Sage winterwood's Arc

Chapter 24 of 29

Sage climbed the last stretch of the peak by midday. Wind carved the snow into hard ridges. Bare stone showed through in dark cracks. Her woven coat held the cold off her skin. The bird rode her shoulder, quiet now. Her compass needle pointed to a narrow ledge ahead, sheeted in ice. She scrambled up and stopped. A small bush clung to the rock. Frost coated its branches. Clusters of red and purple berries hung heavy, glittering like glass. She crouched beside it and brushed the snow away. The berries were rare. Nothing in her mother's plant guide matched them. She reached for the base to lift the bush free. It would not move. She dug at the roots with her gloved fingers and found them locked deep in frozen stone. Ice held them fast. She pulled harder. A root snapped, and clear sap wept from the break. She let go at once. Pry it loose by force and the whole plant would die on the rock. A soft crunch made her turn. A snow fox picked her way across the ledge. Three tiny kits stumbled behind her, white and orange, ears too big for their heads. The mother did not run. She stretched up on her hind legs and nipped a frozen berry from a low branch. She carried it to her babies and dropped it. One kit gnawed at it, too small to break the icy skin. Sage stayed still. The fox studied her with steady eyes. Then she took a second berry in her teeth. She trotted to the snow in front of Sage, scraped a shallow hole with her paws, and set the berry down. She pushed snow over it, patting it flat. She looked up at Sage, waiting. "You want them to grow," Sage whispered. The fox had shown her the answer. She did not need the whole bush. She needed its seeds. In her garden, the berries could sprout in fed soil, and this family could eat from them for years without climbing to a frozen ledge. Sage opened her pack and drew out a small woven pouch. She picked the ripest berries one by one, leaving most of the branches full for the fox. She left the bush rooted where it stood, alive. The mother watched, then gathered her kits and carried them off along the ledge. The light failed fast on the peak. Sage found a low cave below the ridge and crawled inside. She unrolled her sleeping bag and struck a small fire from her pack. The bird tucked against her collar. She held the pouch of frostberries in her lap and felt them through the weave, hard and cold. "Home tomorrow," she told the bird. It bobbed its head. She had the seeds now. But the peak was days behind her garden, and she needed her rest for the journey home.