Sage winterwood's Arc

Chapter 23 of 29

The morning after she named the lilac bloom, Sage pulled the compass from her pack. The needle swung past the hills and locked on a far peak. Snow covered its top, white and sharp against the sky. She held the compass to the light and felt the cold reach her from that distance. The peak stood high and remote. She had no coat, no boots, nothing to keep the freeze off her skin. She feared she would climb up and never climb back down. She sat on the edge of her tilled plot, the fresh furrows dark and empty beside her. The bird landed on her knee. "Too cold," it said. "Too cold." She knew. A goddess of herbs could freeze the same as anyone on a mountain like that. Then the rabbits came. A whole family of them hopped from the garden edge, each a different color, white and grey and brown and soft rainbow. The mother rabbit dragged a loose pile of fur in her teeth and dropped it at Sage's feet. The others followed, adding their own tufts to the heap. Soon a warm, matted tangle of fur sat before her, uneven and wispy but thick. "You brought this for me," Sage whispered. She lifted a handful. It was soft and warm against her palm. The rabbits watched her, ears high. A doe stepped closer with more fur caught in her coat, and Sage gathered that too. She knew what to do. She built a spindle first, lashing scrap sticks and a carved weight together with cord. She twisted the loose fur into thread, drawing it long and even between her fingers. It took all day. Her hands cramped, but the thread grew into a full skein. Then she raised a loom from spare wood and old iron, stringing it tight. She wove the thread into cloth, row by row, until a warm bolt lay finished. Before she cut it, she reached for her plant dyes. She had pressed them from her own garden, deep green and dark navy in their jars. She dipped the cloth and let it soak. When it dried, she cut and stitched a coat, layered and thick, with fur lining the collar and hem. She pulled it on. It held the warmth in at once. She sewed matching leggings and gloves to finish the set. Last, she went to her totem. She set her hands on the crystal and poured her light into it, filling it again so the garden would live while she was gone. The fox sat by the well, ready to water each day. Sage shouldered her pack. She turned toward the far white peak, warm now, unafraid of the cold. The compass pointed the way. She set off up the road, the bird on her shoulder, the rabbits watching her go.