Rugged—A Mid-Winter's Tale: Part One

Welcome to the December 2024 edition of...
What I'm Into, What I'm Up To! Story time.
#51

Welcome brave readers to another monthly installment of the NLG email-cast, this month with a decidedly fictional twist. While I recover from pneumonia and shingles (can't wait to see which flavor is next in my sickness-of-the-month membership), I present:

Rugged—A Mid-Winter's Tale: Part One

A grizzly old man stares out at a bright, frosty world of white and grey.

Occasionally, a shred of brilliant blue peaks through, quickly swallowed in dark, swirling cloud.

The old man stands upon the outside deck of a small, steeply-angled cabin at the top of a snow-covered and nearly treeless hill. Snow sticks to his woolen cap. His grey beard is half-frozen, the texture and hardness of an old tree.

He makes a sound, an appraising, Mmmmmm, a noise which says in one syllable: this is worse than I hoped but about what I expected, and the last thing I need, but also a bit thrilling in the way I like, and am used to.

He is joined by a smallish figure.

Out from the door of the shadowy cabin, the smallish figure sidles up beside the old man. It is portly, be-goggled, and pointy-eared. He—for, as you will soon see, the figure is most certainly of a male-ish persuasion—is mustachioed. The mustache is long and twirly, nearly black but peppered with a bit of grey, and nearly concealed by a thin shelf of quickly accumulating snow.

The smallish, male-ish figure wears a coat of some giant beast's dark hide, smooth and blackish-brown without, luxuriously thick and gold-furred within. A brown belt—buckled with a dull, yet sizable, bronze buckle—holds the immense coat firmly in place around a boisterous belly. An oversized hatchet hangs from the belt, attached by some clever hanging holster.

Another figure joins these two upon the small deck, overlooking the vast expanse of subarctic wilderness.

This one is of a similar stature to the portly and mustachioed person, a few hairs shorter maybe, but decidedly less well-indulged in the stomach-al region. A she-version of the aforementioned he-version of the small and pointy-eared people of the Northern Wilds, of which little is known and less recorded.

She is covered in similar garb to the mustachioed one, but her overcoat is a pinkish color, possibly faded from an earlier and over-optimistic dark red. She is be-goggled, too, but not mustachioed. She wears a purply-blue woolen cap, out from which flow locks of a most enchanting silvery-white, some free-stranded and some thickly-braided. Slung over her shoulder is a quiver and a bow, tall and dignified and well-crafted by some expert bow-craft, arrows fletched in blue feathers by some expert arrowsmith, arrowheads presumably of deadly dangerous sharp-ity, arrow shafts most probably of a very high tensile strength.

Mmmmmmm, the grizzly old man says again, meaning much the same as in his first utterance. He is procrastinating now.

'The beariboo are ready,' says the she-version of the small and pointy-eared people of the Northern Wilds, of which little is known and less recorded.

The grizzly old man says, without turning his face, 'Thank you, No'zarita.'

'Your bundle of supplies and The Unmentionable Thing are all packed, fully loaded and heavy laden. Too heavy, if you ask me, but it's all as you requested,' says the mustachioed he-version of the small and pointy-eared people of the Northern Wilds, of which little is known and less recorded.

'Thank you, Griz'mallow,' says the grizzly old man, without even a sideways glance.

The trio stand upon the deck of rough-cut logs, scouring the wild vast yonder before them, knowing the challenges they must brave to cut through that scenic but inhospitable view and come out the other side, far away, in lands so unseeable from this vantage as to seem almost outside the bounds of reality.

The journey, painful and dangerous and woefully uncomfortable as it will be, must be made. And it must be made by them. And it must be made soon.

The sooner, the better, really.

'Sir—' Griz'mallow begins.

'I am warming myself to the task at hand,' the grizzly old man says, neither turning left nor right as he says it.

'Right, it's just—'

'Let us be off, Griz! No more of this standing about. You know how much I hate and despise putting off a hard job which needs immediate doing.'

'Of course.'

The grizzly old man takes one last, lingering look across the icy expanse, imprinting the beautiful terribleness of it upon the canvas of his mind. 'If a thing needs doing,' he says, turning to his left and walking across the deck of rough-cut logs, down steps of well-placed stone, 'I abhor waiting any longer than necessary to do what needs to be done, as you both know very well.'

