A little sketch of Albert foraging for a nibble.

It wasn't exactly a fence, more a line of cairns, and not so much to delineate anything as to direct attention to what would have been a trading post in the bad old days. The mountain pass was more a wide shallow valley than some narrow crag, and in poor weather a traveler could miss the site entirely.

More so in that the new structure was more tucked into a stand of trees to be less exposed to the weather. The original location burned down a generation or so ago and only a smaller cabin was constructed to take its place with the dwindling demands of the changing times.

Albert walked the line, looking for tracks, not that he expected any. The new snow was wet and heavy to slog through on the ground. Not good traveling conditions afoot, and the wild ones didn't know of skis. For that matter the townies didn't do skis either. Not a local tradition. And why didn't he do skis? He knew better after all. Something about tradition as well.

At least the wind wasn't up and it wasn't raining or snowing at the moment. As bitterly cold as the really hard winter could get, he preferred it as snowfall totals tapered off and was dry powder rather than this near slush.

Just short of the meandering little stream that ran through the valley there were some old flood washed snags and Albert noticed something in the snow lee of a root ball. With footprints.

It was a Lynx, a Molly, huddled in an inadequate pocket of shelter in the roots of the snag. She wasn't dead, but she wasn't responding to his touch at the moment either. From her crude garb, she was a wild, the first he'd seen in a few years.

Of course she was bigger than he, as a Hare, and the snow was not conducive to an easy pull, especially as her overcape was improvised out of an old wool trade blanket, but he was able to haul her back to his cabin. Made easier when he transferred her to his oilcloth raincape. The initial effort had heated him and he had to shed excess layers to keep things managed.

Once inside he began to strip her down. She was soaked though and deathly cold, but her paws didn't look frost bit. Under her woolen overcape she had an undercape of Caribou hide, he'd have to send a letter to the herds about that. There was some beadwork on it, possibly Anuncutt, old style beads made from bone. Then a deerskin dress, with more definite Anuncutt styling. And more paperwork with appropriate authorities. Finally a furry undertunic. It could be Hare.

It wasn't the first time he'd seen the remains of his people on the back of others, but it always was a bit of a twinge.

The Lynx was a young adult Molly, though very thin, starved from the looks of her form and coat. Albert stoked up the stove and put a pot on for warm water, then lit the fireplace. It tended to waste fuel, but would add plenty of radiant heat once going. He dried her off with some old cotton rags; he didn't have formal towels, and was alarmed at how cold she was.

He wished he had a container, a half-barrel, or something big enough to use as a bathtub, but no luck there. He would just brush out in cold weather and use the stream in warm. A luke warm bath would be the best thing for her if he had anything.

He hung several blankets and capes up around the stove and as they became warmed he placed them around her, rotating them off as they cooled against her. He also poked around the fireplace; he kept a few loose bricks around for this kind of thing and tucked warm ones in to the nest effect he had her in.

As it quickly got too warm for him to be comfortable with all his kit on, he stripped down as well to just his long drawers. He checked on her every few minutes as he shuffled warm for cold and she no longer felt deathly chilled.

While things warmed, he examined her kit more thoroughly. The overcape was fashioned from an old woolen trade blanket, a really old pattern, and though skillfully converted, the details suggested it had been done long ago as well, with telling wear and a lack of newer repairs. The other items were similar, well made but old, possibly a generation or more so. A couple more recent repairs were only roughly, inexpertly done.

He checked his references, and found some older Anuncutt design notes consistent with those here. But they were the better part of a century removed and half a continent from here, at least according to the historical references.

There were also a couple food pouches, modern oilcloth, a trade item, and had once held smoked fish, one of the fallback foods, along with fowl. A steel trade knife as well, though of an older pattern. And, finally, a short spear with a knapped stone point, a truly ancient piece.

Albert noted each item and made sketches of the beading details for future reference. The pass was a natural passage from the truly wild empty expanses of the circumpolar north and civilized settled territories. When there was a trading post, those few hold out wild tribesfolk would come to exchange artifacts, carvings or intricate bead work, or sometimes small finds of gold or semi-precious stones for those few items of value to them.

However, in his time, the last of the wild prey, his own people included, had given up the old ways, and by extension, their predatory co-dependents had trickled out of the wild as well. His outpost was the point of contact between those two worlds. He still did a tiny trade, but his primary task, a territorial government commission, no less, was to document the passage of a people.

He prepared some weak tea, though heavy with honey. And some soup. It was out of a can, some kind of fowl, salty and shimmering with fat. With finely diced potatoes for some extra bulk.

He didn't mind pred food, when spiced right, smelled even appetizing, and on occasion he'd take just a little for a little dietary variety, but kept plenty in stock for guests. It was likely the soup smells, as he hoped, that got the cat to stir.

"Hello and be safe Little Sister." He murmured in the trade tongue, stroking her head. He didn't know Anuncutt, didn't know of anyone who did anymore, but hope she knew the common speech of the old tribes. She was awake, sort of, but seemed very blurry. He got up and brought the tea over, "Some sweet to drink, yes?"

