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Stories from the Verse
A Dozen Verses
Chapter 97: Slade 283
Table of Contents
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Slade and Shella trudged through the snow for miles. He was just considering giving up when the slope steepened. They were now definitely going downhill, which was more difficult and actually slowed their progress, but within an hour they could hear and see moving water in a stream Slade would not have considered large enough to call a river, but certainly larger than anything he would call a brook.
He approached it cautiously. After all, it was entirely possible that the watercourse was wider and deeper than it appeared, and that he would be approaching it on an ice shelf that grew thinner nearer to the opening. However, the slope lessened but continued, and he was soon standing at the edge.
The water was clear, icy at the edge but the movement kept the channel clear. It was shallow enough for wading in his boots, but got deep enough near enough that he could bale water from it, if he found something with which to bale.
Also, there were fish in it.
He was not a fisherman. He couldn’t tell you what kind of fish they were, but they appeared to be large enough that sports fishermen would hook them and eat them. That meant potentially they had food, if they could catch it--and cook it.
One problem at a time. Water was first.
“Cast the comfort bubble,” he said. “I’m probably going to get wet.”
He couldn’t think of anything to contain water. He had no cooking gear, and neither did his wife; they didn’t do much cooking. As the comfort bubble appeared he stepped within it and began going through his pack. He found only one thing. “Well, I never imagined using it for this, but it will have to do.” He held up a beautifully decorated bottle with a stopper that probably held about one quart. As far as he knew, though, the only thing it had ever contained was the Caliph of the West Wind, a djinn lord whom he had freed from it many worlds ago.
He had never as much as rinsed it out. The only thing he had done with it since then was show it as part of telling his story. He wondered what might be inside. There was a television comedy once in which the djinni lived in a bottle, and inside were sofas and cushions and all the comforts of home, but he didn’t think that was likely.
Stepping back out into the cold, he waded carefully on the rocky bed of the stream until it was deep enough to submerge the bottle at a steep angle. Air bubbled out as water replaced it, and swiftly it was filled. He pulled it out, his hands already chilled from the freezing water and the even colder air, but he wasn’t entirely certain about this, so he poured a bit out, put the stopper in, shook the bottle, then unstoppered it and dumped the contents back into the stream. A good rinse, he thought, would have to be sufficient, and he refilled the bottle, stoppered it, and worked his way back to shore and back into the comfort bubble.
Unstoppering the bottle, he took a drink, which wound up being a longer drink than he intended, but then managed to give it to Shella while it was still half full. She thanked him and drank the rest rather quickly. He thought to tell her to go easy on it, as they had not eaten nor drunk anything but snow for several days, but since he hadn’t left her more than he himself had consumed, there wasn’t really a good objection there.
When she was done, he returned to the stream and refilled it, bringing it back to the shelter but suggesting that they make sure they do well enough with what they had just had before they drink more. He stripped out of the outer layers, making sure that everything wet including the boots was set aside to dry, and hoped that he could get warm while the blankets dried.
He was going to have to figure out how to get fish, but not until he had warmed some.
As to the old stories that have long been here:
