A November Sky

Chapter Four

The winter chill blew in strong that week, and I switched the reed door flap on the longhouse to a thick bearskin, securing it to pegs in the birchbark. Each morning, Kocoum rose before dawn, taking his men to hunt. It maddened me that he could wake the same way he fell asleep, lurching straight from bed to his feet, already alive with energy, while I lay tossing and turning all night, then spent the cold mornings lingering in our furs praying for a few hours of sound sleep that never came. But my anger never lasted long.

I loved wintertime in the woodlands. I loved it for the warmth of our fires as the wind screeched a line through the huts, for the way fresh snow padded under my moccasins and muffled sound, so easy to be silent, to step toe to heel, avoid leaves and twigs, use the trees, hang from their branches, become weightless. For the way the chill between Kocoum and me thawed a little, even as the trees froze and ice sheathed the rivers—perhaps because of this. The time of challenge was over. Tribes did not make war in the winter, when every able-bodied man and woman was needed on the hunt and in the smokehouse. To challenge would be to starve your children, your grandchildren. This was known.

Without the threat of challenge, Kocoum grew soft around me, or as soft as a man like Kocoum could get. He chopped extra firewood, stacking it inside against the birchbark where I could reach it without stepping into the cold of the morning. A few times, when the evening grew late and none of the tribeswomen were around, Kocoum met me at the washing creek, taking one of his garments from the basket and scrubbing it against the stones next to me. Kocoum did this until one of his warriors happened by, asking, "Will you wash my clothes as well, brother?" and then he did not come back.

The day of the first frost, Kocoum sent his men home and woke me early with a roaring fire and the stroke of his thumb over my knuckles. I remember the heat: pulling against his hold, trying to break from the fever of our furs, while he nestled closer to my back, his hand moving to my arm and shoulders. I swatted at him, and he chuckled, pressing a kiss to my hair. "Wake up, little bird," he said.

I mumbled into my pillow, "'m sleepin'."

"Not anymore." Kocoum stood and lifted me from our bed, furs and all. He set me on my feet beside the fire, slowly sliding me from his arms so I could gain my footing.

"It's cold," I lied, tucking my face into his chest and pulling the furs close around my shoulders. But a minute later, standing by the fire in our heavy winter furs, sweat began gathering on my forehead, then trickling down my back in a thin line. I huffed, ripping from his arms and throwing off the furs. "Fine." I grabbed a dress and slid it over my head, then crouched by the fire to brush the knots from my hair. I took my time, moving the brush in slow drags while Kocoum shifted at my side.

"You better hurry if you want first pick," he said.

"It's picking day?" I paused, brush lodged in a particularly large knot. I glanced at him, seeing for the first time his bearskin cloak and thick deerskin leggings, double-lined with fur to protect against the winter winds. When had he left our furs to get dressed?

Kocoum grinned, lifting his great stone axe from its place beside the doorway. "Frost came this morning."

I stood to peek outside the door, but Kocoum spoke true. Outside, frost dotted the clay path and collared the necks of trees. A cold breeze slipped in through the gap in the bearskin, and I quickly closed the door flap. Kocoum had been smart to start the fire. It was the kind of morning I would've lay abed long into the afternoon, when the sun had warmed the air. But this was no ordinary day. Today, Kocoum and I would pick our tree for the spring canoe races.