He held up the cup to her and when she sniffed it, grabbed at it and drank it down instantly. She hunched over the still warm cup to her chest, her huge paws engulfing it, a faint keen escaped her. Pain, relief, joy?

"Little Sister, I have more for you, and soup too. Yes?"

It was only then did she really look at her benefactor, and she flinched at the sight. She made a brief exclamation in, presumably, her own tongue, then settled a bit. "You, the Food, would help me?"

Albert wasn't surprised at that. Several of the wild tribes never entirely reconciled the idea that his people were really people rather than particularly belligerent food. Even as they came to trade in the old days, one had to be careful to not get caught up as an additional ration to take back to their tribal areas.

He brought her the whole pot of soup, as it was only warm, she could handle it in whole. She did know spoons and was a tidy eater. She did have the self-discipline not to simply gulp it down. Likely she regarded him as an enemy, and her kind were very conscious of keeping up appearances to their opponents.

He prepared another cup of tea and offered it to her when she had finished the soup.

When she had finished that, he offered her more of the warmed blankets to cuddle up into as well as a new rotation of warm bricks.

Finally, "Grateful. The Food, saved me." She said.

"Named. Albert." He gestured to himself. "Named? Little Sister." Then to her.

'No people, no name now. Albertwhosaves."

That was no surprise either for some groups. If one became orphaned, especially in the broader sense of the clan or tribe, the individual's identity was considered lost as well.

"You are 'Little Sister' to me for now then."

She nodded gravely.

"See the house?" He made a sweeping gesture to the cluttered cabin interior. "Or rest for now?"

She craned her neck to take in what she could from her fireside nest, but appeared to be too wobbly yet to get up. Seeing that, he brought over yet some more blankets and laid them within her reach as she might like them. She lay there, watching the fireplace for a good while before fading off into sleep. She had a little buzzing snore, almost cute, but he resolved to keep note of it, least it become a symptom of the Wheezes or worse.

He went to his storage for a meal of his own. Sad looking but still reasonably tasty dried grass bundles. And a dab of kraut, he had several crocks of his homemade sauerkraut working, a more flavorful little addition to his over-wintering diet. There was some forage in the woods, twigs and young bark and such, but he had to admit to getting a bit spoiled by more civilized fair.

And what to do with the Lynx? She was in no shape to travel, at least for a while. And even then, he was not keen on what would be a multi-day trudge to the Town. Maybe by late winter, if there wasn't too much over all snow, it wouldn't be so much a struggle. Though a little bit of him thought about the possible risk of being in some middle of nowhere campsite with a wild Lynx.

Conversely, he was likely much safer here with her. She would likely respect the notion of guest, and that the location as a safe neutral ground. Over-wintering with a wild was something he'd done several times without incident.

And if she was going to abandon the wild, he could teach her a few things about civilized life, and expand her language to some Zooian. Use of the old trade tongue was fading as various wilds assimilated and would limit her options.

Worse, there were, as far as he knew, no surviving enclave of Anuncutt. The few individuals of the last generation simply fading into the wider population. She may be, in fact, the last wild of her kind.

As he thought about it, what would the subarctic and woodland North be like without folks in it? True, there were still populations of rodents out there, but how would they fair in the long run? While they could endure with their traditional subsistence lifestyles, would they want to with the temptations of the modern world in sight?

Ironically, without their traditional enemies/predators, they might have some cultural problems. Biologists of a more economic bend would fret about uncontrolled populations. But for those who study societies, losing such a central part of what defined themselves, not mere victims, rather steadfast survivors, even heroic defenders, might force them away from the old ways as much as anything else.

Similarly, the Herds were divided between those who were willing to live the free life of year round grazers, even with the hardships, versus those who had become used to the comforts of fixed residents and barns full of fodder.

Even his people were slow to embrace civilization. And there were still those in some of the isolated forests further south who still clung to the ancient ways. And though he lived in a snug cabin with an iron stove and kerosene lamps, he had not given up the harsh land of his youth.

Enough of such musings, he had a job to do. There were reports to be written to the Herds about the hides. He would eventually have then shipped to the territorial centers. The Caribou, to his knowledge, had annual ceremonial burnings of their found remains and recovered artifacts made from them in the bad old days. However, he knew that there was also a vast archive of material, of which only a token snip might be taken for the ritual. The remainder was retained as examples and memorials, bodily elements turned to art.

On one hand it seemed a bit morbid, but he'd seen examples and they were often great works of craftsbeastship. And the creators, wolves and bears mostly, had done their work with genuine respect and reverence. Even if they regarded their prey as 'food', that it lived and died was recognized and appreciated.

That under dress in Hare pelts, that was a different matter. His people had been rather fatalistic about such things. Lynx and others might take them as prey, and on occasion, they would strike down attackers in turn. He had a necklace somewhere made of a mix of wolf and lynx teeth, and a pair of leggings for the deep cold made of cat as well.

As with the other items, the piece was old, perhaps from his grandsire's generation. And with that, he had to wonder about how she got such.

He looked back over at the sleeping cat. She seemed to be resting well enough, and her little buzz was not getting any worse. But she was not in good shape, to be out cross-country, as starved as she was? Answers would have to wait.