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Frozen wood crackled and popped in the fire's heat. A gentle onshore breeze drifted through bare tree branches, creaking under the weight of the ice that blanketed them. Seabirds called to each other on the opposite side of the coast. Predawn light shone on water quietly lapping against a multitude of icebergs.
The mountain was silent. He could see gales hammering the sheer rock face overlooking the bay, whipping up flurries of snow at the peak. The winds never rested there. But he never heard them.
His mother had told him the story of the mountains. Winter hadn't always been this cold, she'd said. Mild weather now only lasted a few months, but long ago, the lands were warm all year long. One day, a malevolent spirit brought fire to mankind, and the people quickly became entitled, creating excess heat for themselves during the day and drowning out the skyglows with its brightness at night. The other spirits punished mankind's greedy nature by cursing them to a life dependent on fire. The boreal winds chilled, and fruitful rain turned into biting snow. To protect from the frigid onslaught, the legendary founder of his tribe became a hill when he died, sheltering the coast from the worst of the spirits' anger. Their ancestors had followed suit, swelling the size of the hills until they became mountains, offering their bodies to the spirits to provide refuge from the relentless cold. They stood wordlessly, accepting the wrath of the gods, in exchange for the survival of their progeny.
A different sound cut through the stillness, drawing his eye away from the hillside. Inside the chum, his youngest daughter fussed in her sleep. He watched as she rolled over, pulled the furs closer over her body, and rested once again. A frail, malnourished arm stuck out from under the covers.
Everyone in the village had grown up in this harsh environment. But in recent years, the cold season had begun to intensify. Blizzards tore through the camp more often, pulling out stakes with a sickening crunch and sending loose supplies clattering across the ground. Sea ice, once merely a nuisance, choked the bay at night, rending the air with sharp groans. Hunting parties, in the past returning exuberantly with two musk after every trip, were now coming back quiet and empty-handed more than half the time. Already twice this week he and his wife had given up their dinner so their children had enough to eat. Even so, they often went to bed hungry.
It showed in his youngest daughter the most. She frequently lacked the strength to stand, and she no longer breathed steadily when she slept. Her coughs and moans rang in his ears every night.
Day began to break. The mountain face was illuminated by sunlight, its dark red rocks glowing noiselessly over the shimmering blue water.
He could no longer hear the birds. Their lonely calls were overwhelmed by the rising bustle of men starting to gather supplies. Even the crackle of the dying fire was inaudible now. The rest of the village had awoken and was beginning to load the boats. The scarcity of food had left his people with no choice: hunters now took double duty as sailors, searching nearby islands and fjords for game. Now it was time to get ready.
Gnarled trees above him began to creak more loudly. The wind was rising, shaking their frozen branches vigorously. Deeper in the forest, older limbs snapped under the force, crashing to the frosty ground in distant thuds. He welcomed the draft: gusts from the sea were warmer than those from land, and if the party wanted to navigate the bay, they would need to rely on the mild air to break apart some of the icebergs.
A loud crack abruptly echoed around the tents. That was the sound of safe passage.
He picked up his spear and began to walk. Fresh snow crunched under his boots. He felt the odd brush of hide against hide as a young man pushed past him, carrying bundles of rope and a set of oars. Small boats were lined up at the edge of the water, which crashed against pebbles on the beach and ate away at the snowline. Here he was enveloped by the din of boxes and bags knocking against wood as the dinghies were loaded. He laid his spear along the bottom, hearing it roll unsteadily as the boat rocked, and stepped back to help a group of men carry weapons and rations.
The sun had risen further by the time the preparations were complete. A fiery circle of light shone harshly on the mountain. Daylight only seemed the escalate the tempests at the summit: twisting vortexes of snow thrashed back and forth where winds from land and sea met. Yet the confrontation, in all its ferocity, was voiceless.
It was finally time to leave. He took position in the nearest boat, the aged timber of his bench groaning in protest as he sat down. His oars splashed into the freezing water, as did the oars of the hunter sitting behind him. As they cast off, the gentle grind of pebbles against the bottom of the canoe was replaced with swirling eddies and soft splashes. Each pull on his oars took him farther and farther away from the shore.
Sounds of terra firma faded. The wind whistled through his clothes, finding each seam and digging into them relentlessly. Waves in the open sea crashed behind him. There was no protection from the elements here. He was at the mercy of the spirits.
As he reached the edge of the bay, he looked back at the shore one last time. A small figure slowly emerged from his chum. And a voice cried out. His daughter's voice.
She called to him. He could recognize her fragile tone from anywhere. Her voice seemed to fill the bay, her entreaties carrying across the water and pounding in his ears from all sides. He felt confused. She had been infirm for months; how could he hear her so clearly?
The sound was getting louder to his right. He turned. There stood the mountain. Her weak shouts echoed off the blank face and reverberated among the fragmented icebergs. But as they reached his ears, her words distorted and changed. As if they weren't coming from his daughter anymore.
As if the mountain itself were no longer silent.
Protect her, it said. Protect her like we protect you.
He looked at the mountain, then back at the village. The sound of his daughter faded as the hunting party left the bay. The mountain's voice dwindled with it. The tumultuous sea, in its wind-driven fury, drowned out all else.
He heard nothing. And until he knew he could sustain that tiny voice a little longer, all would be silent to him.
Just like the mountain.
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This story was written for IronAge Media's 2022-12-14 writing prompt "The Camp" and submitted for consideration on 2022-12-21.
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