We didn’t notice until the lamb already lay there dead. If we had noticed earlier, when it stumbled or even when it fell, we might have been able to save it. But we were too late. I drew my knife from the sheath on my belt and started to cut into the dead lamb’s belly even before Mother had said anything. Because of the cold it was extremely hard work. My hands got cold, first the left one with which I stretched tight the frost-covered fleece, and later the right one, which I clenched to a fist and shoved between the skin and the body, where it stayed warm as long as it was close to the flesh but then got cold as well.

Mother said we should have paid more attention, and we did from then on. But nothing like that happened again. Heavily loaded down, we drove the flock ahead of us as we returned home in the evening. Once home, we immediately started to prepare more feed.

The big flock had suffered more losses, and again the next morning more animals—this time even fully grown ones—were added to the small flock. Again the two of us went off with our baskets, and again it was the same drudgery.

As the days passed, the flock wasted away in spite of our efforts. There were losses in both flocks. Each morning we lugged away several dead animals, and Father and I skinned them together. By then I had mastered the skill much better. The skins were stretched and frozen, then piled on top of each other next to a rock a little farther away. Later we wet the flesh side of each skin repeatedly and then covered them tightly. Eventually, when they began to rot, we pulled off the wool. The pile grew quickly. The skinned bodies were stored behind the hulking flat rocks that stuck out from the ground below the hürde like the remains of a beheaded forest. Arsylang helped carry them over, and then left them to lie there without ever touching them again. Once I cut off the fatty tail of a lamb that had had some strength left and Arsylang, after sniffing it undecidedly for a few moments, wolfed it down in a single gulp. From then on I always gave Arsylang the piece of a carcass that I thought was best: in addition to the fatty tail or meat from the haunches, I also gave him the liver.

Father and Mother were soon showing signs of the strain. Their faces had turned black. Their cheekbones jutted out, and their noses seemed strangely big. I must have been getting emaciated, too, for my whole body felt dead tired, my feet slid around in my boots, and the basket I had to carry seemed to grow heavier by the day.