Page 58 of Tiger's Trek
“I think our bird friends need a break, and we could use a fire to keep warm, I should think.”
“Not to mention cook our dinner,” Zima said.
“Yes. That makes sense,” Stacia agreed. “Let’s find a good place, then.”
She stood up and discovered Zakhar had been making aerial maps as they journeyed. They were crude, he insisted, but to her, they were astonishingly detailed considering how quickly they’d been moving.
“I’d suggest we set down in a clearing,” he said. “It would give us more room for maneuvering.”
She nodded and said, “See to it, Navigator.”
They touched down with only a slight bump or two, and Zakhar told her to hop out and take the lead rope and tie it off on a sturdy tree. Once that was done, they tied off two more ropes, and the birds disconnected themselves and headed off in search of food and water.
As for them, they made camp and used the gift of the burning cresset to start a fire, remembering to pass their hand over it to turn it off before stowing it in their bag. Finished, they filled water bags at a little stream and boiled up a potful of barley for their supper. They agreed that they would share one biscuit together every night after Zakhar told them he estimated their journey would take three days, based on the distance he’d discussed with one of the sisters.
They’d just pulled one biscuit from the bag and were preparing to divide it when an old man hobbled into their camp and asked if he could warm his hands by their fire.
Zakhar rose immediately. “Please, sir, sit in my spot.”
Just as Zakhar sat again, farther from the flames, Belizna returned to his feet with a dead mouse in her jaws. She stretched out by the fire and began eating. Soft snowflakes fell around them. Stacia shivered and drew her coat around her shoulders, with her fur-lined hood drawn down. Zakhar, too, drew in his knees and stuffed his hands back into his gloves, then pulled his hat down, only then noticing the man at their fire wore just a long-sleeved shirt and well-worn boots. His balding head was bare, as were his hands, which he continually rubbed and held to the fire. He was thin, his face drawn.
“Are you hungry, sir?” Zakhar asked. “We’ve finished our dinner, but we’re happy to boil up some more to eat.”
“I don’t want to be a bother,” the man said. “You should save your grain for your girl. She looks cold.”
“I’m not,” said Zima. “I’m quite warm enough. You aren’t though.”
“You’re right, Zima,” Stacia said. “He isn’t. I insist,” she said. “Take this biscuit, at least, and some water. We’ve a few blankets too—if you’ll stay the night by the fire, we’ll keep it hot.”
She held out the biscuit and a cup of water, and the old man reluctantly took them. As he ate, the crumbs fell on his thin chest. “Spasibo,” he mumbled, his watery blue eyes twinkling in the firelight. “You’ve been very kind. I’ll remember this kindness.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Zakhar said. “Rest now, Dyedushka. Sleep well.”
Zakhar gave him his own blankets, then made sure Zima was comfortable before laying down with his own back to the fire. Stacia could see him shivering every so often. With Zima near them, the cold was back with a vengeance. It seemed like every minute the temperature grew icier.
The next morning, Stacia had to work to get her eyes open. Her lashes were frozen together. How she missed her thick coat of fur. Even if Iriko were with them, she knew she could have curled up next to him and been very warm. The fire had gone out. In fact, the flames had frozen in place!
Stacia worried that the man might not have lived through the night. She hurried to beat some life into her frozen limbs so she could check on him, but she was surprised to find that the old man who had visited them the night before was gone. The blankets he’d borrowed were carefully folded up and placed next to the fire, and a note had been pinned on top of them with a rock.
With a gloved hand, she picked it up and read it: “Your hospitality saved an old man’s life. I don’t have much to leave you in exchange, but please accept this nose bag as a token of my appreciation.”
Stacia mumbled to herself, “Nose bag?” She looked around, picking up the blankets and glancing around the dead fire and saw nothing. Then she shook a shivering Zakhar awake.
“Zakhar. Zakhar! Wake up!”
“What? What is it?” he mumbled, frozen air lifting from his lips. “It’s so c-c-cold!”
“I know. Here. Here’s your blanket.”
She tucked it around him, and he buried his head inside and sighed in relief.
“Did you see the old man leave?” she asked.
“No.” Stacia heard his faint reply from inside his blanket.
“I did.” The answer came from Zima, who she hadn’t noticed was awake. Zima sat up and let her little blanket fall away, and in her hands, she clutched an old knapsack.
“Zima?” Stacia said. “Is that the bag the man left on his blanket?”
