Cold woke Ren before the first true light. It was a damp, penetrating chill that the thin tarp and sparse bed of cut branches did little to ward off. Beside him, Liam shivered, curled tightly for warmth. Hunger gnawed, sharper now after a night with nothing to replenish the energy spent the day before.
As the sky lightened almost imperceptibly through the dense forest canopy, they crawled out from the lean-to. Everything felt stiff, muscles, joints, even thought. Priority one was food, however meager. Ren retrieved the Book on the Wild, its leather cover damp with morning dew. He flipped past the water source diagrams to the section on edible plants, carefully comparing the drawings to the surrounding undergrowth in the improving light.
He pointed to a low-lying plant with tough, serrated leaves described in the book. "This one," he murmured, tracing the diagram of its thick root. "Bitter Root. Book says "edible after cooking."
They spent the next hour using the knife and sharp-edged stones to dig around the base of several such plants, unearthing tough, pale roots. It was slow, laborious work, the ground cold and compacted. They gathered a small pile, wiping the dirt off as best they could. Eating them raw felt like chewing wood. They needed fire.
Ren opened the book again, finding the section on friction fire. Diagrams illustrated the components, a hearth board, a spindle, a handhold socket, and a bow. It looked simple on the page. Finding the materials was the first hurdle. They searched the area around the stream, looking for downed branches, comparing wood grain against the book's descriptions – needing dry softwood for the hearth, strong hardwood for the spindle. Liam found a likely piece of fir for the board; Ren located a straight, dry branch of something harder, and began carefully shaping one end to a dull point with the knife, carving a small notch in the fir board as shown in the diagram.
Making the bow was crude, a resilient green sapling bent into shape, using a strip of tough fibrous bark peeled painstakingly from another tree for the cord. A smooth, cupped stone found near the stream would serve as the handhold.
Their first attempts were clumsy failures. Ren knelt, holding the stone socket over the spindle's top, pressing down as Liam awkwardly tried to draw the makeshift bow back and forth, wrapping the bark cord around the spindle. The spindle wobbled, skittered out of the notch. They swapped positions. Ren's movements were more controlled, but getting the consistent speed and pressure was incredibly difficult. Their hands grew sore, muscles tired. Smoke, thin and teasing, appeared several times, smelling acrid, but no ember formed in the accumulating wood dust.
Frustration mounted with each failed attempt. The sun climbed higher, its light filtering weakly through the trees, offering little warmth. Hunger gnawed. Doubt flickered.
"Again," Ren said, his voice tight, resetting the spindle in the notch. Liam took the bow, his face set in grim determination.
They worked together, Ren applying steady downward pressure, Liam sawing the bow back and forth, faster this time, finding a smoother rhythm. Ren focused, watching the point where the spindle met the board, ignoring the burn in his shoulders, the ache in his knees. Smoke curled up, thicker now, smelling different, hotter.
"Faster," Ren urged quietly.
Liam grunted, putting more power into the stroke. The friction increased, the smoke thickened further, and then Ren saw it, a tiny, glowing red spark nestled in the dark wood dust gathered in the notch.
"Stop," Ren breathed, carefully lifting the spindle away. The ember glowed precariously. Liam held his breath. Gently, Ren nudged the ember onto a piece of dry bark they had prepared, shielding it with cupped hands, blowing softly, steadily. The ember brightened, faded, then caught. A tiny lick of flame sprouted, fragile and precious. They fed it the smallest, driest twigs they could find, tending it with desperate care until it grew into a small, stable fire crackling between carefully placed stones near their shelter.
The relief was immense, washing away some of the bone-deep chill. They skewered the bitter roots on sharpened sticks Ren prepared with the knife and held them over the flames. The roasting smell was earthy, slightly sharp, but far better than raw wood. When cooked, the roots were still fibrous and held a lingering bitterness, but they were filling.
