Both their kindling pouches were soaked through, but they found dead rushes close to the river and gathered great bundles of them, then used their striking irons to set sparks leaping. Drem groaned in pleasure as the first warmth of the flames lapped against him. They stripped their wet clothes and hung them close for drying. Both of them were covered in cuts and bruises where the river had introduced them to rocks and branches on the turbulent journey from the foothills to the plain. Drem’s bone-handled seax had managed to stay within its sheath; he kept it close, the white bear never far from his mind.

Olin splinted his ankle, which was swollen and bruised purple, but didn’t feel broken, and then Drem set about stitching his da’s arm. A claw from the bear’s parting swipe had gouged a long furrow almost from shoulder to elbow. Drem boiled some water, let it cool awhile and then cleaned the wound out. He took a fish hook and thread from a pouch on his da’s belt and began methodically stitching the wound up.

‘Last time you did this I’d drunk half a skin of mead first,’ his da hissed, grunting each time Drem pierced flesh and popped through skin.

‘Quiet,’ Drem whispered, wiping fresh blood away and concentrating on his stitching. It was a task he enjoyed, found it fascinating, seeing the flesh pull together. There was something appealing about the regimentation of the stitches, and something wonderful in the fact that this act helped the body to heal itself, that it would allow flesh and skin to grow and knit back together.

When he was done Drem sat back, smiling at his handiwork. His da twisted to inspect it and nodded approvingly.

‘Ever decide you’re done with hunting, you’ll make a fine healer,’ he said. ‘Or maybe a seamstress.’ His lips twisted in a smile.

‘So, what now?’ Drem asked.

‘We could limp home to our cabin,’ Olin said, ‘but what would be the point of that, when we’ve got half a year of trapping sitting back in those foothills?’

‘The point?’ Drem said, raising an eyebrow. ‘I’d imagine it would be avoiding death by giant bear.’

‘Aye.’ His da laughed. ‘And that’s a good point. But that bear should be long gone by now. He’s meal enough in that elk he felled to last him a ten-night. He only chased us because he thought we might be after a bite of his supper.’

There was logic in that, and Drem liked logic. More than that, logic was the cadence by which he walked through life. But the memory of that bear, its claws and teeth, was still vivid in his mind.

‘And we need those pelts to sell, if we don’t want to starve through winter,’ Olin added. ‘We’re not farmers, have no crops to see us through.’