate ‘an intersection of numerical coincidence’ when the number of days I walked after Nanra (...15 so far) and the amount of dumplings left (...9) equaled my current age. How would that work? When would the two numbers converge at 21? Solution. If I ate two dumplings that day, the next walking-day the numbers would be 7/16. And if two more dumplings were devoured the following, my number-of-the day wouldbe5/17. Andthefollowingdayafterthat (three days later), two more pelmeni eaten would let me reach 3/18!

Convergence!

The numbers would shout my age if everything was added together!

3+18 = 21!

Yes, it was a stupid game. But it was better I played it than to become comatose with a frozen brain. Anyway, in three days hence I would change the whole stupid counting-backwards system to something that didn’t keep plaguing me with nervousness.

***

I saw and heard no wolves that night as I drilled my tent-hole, pegged the tarp, crawled inside and lit a fire. Before bedtime I had eaten two pelmeni, leaving only seven. Yes, I realized I was devouring my food in larger doses, but just one dumpling per day had not served me properly for the amount of exertion it took to walk numerous miles each day in the snow . Actually , the word to describe my traveling in moderate-to- deep snow was ‘trudging.’ I had been overtaxing myself, starving myself with to little food. So, two per-day – wolf meat in reserve – would be my future diet. In any case, I was sick of counting backwards. But just three days more of that.

Before I allowed myself to doze off, I questioned whether or not I should open the stink-jar. There was a lot of stink-jelly still left inside the container, so why not? It seemed I had no shortage of bad smells.

Stink or no stink?

I unscrewed the lid after installing my nose plugs, and let the smoke from my small fire carry the stench out through the laces, to fend against the possibilities.

***

7/17. I devoured a dumpling for breakfast, making it 6/17. I had one more pelmeni to eat that day – the afternoon meal – to keep my energy intact. The dumplings were going too fast, but no amount of accounting would change that, would it? Was I losing control again? Would my little numbers game keep me focused? Would I see the wolves coming?

Nanra had reminded me one night after our lovemaking, that I always needed to keep control over my survival process as I traveled. That night she had controlled me in our sexual activity. She had been the aggressor in all ways, I the receiver. So the timing of our discussion was ironic. After she controlled me she told me to take control. OK. And I did, the same night. Was she smart enough to know I would be thinking of her –our physical love – when control became an issue out here in the plains? Actually, I wouldn't have put it past her.

Almost everything she did, talked about, or explained with her drawings & stick figures before I left, was part of her strategy for maintaining my ability to remain alive. She was that shrewd.

So, before I started walking again, I decided that my number six dumpling-in-waiting would now be Z...and the next one (number five) would be Y and so on. Yes, it took a while to determine the alphabet backwards, to figure out which letter came before the previous one. But that exercise was a good one for someone who was continually on the verge of freezing to death. -20- degrees now seemed like a spring day to me.

Of course, when it dipped colder, I felt the difference. It probably was closer to –30. Whatever it was at that very moment, it hurt my body. Even those parts properly covered by Nanra's creations; knitted hat, scarf, thick gloves, were vulnerable. Only people who have lived in this winter environment can fully appreciate the mental problems associated with each hour of such unyielding cold.

Can thoughts be frozen? I would have to say yes.

And it was up to me to stoke my engine when it started getting sluggish. Maybe I could walk faster for about a half-kilometer. Or practice taking the same-sized steps for a half hour. Exactly the same, that is. Some game would help. Yes, she had suggested this stringent routine as well. It was as if she’d rehearsed all my situations herself.

Hours later, when the sun burst through the clouds and the temperature rose a couple of degrees, I had to adjust my scarf to avoid sweating from my efforts. The weather was breaking a little, which made me wonder if spring was around the corner. While a happy thought, almost a childish notion, stepping along in wet puddles was less desirable than hiking in dry snow. I studied the map again as I veered eastward. There were several villages coming up. I prepared myself to speak Russian even though little of my dialect would be understood by the tribal people. Their languages had developed through many centuries of isolation and so I would resort mostly to sign language, including certain finger combinations Nanra had taught me. She had warned me repeatedly that these tribal people would be suspicious of me whether I was German or Russian. So it was up to me to show neither fear, confusion, or aggression. Those stances didn’t work well with her people, she said. But I could win them over with friendly smiles, kindness, and perhaps showing the beadwork on my stick again. Beads spoke to their better side. Beads said that a person much like them had awarded me with an important treasure. Some shaman (Nanra) had spent hundreds of hours creating an art masterpiece and had then bestowed it upon me. So then I must be an important and worthy man.

Sure enough, there was a village coming up on the left side of my trail. I could see the low- lying log cabins, four or five, set in a semi-circle with a short distance between each one. Should I be afraid? I was, but the correct answer was, absolutely not. My job was to think ‘love’ and approach as if my appearance was to honor their settlement with Nanra's beadwork and vast shamanistic gifts.

About fifty feet from the nearest dwelling a man clad in heavy animal furs exited a log cabin. For a while he didn't move at all, but just stood there with his rifle in hand, staring at me. I couldn't get a sense of what exactly to do, so I kept walking slowly in his general direction. I figured if I ran for some reason, to or fro, he would just figure I was a person worthy of shooting. With each step closer I had to work hard to process my fears. I kept my mind on the mental picture of the beautiful beadwork below on my stick. Those swirling colors and patterns somehow kept my mind calm – what I needed under the current situation.

Ever closer, I could now make out the face of the man. He was probably somewhere in his late fifties. His eyebrows were thick and bushy, dark brown and tangled. His eyes were dark as well, quite recessed and still impossible to decipher from thirty feet away. At about twenty feet I stopped, waiting for a sign of what to do next. But it didn't come. So I carefully shed my backpack. Standing up erect again I lifted my walking stick so I was presenting it horizontally. Balancing it on one hand I pointed to the beadwork with the other, to bring it to the man’s attention. I maintained this for at least a half a minute before he moved.

Walking toward me cautiously, the fur- covered old man kept his focus on the stick. When he was within about ten feet he stopped again and just stared. I remembered my drill and tried to generate love in his direction. I did that by imagining he was a lost brother or family member of mine, someone with whom I had finally reunited (Nanra's idea).

Oh my God, it's Frederick, my friend from childhood!

That's the thought I ran in my head.

I can imagine that the man got some kind of energy from my eyes and perhaps heart, because he approached me even closer. When he was maybe seven feet away he pointed to the beadwork and said a word, which sounded like ‘Walkia!’

Walkia meant nothing to me, but I repeated it as I pointed to the beadwork.

When the man offered an out-stretched hand, I took it as a request to hold the stick and slowly swung it over to him. When he clutched it we now both supported an end, so he could examine the beadwork without bearing the full weight. I watched as his eyes scanned the patterns of the beads. His lips suddenly gave off a very pleasant shape, as if he had just devoured a good meal. And I believe that I also spied a twinkle in his eyes. At least it wasn’t a cold wall of unfriendliness or indifference. After he was finished his appreciation of the beads he handed it back and pointed toward his house, beckoning me to follow. I scooped up my pack and dragged the tarp on its traveling pole. As I entered the structure I immediately had to shed my main outer coat to avoid sweating. As soon as I did that, I showed the man my supply of food, to ask where I might put my dumplings and wolf-steaks before they’d start defrosting. He showed me a cupboard inside the cabin that held a pocket of freezing cold for all his perishable goods. I placed my food in there and he nodded a couple of times.

As I adjusted to the enclosure of log walls, and as my eyes became more accustomed to the lower light level, I wondered if he was the only occupant of the small space. Maybe his family was nearby, in one of the other houses in the vicinity. Were there bachelors in these tribes? Of course. He could be a father or even grandfather, who was now living alone, while his family, or families, fended for themselves. They could always ask him for help, whether going on a hunt or planting crops in the easy weather coming. If he outlived his parents then he could have taken over their log cabin.

The man gestured to a chair at the table and I sat down. Before I could wonder about anything else, I was served a bowl of porridge and given a spoon. Needless to say, I started eating immediately, and marveled at the sweetness and tasty texture. Its consistency was nothing like the gruel that we were fed in the prison camp, which had been terribly thin and watered-down. This porridge was thick and chewy. What was it made of, I wondered, as I gobbled it up? Oats? Barley? Buckwheat? One of those, without doubt The heat from the food seemed to radiate all over my body, leading to a little sweat breaking out on my forehead. I wiped it off and tried to let the man know what an amazing gift he had bestowed upon me. Looking toward the man I smiled and nodded back. He nodded again. His face was deeply tanned and lined, but gave off a strong life- energy. There was nothing old-feeling in his energy level. He finished his own porridge about the same time I did, scraped out the last of it and laid his spoon down. As he looked back at me I could feel his scrutiny. It felt like he was able to read me like a map. How long had I been out in the elements? Seventeen days. But what else? I was sure he could see a lot more than that. After all, I had been outside a great deal while in prison. While we weren't forced to do hard labor we did have jobs in the yard, marching details, supervising men, that kind of thing. Would he read something into my unusually deep tan? And the accommodations of prison quarters had never been warm enough to feel comfortable inside without wearing extra layers. Was I sweating too much for the circumstances? What was he really noticing about me? I tried to generate a good feeling in his direction, which wasn’t easy while being scrutinized

