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The Little Lodge On The Mountain
I can’t move my arms or legs. I’m paralysed.
Panic forces my eyes open and in the faint light I realise I’m entombed in the blanket and leathers. The absence of sound tells me the storm has ended and Curt left the cave, having tucked me in like a new born babe. A spike of terror thrusts into my nerves and I sit bolt upright like a mummy from a tomb.
“Curt!” The shout echoes around the cave, returning in mocking whispers.
“Packing the cart,” he calls back down the tunnel. “Storm’s stopped, for now at least. We need to be moving.” He limps back in time to catch me wrestling with the blanket. “We’ll head for my lodge; it’s closest.”
“Breakfast?” I suggest, my stomach rumbling in hope.
“We’ll eat at the lodge,” he replies, replacing the fire’s dry kindling and slotting new twigs into the torches. “For next time.”
I fold the leathers and blanket and head down the tunnel to poke my nose outside. Sun reflects off the snow drenched landscape, but it’s icy cold and I shiver inside my anorak. Drifts muffle most sound, only birdsong and the occasional rustle piercing the curtain of silence. Scraping precedes Curt’s emergence from the tunnel, dragging the cart over rock and back onto the snow.
“You riding?” he asks, grinding to a halt with a puff.
It’s tempting. “No, I can walk,” I decide.
About ten minutes later I’m regretting that decision, since wading through snow drifts is no fun at all. If he was to suggest it, I’d head back to that nice warm cave, but he’s focussed on dragging the laden cart and in no shape for conversation.
My right foot suddenly disappears down a hole and I pitch forward, creating a snow angel with my face. A rumbling laugh echoes down the slope as Curt yanks me to my feet and practically dumps me into the cart.
“Best get on now; we’re heading downhill.”
Wow, he’s got some grip there. That thought whistles out the back of my head as Curt heaves on the wood and the cart takes off downhill. He flings himself onto the front at the last second and grabs the steering, weaving in and out of trees as we whip past. I pull my anorak up over my mouth and peer over the top as though that will protect me from concussion. Intermittent shrieks escape my throat, coinciding with each near miss, and I’m forced to duck to avoid decapitation by low hanging branches.
I glance up at the mad driver, expecting to witness him hollering with joy. He doesn’t look scared, but he’s barely excited either. When we reach a clear patch, I pop my head up and spot a wooden chalet fast approaching. Just before we hit, I throw myself flat on a pile of dead animals and brace for impact. Curt yanks on the steering and we spin 45 degrees, sliding to a juddering halt directly outside.
“We’re here,” he announces and scrambles down from the front seat, landing in the snow with a grunt. I hear a crunch as a door flies open.
My arms heave over the side of the cart as I drag myself up and peer over. Bearing in mind the owner, I expect a draughty derelict with holes in the roof and resident vermin. What greets me is a rather pretty log cabin, big enough for a small family, sporting a stone chimney at one end, reminding me of Western pioneer TV shows from my youth.
It sits firmly on a flat platform, perched on the edge of the mountain slope, overlooking the valley below. In the absence of falling snow or driving wind, a large, chaotic settlement of higgledy-piggledy wooden chalet houses can clearly be seen winding through the valley, built beside a gurgling river. Tiny dots run all over the snow; people rushing about their business, like ants building a nest.
With the cabin front door wide open, I spot Curt thrusting logs onto a fire, beneath that grey stone chimney. He dusts off his hands and hauls himself to his feet with a groan. “Help me bring the logs inside?”
I jump down from the cart and begin piling a few into my embrace. “What about the animals?”
“They’ll need skinning, then stay out here in the chest.” He points at a bolted, grey metal box, beside the outer wall. “Freezing keeps it fresh.”
I head inside and stack my handful of logs beside the gathering fire. He follows me in, limping under the weight of logs piled so high, he surely can’t see where he’s going. It takes a few trips to bring it all inside, the cabin quickly growing warmer with each visit.
On the final trip, I nod in the direction of the valley. “Beautiful view. I can see why you’d live up here.”
“Doubt it,” he snarls, turning his back.
Great. I thought we were past the grumbling old fart act.
With the unloading complete, I pause a moment to truly take in the beauty of the room, which is even lovelier than the picturesque outside. Chairs and a table fill the ground floor, their legs carved in the shape of rearing wolves, heads held high, howling to the night sky. Near the fire sits a huge wooden rocking chair, padded out with layers of faded embroidered velvets and fur covered cushions, finished off with a raised foot rest. A stove rattles next to the fire. Lounging on a shelf above or dangling from hooks swing an array of pots, pans and other weird cooking utensils.
A mezzanine level overhangs the far end of the room, away from the chimney, carrying a wood framed bed, reached by a gloriously carved spiral staircase, resembling ivy wrapping around a tree. There’s something inherently organic about the whole design, which truly appeals to my soul.