'Aye,' says No'zarita, 'That we do, that we do.' She turns and winks at Griz'mallow, their eyes meeting momentarily as they follow the grizzly old man across the deck and down the steps, toward the beariboo stable.

Griz'mallow takes No'zarita's hand in his, so in love with her is he, he cannot bear to be unhanded from her for more than an hour at a time, inconvenient as this sometimes is.

No'zarita smiles.

Griz'mallow might be smiling, or he might not. His smiles are almost indiscernible under his magnificent mustache, and because of his male-ish impulse to show very little emotion when in the company of other men, especially the grizzly old man, who is decidedly more grizzly and more old than any other they know.

They walk to the beariboo stable, where the great, grey beariboo wait.

Normally the great, grey beariboo frolic and hunt fish in the bright cold river, sometimes having to break through ice with their massive paws in order to grab quick-swimming fish in their sharp-toothed jaws.

Now, however, several beariboo wait patiently and quietly because they are saddled and ready for a journey. When they are so saddled, they get excited. But despite their excitement, they maintain a quiet and steady demeanor, for they know their responsibility and their purpose and take these things very seriously.

'Ho there, Skallymanderous,' the old man says to the greatest and greyest of all the beariboo currently alive in the northern subartic wilds, which is their native and really only habitat as everyone who knows about them knows full well.

The great, grey, and wild beast stands about the height of a good-size horse. The very rare beariboo are very bear-like in appearance, except for the majestic set of velvety antlers which extend from the top of their heads in much the same style as caribou (also known as reindeer).

Skallymanderous the giant beariboo shakes its shaggy mane, lowers its head in front of the grizzly old man who strokes its neck and nose.

'That's a good lad,' the old man says. Skallymanderous grunts.

Two other beariboo wait nearby. One, now seeing the three riders and unable to properly contain its excitement any longer, stands and leans its paws upon the gate. It points its nose up in the air, waiting to be scratched around the neck. No'zarita reaches high, but can only get to the beariboo's upper front legs. This beariboo is the silvery-est of the bunch.

'Hello, Sarium,' says No'zarita. 'You ready for an adventure?'

Sarium the silvery beariboo rounds her head and lets her forepaws fall back to the ground with a grunt.

No'zarita opens the gate, walks through, puts one boot into the stirrup attached to Sarium's saddle, hoofs herself up onto the saddle in one fluid motion. 'Don't know about you four,' No'zarita says, smiling, 'But us two are more than ready.' She clutches the reins and Sarium pads in a wide circle, then out through the gate.

'Come, Brillium,' says Griz'mallow, 'Our wives make us look bad.'

The last of the three saddled and readied beariboo stalks over to Griz'mallow, who is half the beariboo's height. Brillium is darker than the other two. Charcoal streaks run along and through the bearibou's luxurious long hair.

Griz'mallow strokes Brillium several times along his jaw and chin, then climbs up onto the animal in a somewhat less graceful maneuver than No'zarita, but just as successful in the end.

The grizzly old man does not partake in the banter, nor does he show any good humor about his companion's comments. His eyes are like flint, the line of his mouth horizontal and unwavering behind the thick, hard beard and mustache. Instead of going through the stable gate and riding his beariboo out of it like his companions have done, he waits for Skallymanderous the greatest of all beariboo to come to him, then closes the gate behind it.

The old man hauls the great bundle which Griz'mallow has prepared, but was unable to lift, up onto the back of Skallymanderous, the greatest and greyest of beariboo, buckles and cinches the straps of the bundle around Skallymanderous's wide belly, and climbs slow and quiet onto the wild beast's back.

These two—old man and great, grey beariboo—have ridden together since the world was young. They are in no huge hurry to race or impress anyone, unless it be themselves or each other.

The grizzly old man pulls the hood of his overcoat up over his head, tightens it, and, without looking to the left or right, says, 'We are away, then. Ho!' This last word he says so loudly it reverberates across the hill and valley. Two big snow owls take flight at the sound and an arctic fox scampers into the woods.

The three riders, led by the largest and oldest, ride their beariboo past the cabin, down the steep hill, and into the the vast expanse of subarctic wilderness—a bright, frosty world of white and grey.

To be continued...
(probably next December)

Happy Christmas and Merry Holidays, everyone!