As full darkness returned, they huddled close to the fire under the tarp, the small circle of warmth a defiant bubble against the vast, cold wilderness. The wolf howl sounded again later, perhaps a little closer this time, but the flickering flames offered a measure of security.
Day two was done. Five remained.
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Day three dawned colder than the last, the clear sky offering no insulation. The meager warmth from the previous night's fire was long gone, leaving only grey ash and the sharp bite of hunger. The roasted roots from yesterday felt like a distant memory. Ren and Liam knew, without needing to say it, that finding more substantial food today was critical.
After a hurried drink from the stream, Ren consulted the Book on the Wild again, this time focusing on the section detailing simple traps. Diagrams showed loops of cordage arranged on game trails, anchored to bent saplings. Liam peered over his shoulder, absorbing the drawings.
"Trails," Liam murmured, looking towards the thicker woods away from the stream. "Where we saw the deer tracks?"
Ren nodded. "And near any place animals might feed." He pointed to a drawing of a berry bush in the book, then scanned their surroundings.
The next several hours were consumed by painstaking work. They gathered pliable vines and stripped tough fibers from inner bark, using the knife sparingly to clean or shape them. Ren, referring frequently back to the book's diagrams, worked on forming the actual nooses and trigger mechanisms, his fingers surprisingly nimble despite the cold. Liam focused on finding suitable locations, faint paths winding between the trees, narrow spots near the stream bank, clearings with signs of nibbled vegetation. They set half a dozen snares, carefully camouflaging them with leaves and forest debris, marking the locations subtly so they could find them again.
In between setting traps, hunger drove them to try more direct methods. Twice, they spotted squirrels chattering high in the pines. The knife went to Ren as Liam's fingers were stiff with the cold. They attempted stalks, moving slowly, knife ready in Ren's hand, but the small creatures were impossibly fast, vanishing into the upper branches long before they were close. Later, a large bird burst from the undergrowth nearby. Ren reacted instantly, lunging, but it was futile. The bird was gone in a flurry of wings, leaving only mocking silence. Liam let out a frustrated breath.
It was while Ren was carefully adjusting the trigger on a snare, using the tip of the knife, that Liam spoke, his voice a low whisper.
"That knife… You should keep it."
Ren paused, looking up. Liam met his gaze directly.
"My hands… they shake sometimes," Liam admitted quietly. "When I'm cold, or tired. Yours are steadier. Better you carry it."
Ren considered it. The knife was their most vital tool. Liam trusting him with it, felt nice. He simply nodded, sliding the knife back into the makeshift sheath he'd rigged inside his tunic. "Okay."
They checked their first few snares late in the afternoon. Empty. One had been triggered, the noose pulled tight, but whatever had sprung it was gone. Discouragement began to set in, a cold counterpoint to the ever-present hunger. They approached the last snare they'd set, one placed near a cluster of rocks close to the stream where they'd seen the deer tracks.
Something was different. The bent sapling was sprung upright, the noose pulled taut, and tangled within it, kicking feebly, was a mountain hare, its fur a mottled grey-brown against the forest floor.
They froze, hearts pounding. Ren drew the knife, approaching slowly, cautiously.
Working together beside the stream, they prepared the hare, following remembered diagrams from the book and basic logic. Ren handled the knife work, skinning, cleaning, while Liam gathered fresh wood for the fire, which they had carefully banked with ash before setting out. It took several hours but by the end the hare was roasting on the fire.
The smell of the small hare roasting over their revived fire was intoxicating, almost dizzying after days of near-fasting and bitter roots. They ate ravenously, sharing the small amount of meat, tearing it from the bone with fingers and teeth. It wasn't much, but it was protein, warm and life-sustaining.
As they finished, licking the last traces of fat from their fingers, the satisfaction was there. But Ren looked at the small pile of bones, then towards the dark woods. It had taken most of the day, multiple failed attempts at hunting, and half a dozen snares to catch this one small hare. Four more days remained.
Day three was done. four remained.