“This is gorgeous.” I run my fingertips over a wooden leaf. “So much prettier than a ladder.”
“Can’t climb a ladder,” Curt growls, thumping a fist on his left hip. “Had to build that so it’s not so steep.”
“You made all this?” I ask.
“No-one else was going to do it,” he snaps. “I’ll be working on the skinning. You can... do what you like.” And with that he flounces outside and slams the door.
As soon as he disappears, I make a beeline for the armchair and slump into the seat, rocking back and forth like I’m on a funfair ride. Every frozen, stretched muscle screams in pain and I peel off the anorak to let the warmth of the roaring fire embrace my exhausted body.
Here’s the middle-aged zonk out equation: comfy chair + crackling warmth = doze off.
I eventually wake myself up with an enormous grunt to find my head back and booted feet tucked up on the chair. Apparently, misery guts returned sometime during the snore fest and threw a blanket over me, because every single toe and finger has thawed out beneath the wool. No sooner do I comprehend that I’m lovely and warm than a glorious smell of roasting meat wafts up my twitching nostrils.
Curt is hard at work stirring a pot with his left hand and turning a spit with the other, roasting something that looks a lot bigger than a squirrel. He gives it a quick baste and glances at me.
“You’re awake.”
Obviously. “That smells good.”
He lets a smile flash across his face. “Not ready yet.”
“You’ve changed.”
He looks so much better in black spun woollen trousers and a fluffy grey sweater. His hair’s also been scrubbed clean and given a comb, making me feel greasy and filthy.
He must have read my mind, or at least my scowl, because he slips on leather gloves and grabs the handles of two huge buckets, full of steaming melted snow and commands, “Follow me. You won’t need your coat.”
I duly shuffle after him, getting slapped in the face with an icy wind once I step through the back door. I’m about to whinge and deliver a theatrical shiver when I spot a tiny log shed lurking like a toddler behind its mother’s skirt. Curiosity peaked, I stride through the door and march straight into the back of Curt, upending him into a tiny tin bath. He yanks his head out of the water, legs flailing until he can right himself with a very ungentlemanly snarl.
“Oops, sorry,” I offer, wondering if I should leg it back to the cabin.
“Wash,” he announces, pointing at the steaming water. That finger spins round to a small ledge, upon which balance folded trousers and a massive jumper. “Clothes.” He snatches up the empty buckets and clanks out, slamming the door.
With the cold wind shut out, steam puffs and rises from the swiftly cooling water. Giving it a quick test swirl for optimum temperature, I fling my clothes on the shelf and settle into the bath, lifting my knees up to my chin and scraping a bum cheek on what looks like a plug. There’s precious little room for manoeuvre, but I manage to give my extremities and private bits a good rinsing, before rolling onto my back, sticking my legs in the air and washing my hair. Bum wafting calisthenics over, I haul myself out of the lukewarm water and grab what passes for a towel in these parts.
With my leggings and jumper back on, I slip Curt’s sweater over my head and lose both arms somewhere before the cuffs. The bottom ends up dangling around my knees. I give the trousers a go, but unless I want to walk around hiking them up, they’re not going to work. With socks and boots in place, I dash back through the snow and launch myself into the cabin, wet hair flapping around my face, to be met with a blast of warmth and near darkness.
Scraping hair from my eyes allows the soft, golden glow of candlelight to reveal two plain metal plates and matching cutlery, set opposite one another on the wooden table. A sliver of anticipation, mixed with a sticky dollop of panic, pierces my chest. It may not be fine bone china and Prosecco, but it whiffs of romance to me. Not that any of my exes were inclined to romance.
Curt stirs whatever it is that smells so good and asks, “Feel better?”
“Yep. All clean.” My voice sounds an octave too high. Out of desperation I haul a request out of a panicked mind. “Can I borrow a comb?”
He limps over to a cupboard, opens the drawer and hands me a wooden comb, silver hair wound around the teeth. At least it’s not wolf fur. I hope. He snatches it back, wipes it clean and hands it over again without a word, before going back to stirring, vigorously.
I shuffle back to my favourite chair and gently comb my soaking hair before the fire, secretly lamenting the absence of volumising foam and a hairdryer. The best I’ll be able to achieve for my shoulder length grey and white streaked locks is cut priced, ageing vampire. Still, the constant combing instils a sense of calm by the time the chef announces, “Food,” and smacks a steaming pot in the centre of the table.
I park my backside, sitting primly in my chair whilst he ladles copious amounts of some sort of thick stew onto my plate and then his own. He drops into his chair with a grunt. “Eat up.”
Since he hasn’t attempted to stare longingly into my eyes or hold my hand, I relax and arm myself with the knife and fork, preparing to do battle. The stew clearly has chunks of roasted meat loitering amidst green vegetables, both of which have been cut at an angle, for no reason other than presentation, as far as I can see. Apparently Wolfie takes pride in his cuisine, when he’s not kebabbing squirrels. I gingerly spear a chunk of meat and pop it in my mouth as though I’m expecting it to bite back.
