Dagna Boulderback's Arc

Chapter 2 of 17

Morning light filled the shelter carved into the mountain. Dagna Boulderback woke stiff and cold. She went straight to the stacked hides. Her stomach dropped. A charcoal name at the top had smudged in the night. She pressed her thumb near it and more black dust lifted away. The rubbings were dying. Damp air and rough hands were smearing them faster than she could ever teach them. "They won't last," she said. "Mikhael. Wake up." The young man rolled from his furs and came fast. Three days ago he had begged her to teach him her ice-shaping craft. Now he was the only pair of hands she had left. He looked at the smeared mark and swallowed. "Can we fix it?" he asked. "No. Once it blurs, it's gone. So we stop it blurring." Dagna gripped the bench and stood. Her back screamed. "We hang them apart. No pressure, no rubbing. Then we seal the charcoal so it cannot lift." Mikhael carried the stack to a large wooden rack. He draped each hide over a bar, one at a time, careful not to let them touch. His hands shook. Twice she barked at him to slow down. When a hide slid, he caught it against his chest and a second mark smeared under his fingers. "Stop," Dagna said. "You're killing them with your hands." "Then tell me how," he snapped. "You keep saying no. Give me a yes." She stared at him. He was right. Scolding saved nothing. She reached for the pot of rendered fat she used to soften leather and dipped a scrap of fur into it. "Watch," she said. "Fat over the charcoal. Thin. It sinks in and holds the black down." She dragged the fur across a blank corner first. The leather drank it and darkened. Then she brushed it lightly over a finished mark. The charcoal stayed. It did not lift. Mikhael took a second scrap and copied her. They worked down the rack together, one hide at a time, sealing every symbol. His hands steadied. Hers cramped and she gave him the harder rows. By dusk each hide hung sealed and dry, the marks locked under a shine of fat. Dagna sat and breathed. The record was safe. The charcoal would not smear now. But safe leather was not the same as saved knowledge. She looked at the rows of symbols, black and fixed and silent. Mikhael stood among them, seeing shapes and nothing more. "They'll outlast me now," she said. "The skins will. But every mark is still just a scratch to you. If my heart stops tonight, you'll own a rack of nonsense." Mikhael turned to her. "Then teach me. Start now." Dagna nodded slowly. The hides would keep. Her body might not. The race was no longer against damp air. It was against her own failing heart, and it had already begun.