Winter Lost

Interlude

After the Storm Gary

Gary parked by the ranch entrance. Whoever had run the snowplow—or more probably the resort’s backhoe—had stopped clearing there. This left a huge berm of snow blocking the ranch’s driveway, but also a pretty good parking place where the big machine had turned around.

Gary had planned on making the trip in one day, but the bone-deep weariness that persisted in hitting him at odd moments since he’d recovered from the confusion spell had forced him to stop in Coeur d’Alene and spend the night. Maybe it was for the best that he’d arrived in the daylight after a good rest, anyway.

From the vantage point of the truck bed, he could see that someone had cleared out the round pen next to the barn and put the Belgians out for their breakfast. There was even a stock tank in the pen that he was prepared to believe held water. Mickey was head down chasing scraps. But Finn, ever the more alert, had his head and ears up and pointing at Gary. Gary waved at him, which caused the big gelding to step forward suspiciously.

Smiling to himself, Gary stripped off his clothes. He’d intended to check on the geldings first off, but they didn’t need him just yet. That moved up his other task to first place.

As a coyote, he leapt out of the truck bed and headed into the mountains. Running in the mountains was as close to the Christian idea of heaven that he thought he would ever get. And running in the snow was better.

Skimming the top of snow that was feet deep felt like a superpower that had nothing to do with anything except being nature’s most persistent survivalist. The storm was over, but it was December in Montana and the air was crisp and clean.

It felt like home.

Eventually he came to a cabin that looked like the original that the ranch buildings had been modeled on. The logs had been hand-hewn, and the stairs were a series of logs piled atop each other and lashed. The rather crude-looking door had a dog door on one side, and it gave when Gary pushed his nose into the bottom corner—the wards here still welcomed him as a friend.

Maybe Hrímnir had forgotten to reset them.

Gary took his human shape as soon as he was inside. He was unsurprised to find the cabin uninhabited. The snowmobile that was usually parked beside the porch was gone.

The robe that Hrímnir kept for him was still hanging beside the door. Gary wrapped himself in it and tied the belt. Nakedness didn’t bother him much, but there was no denying that clothing made for better conversations. And he needed to have a conversation.

His eyes fell upon a harp sitting on the floor beside the only chair in the small living room. It was a Celtic harp, graceful and well-made. Silver and turquoise inlay managed to evoke Native art without actually looking like any traditional art that Gary was familiar with.

It was a knee harp, nearly three feet tall rather than the tidy little instrument the lyre had been. It was properly conformed, too, as if, this time, someone had studied what an actual harp should look like. When he touched it, it knew him.

He picked up the instrument and sat in the chair that was too big for him but still managed to be comfortable. He began tuning the harp, recalling a conversation he’d once had.

—

He’d picked up the lyre and experimentally run his fingers over the strings.

“You play?” Hrímnir had asked, almost plaintively.

“You don’t?”

The frost giant shook his big head. “No. I had a—”

“Lover?” asked Gary, surprised at the gentleness in his own voice. Gary was not a gentle man, but Hrímnir was one of the loneliest beings he’d ever met.

“Yes.” Hrímnir touched the silver face on the lyre. “She was fated for other things, though.” Then, in an obvious desire to change the subject, he asked again, “Do you play?”

—

“No,” Gary said, his soft voice feeling like an intrusion in this quiet room as he answered in the same words he’d given Hrímnir. “Now, if it were a harp—a Celtic harp, not one of those big orchestral things—I could have played one of those.”