The taste explosion is so stunning I almost moan with joy. Succulent texture mixed with subtle flavours caress my tongue... Alright, I know zero about haute cuisine, the upshot being it tastes wonderful.
“Mmmm,” I manage to mumble, shovelling in the next forkful.
“You like it?” His slumping shoulders pull upright as he studies my face.
“Mmmm,” I repeat, keeping my lips shut as I chew. “Lvly.”
A smile lights his face as he goes back to staring at his plate.
* * *
I catch a glimpse of starlight glistening on the sparkling carpet of snow as Curt draws the curtain across the night, before clearing away the pots and plates. He settles down on a fur rug beside the fire, propping himself up with pillows, face lit by flickering flames. I offer him the chair, but he says he’s just as comfortable on the rug, stretching out his hip.
“Do you have any books?” I ask, peering around the room in vain, lounging back in the armchair, boot free feet perched on the footrest, hands draped over my bloated stomach.
“Snakes have a library, up in their castle, so I’ve heard,” he replies. “They like that sort of thing.”
I get the impression from his tone he doesn’t have much time for ‘that sort of thing.’
“You don’t record your history?” I ask.
“We pass down our stories by word of mouth,” he continues, “from generation to generation.”
“Can’t you read?” I ask, before it occurs to me that might be rude.
“Of course I can read; I’m not stupid,” he replies, scowling.
Since he doesn’t elaborate, I change tack, tucking my feet beneath me. “So, who are you passing your story down to?”
That’s also none of my business and I could forgive him for saying so, but he just smiles sadly and looks away, muttering, “No-one, now.” After a few moments of awkward silence, he turns back. “We do have a legend that’s been passed down from before my great grandmother’s generation.”
That perks me up. “Tell me.”
“One will come who is not of us, stepping into the midst of battle and uniting all changers into one family, finally ending the conflict that has raged beyond memory.”
“Oooh, the Chosen One.” I love that trope.
“Chosen by whom?” he asks and the writer in me notes the correct use of whom. He might not be a handsome prince, but he’s not your average hermit either.
“It’s a trope in fantasy novels,” I advise. “The Chosen One is usually a teenager who doesn’t know their background or gifts, who comes to lead the fight against evil.”
Curt flips onto his back and stretches out his toes. “Rather unwise having a teenager with no experience leading, isn’t it?”
I laugh at that. “I suppose it is.”
“Well, it’s just a story,” he adds, staring at the ceiling.
“Maybe you’ll all learn to stop the fighting by yourselves,” I offer. “You know, negotiation.”
“Maybe,” he repeats, but doesn’t sound too enthusiastic.
I don’t know if it’s the full stomach, the warmth of the fire or the trek through the snow, but I can’t prevent a yawn punctuating my last sentence.
Curt heaves on stomach muscles that ripple beneath his sweater and sits up. “Go on.” He points at the bed on the mezzanine. “You can sleep up there. I’ll take the chair.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him, rocking gently back and forth. “I’m so comfy.”
It’s the truth; my body feels as though it’s merging into the gentle curves and slopes of the wood with its soft velvet padding. Eyelids close and knees draw up to my chest as I snuggle further into the chair, cuddling a furry cushion beneath my chin. I sense, more than see, the blanket drape across my body, but eyes open when his laboured footsteps slowly creak up the spiral staircase.
“Did you make this chair for yourself?” I ask, as he comes around the spiral to face me, candle in hand.
“I did make it,” he agrees, moving ever upwards. “But not for myself.”
Reaching the mezzanine, he gently lowers himself onto the bed and pulls the sweater over his head, revealing scarred washboard abs and biceps far larger than they’ve any right to be in a man of his age.
His age? What am I talking about? He’s younger than fat arse me. Although I definitely smell better.
There’s a hefty creak as he crawls into bed, not yet changing into the wolf. With a gentle puff from his lips, the candle extinguishes, leaving just the light of the fire for company. Flickering shadows dance across the rounded edges of log walls and I pull the blanket up to my neck. I’m safe, well fed and warm within the cabin, yet a part of me hankers for the cave with its resident wolf pillow.
Well, that’s ridiculous, Edith. How old are you? Get over yourself. Cuddling up to wolves. Haven’t you read Red Riding Hood, for Pete’s sake?
I’m gripping that poor cushion for dear life when a gruff voice floats down from on high. And no, it’s not the voice of God.
“You’d got up to King Garrass being betrayed,” Curt growls into the darkness.
Oh, he wants me to tell him the story.
“Right. So Garrass was lying around with his drunken friends, outside the wall, when they suddenly weren’t so drunk anymore and he realises something is very wrong...”
