Perhaps he imagines the lantern he will light and the fire he will build perhaps he imagines the burdens he will soon lay down. Now, at last, he can allow himself the possibility of relief.

But he knows this route like the back of his hand, and he is almost within sight of his cabin.

His gun has grown heavy on his shoulder, as have his rucksack and cartridge belt. Their scent stays close in the windless dark, but their footfalls carry and so, with every step, they announce themselves to the night.ĭespite the bitter cold, the man wears rubber boots better suited to the rain his clothes, too, are surprisingly light, considering that he has been out all day, searching. As they progress, man and dog alike leave behind a wake of heat, and the contrails of their breath hang in pale clouds above their tracks. It is so cold that spit will freeze before it lands so cold that a tree, brittle as straw and unable to contain its expanding sap, may spontaneously explode. All is quiet in this dormant, frozen world. Slender birches, whiter than the snow, seem to emit a light of their own, but it is like the coat of an animal in winter: cold to the touch and for itself alone.

All around, the black trunks of oak, pine, and poplar soar into the dark above the scrub and deadfall, and their branches form a tattered canopy overhead. He is on foot and on his own save for a single dog, which runs ahead, eager to be heading home at last. Its wan light scatters shadows on the snow below, only obscuring further the forest that this man negotiates now as much by feel as by sight. Hanging in the trees, as if caught there, is a sickle of a moon.

The tiger vaillant