Page 27 of Property of Prophet

I work the knot loose, careful with it the way I’m careful with most things she’s made or mended, and the cloth falls open across my knees. A notebook, small enough to fit in a coat pocket, bound in a scrap of leather that’s been cut and stitched with the same neat, economical hand she uses on every wound she’s ever closed. The pages inside aren’t new. I recognize the faint blue lines of her supply ledger, cut down, folded, and bound fresh, blank on the side she didn’t write on. A stub of pencil, sharpened to a point with a knife rather than a sharpener, sits tucked into a loop of cord along the spine.

I turn it over twice before I trust myself to say anything. There’s a particular weight to a thing made by hand for one specific person, heavier than the materials account for, and I sit there holding it longer than the moment strictly calls for, the way you’d hold something you’re afraid might not survive being handled the normal way.

“You’ve been watching me for weeks,” she says, before I can ask. “Copying everything I do.” She nods at the notebook. “Figured you ought to have something of your own to keep track of whatever surfaces... that room, the table, or your brothers. Whatever else comes.”

I don’t have a ready answer for that. Instead, I turn the little book over in my hands, feeling the weight of it, light as it is, and find I have to look somewhere else in the cabin for a moment before I trust my own face. “Why today?” I finally ask.

She nods toward the supply ledger on the shelf, the real one, the one she charts everything in. “Go look.”

I cross the room and find the page she means, near the back, a column of small, neat marks running down the margin, one for every day since the crater. I count them without meaning to. The habit is hers, but it’s caught in me the way most of her habits have.

“Today makes it Christmas,” she says, from across the room. “December twenty-fifth.”

The word sits strange in my mouth even before I say it back. “Christmas.”

“The day people celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ,” she says, the way she says most things, a fact handed over the same as if she’d hand over a dosage or a diagnosis. “Not the actual day, probably. Only the day the church settled on a long time after the fact.”

And something in me, hearing that, opens its mouth before the rest of me has agreed to it. “It’s wrong,” I say.

“What is?”

“The date.” The words are out before I can stop them. “It’s not in winter. It’s the wrong season.”

The cabin goes very quiet.

I hear myself say it the way you’d hear a stranger finish your sentence for you, certain and unbothered, and already three words past where I meant to stop. Lily has gone still by the stove, the kindling forgotten in her hand, staring at me with an expression I’m not sure of.

“How...” she says, “... would you know that?”

I don’t have an answer. I laugh instead, because the alternative is sitting with the cold that’s already crawling up the back of my neck, and laughing is easier to control for about four seconds. Then the laugh runs out, and the cold is still there. I’m left standing in the middle of her cabin holding a notebook meant to catch exactly this kind of thing, with no earthly way to write down how I know it.

“I don’t know how I know it,” I say. “I know it, all the same.”

The cold crawling over me has fuck all to do with winter. I turn the date over in my head looking for a crack in it, but there isn’t one. December twenty-fifth is wrong. I know it as surely as I know my own hands, and I have no fucking idea who put the knowledge in my head.

Lily doesn’t push. She never does. She sets the kindling in the stove instead, and feeds the flame. She lets the question sit there between us the same way she lets everything sit, waiting to see if it wants to come back around on its own. I sit at the table with the notebook open in front of me and write the date in it, the real one, my handwriting steadier and older-looking than I expect from a man who can’t remember learning to write at all. I look at it for a long while. Two numbers and a month, sitting on an otherwise blank page, the first entry in a ledger that’s supposed to be mine and already isn’t telling me anything I asked it to.

We don’t talk about it again before we leave for the trapline. Some mornings, a man has to put a thing down before it puts him down first.

But before she pulls her boots on, I stop her.

“Wait.” I cross to the door, where I’ve left her boots drying by the stove every night for the better part of a week now, and pick them up, turning the left one over so she can see the sole. “Look.”

She frowns at first, the way she braces for most things, expecting bad news before she’s earned any. Then she sees what I’ve done. The old sole had worn through at the heel, a thin patch I noticed the second week and have been quietly mending since, scrap leather and waxed thread and an hour a night while she slept, working by lamplight with hands that, for once, knew exactly what they were doing without any strange certainty attached to the knowing. Ordinary skill.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, turning the boot over in her hands, running a thumb along the new stitching.

“Neither did you.” I nod at the notebook still sitting open on the table. “Seems a fair trade.”

She doesn’t say anything else about it. She doesn’t have to. Lily sets the boots down and pulls them on, testing the work with her weight the way she tests everything, and the small, satisfied set of her mouth when it holds tells me everything I need to know.

The trapline runs a mile and a half through black spruce so close in places I have to turn sideways to pass between them, snow banked thigh-deep off the trail where wind has had its way with the drifts. The cold has a different quality out here than it does in the clearing around the cabin, denser somehow, pooling in the low ground between the trees, like water in a hollow. Lily moves ahead of me without wasting a step, checking snares, reading tracks, stopping over marks in the snow I wouldn’t have noticed weeks ago. I’m getting better at seeing what she sees, though I’m nowhere near her yet.

The first snare holds a snowshoe hare, already gone still and white-eyed in the cold, and she works it free with hands that don’t flinch from the job, tucks it into her pack, and resets the wire with three economical motions I’ve watched her make a hundred times now and still can’t quite copy at her speed.

The second set holds something that shouldn’t be there at all. A lynx, silver-gray and furious, caught by one back paw in a snare built for animals a third its size, thrashing against the wire with a violence that says it’s been at this a while. Lily goes still at the sight of it, reading the situation the way she reads everything, fast and complete.

“Wrong season,” she says, low. “Wrong everything. They don’t come down this far till the deep cold really sets in, and even then, they don’t walk into a hare snare. They’re smarter than that. Pin it,” she says, nodding at the birch pole already in my grip, the one she’s had me carrying since the first set this morning. “Across the shoulders. Don’t let it twist.”