The fire in the corner of the man's cabin was powerful enough to maintain at least 40 degrees, and I was forced to shed even more layers to avoid sweating. What a luxury. After I removed my thick wool over-shirt, the man held out his hand. Now what did he want? I guessed he wanted to see the shirt and so I handed it to him across the table. Nanra had woven the material and I wondered if he could recognize her handiwork there too. I watched his expression carefully as he maneuvered his eyes closer to the threads. He examined the cloth very closely and intently. Then he slid his fingers along the threads, up and down. After that he rubbed his thumb and index finger together. I guessed he was trying to get a sense of the natural oils still left in the fibers. He seemed to be trying to discern just what exact animals the wool had originated from. I had seen Nanra using her spinning wheel to produce the thick thread, pumping the floor pedal as her fingers slid along the accumulating cords, but I hadn't considered what the source of the raw material might be. Did he know the herd? Had he seen the sheep that had the same bands of color? Did he wonder how Nanra had finished the cloth, so that it didn't feel itchy? What was he thinking?

Ultimately, he placed the cloth to his nose. He was inhaling the scent of the fabric...or animal. This man, my savior from the bitter cold, was quite the detective. He seemed to be entranced by every aspect of the cloth. A deep smile formed on his mouth as he handed it back. He was nodding repeatedly. Then he gave up a long sound of pleasure, which sounded something like, Oooahhh. This ‘pure pleasure’ release of sound caught me by surprise. But after a spurt of sweat under my arms and elsewhere (yes, my body sort of jumped with the surprise of the sound) I joined in.

Yahoo!

I smiled back at the man's surprise. Now we were even. Two men exclaiming with odd sounds!

The man then indicated, in hand language, that I should stay seated as he removed himself from the table and went over to a cubbyhole in the wall across the room. He returned with a shirt of his own, handed it to me and let me struggle to understand. After I examined it I saw it had distinct similarities to my shirt. The color was the same, and so was the handiwork. I followed his example and rubbed the wool between my fingers. Then I compared it to my own shirt. Maybe my jaw dropped open a bit when it dawned on me that Nanra had probably woven both shirts. My eyes darted up toward the man and I saw that he was responding with a huge grin on his face. What a salutary moment!

Of course I then wondered how he had come in contact with her, at a distance of seventeen walking-days from his cabin. If I had covered an average of eight kilometers a day, then Nanra's cabin was almost 140 kilometers away.

Maybe this man was a nomad hunter who had run across her as he cut a large circle following game. In any case, he must have known her in some capacity. He definitely had traded with her for the shirt. He would have been in her cabin for that. Was there more to their interaction? Suddenly I became jealous. I recognized that he did have some attractive characteristics. He was stocky and had a handsome and kind face. Yes, she would have responded well to that. And he seemed very assured. A confident man. Yes, he would have been attractive to Nanra.

I’m afraid I looked at the man with the eyes of a competitive male, wondering if he had also slept with her. It seemed that the man could read my thoughts, because he immediately shook his head back and forth without any hesitation. Were my eyes and body language so easy to decipher? I guess so. My green eyes taught me a quick lesson.

He suddenly held out his hand. I guessed he wanted his shirt back and handed it to him. He took it and then held out his hand again. Did he want my shirt too? I questioned what to do next until he leveled up his fingers vertically, his thumb sitting on top. It was clear he wanted to shake my hand. I reached my right hand out and let our hands intertwine. For several moments we shook, and our mutual smiles warmed the room along with the fire.

14.

When I awoke on day eighteen from a cozy sleep indoors, laying before a constant fire, I must admit I felt disoriented. How had I ended up inside? I could hear the frigid wind whistling outside and knew it would have been a very difficult and cold night in my tent. So as soon as I came to full consciousness I gave a little silent thanks to my benefactor. This friendly man had fed me well – he’d made meat stew using half of my wolf meat and added a large cup of vodka – and offered warm blankets, including even a pillow for sleep. What luxury it had been, to not worry about freezing. Just one night away from my camping trip towards home I was getting soft,. Feeling somewhat confused I decided to open another Nanra-prediction. I pulled out the rolled up paper and removed the second sheet. It pictured a wolf at the end of my fork – You will eat a wolf. Again, she had me. How could Nanra know? Thoughts were swirling around my head as I stood up slowly and made my way over to the table.

(To be continued…)

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