Footprints in the Snow

‘Footprints in the Snow’

Liza woke to the banging vibrating through the house and the artic draught disturbing her cosy slumber. She followed the noise and the chill through the house, both seemingly originating in the same place. She whistled a few times, trying to locate the dog she had found on the tracks the night before, but there was no sign of the canine.

As she descended the stairs, she saw the front door wide open and swinging in the winter gales. Liza began to feel uneasy. She had locked that door, she knew she had, her paranoia wouldn’t allow her to forget. Ever. It didn’t matter how isolated or unknown she was in her hidden, hill-top cabin, she could never be too careful. What if they had found her? The enemy. No, if they had, she would be dead. Her heart stopped for a beat and her blood ran cold. What if her people had found her? She made herself calm down. If they had, she would have been captured and secured by now. The knot in her stomach remained, tight and painful as ever, despite her trying to being rational. The wind raging outside was still trespassing into her home and wrapped itself around her, trying to seep into her bones. As she closed the door, Liza saw them. Footprints. A single set leading from her door into the snow-covered expanses. Except for her sheds and outer-buildings, there was nothing but trees and open spaces for mile and miles. The sight stopped Liza cold. Those who knew who she was didn’t know where she was; those who knew where she was didn’t know who she was. No one ever visited her – no-one was welcome to. But someone had been in her house. What if one of the sides had sent a scout? She’d be as good as dead, or worse, captured. Still no sign of that dog, some guard he was proving to be. The dog! Of course! How could she be so stupid? She had let her guard down and now she would pay the price. The Liza’s resilience kicked in. She would not go down without a fight. So the scum shapeshifter the he could do this to her and get away with it. Did he not know who she was or what she was capable of? Well, he would soon find out.

Pulling on her thermal underwear and outerwear; snow boots and everything else to keep her warm, Liza marched out, determined, tracking the animal by the footprints in the snow. They didn’t seem that old and, without the proper clothing, the mutt wouldn’t get too far.

As the trail went on, Liza came across larger imprints in the snow: the animal had fallen, still in human form. His body wouldn’t be used to the cold. It had probably started to affect his muscles by this point. As she continued her pursuit, the larger imprints became more and more frequent. She couldn’t be far from finding him. He wouldn’t have lasted upright much longer. The question was: would she find a body or a corpse? Liza’s empathetic nature hoped for alive, but he survival instincts begged for a dead shapeshifter. She trudged on, the cold beginning to get to her despite her many layers, she would need to turn back soon, or do something stupid and risk exposure. As she marched on, she replayed the night before, frantically trying to remember if she had done anything in front of that damned dog that would clarify her identity. She didn’t think so, but couldn’t be anywhere near sure. It was natural to her, second nature, sometimes she didn’t even realise she was doing it.

That’s when she saw it, a huddled mass that shouldn’t have been there, about thirty yards ahead. She approached, angry and determined at first, but growing a little cautious as she neared. Liza could see his body shivering violently, he was in human form and completely naked. He had clearly been out here long enough to lose control of his body: a yellow puddle coloured the snow above is scrunched up thighs. The responsible appendage was a worrying colour. His hands and feet were a similar colour of blue; badly frost-bitten but still saveable, if action was taken fast. He was muttering under his breath and twitching – the hallucinations had started – this was bad. Very bad. He wouldn’t last much longer out here. It was decision time: leave him to die and save herself or save him and put herself in mortal risk. Liza knew there was no real question, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t, add to the blood that stained her hands. Liza flexed her fingers, closed her eyes and sent warm air in her huddled enemy’s direction. Opening her eyes to check the progress, she faltered. The snow around the body had begun to melt and a tattoo right on his spine between his shoulder blades was slowly being revealed. A perfect circle with three claw marks cutting diagonally downwards from right to left. The mark of Ochinar. It was one thing to save a shapeshifter, but to save an Ochinar, was a whole new level of suicidal risk. Especially for her. Was she really going to be that stupid again? Had she learned nothing from the past?

His skin rippling and the pained look of concentration on his face dragged Liza from her thoughts. He was trying to turn, and he was failing. He must be truly far gone for him, an Ochinar, to not be able to shift. Pity and empathy seeped from her heart and infected her mind. She’d regret this, in the unlikely situation she loved long enough to. But, like last time, she knew she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she let him die. Although, she currently couldn’t really live with herself anyway, but why make it worse?

Taking a deep breath, preparing to risk exposure to save this mutt, who would probably thank her by getting her killed or captured, she muttered under breath, aimed her energy at the now unconscious body, which slowly began to shrink and change shape. Eventually, lying in the snow, where once a full-grown male human had been, there was now a tiny, shaking Chihuahua. She smirked, knowing how insulted the proud Ochinar would be by his present form. Unzipping the front of her thick, insulated snow jacket, Liza picked up the pathetic pooch, nestled it inside the jacket then zipped it back up. Her arms cradled the small creature as she strode back up to the house. e H