The hunting ground should have shown traces of game.

  Gunnar stopped at the border between the first ridge and the thinning forest. His snowshoes stood on untouched snow, which should have been covered with tracks of all kinds.

  Before him lay their target—the open hunting ground, which consisted of over three hundred paces of open terrain with no cover for passing game. The tree line here curved inward, forming a funnel that had already been used by his ancestors to hunt moose. The open area formed a natural bottleneck that the herds had to cross every winter on their way south. Other routes to the south meant a long detour for the herds, but it would also keep them out of the reach of the Wintermark hunters.

  The snow lay smooth and untouched. Not a single trail where heavy bodies had fought their way through the snowdrifts. No discernible tracks where hooves had broken the surface. Even smaller animal tracks from hares or other small game were completely absent.

  Next to him, Rolf shifted his weight in irritation and fiddled with the leather straps over his shoulder. His bow rested there. Lightweight and worn from frequent use. Nevertheless, the bow had been cared for with great effort and passion and would continue to bring its owner joy for a long time to come – provided there was something to hunt. Rolf had received the family heirloom from his father after passing his hunting training to continue the family business. The morning light fell on the light wood—seasoned ash wood that would bend in the cold without breaking.

  “They've used this path every winter so far.” Rolf's breath formed small white clouds that slowly dissipated in the still air. “Have you ever heard of anything like this?” He pointed to the untouched surface.

  Gunnar grunted.

  He crouched down and lightly stroked the surface with his gloved hand. The crust did not give way. The cold had already frozen it over days ago. The surface would retain traces for weeks – if anything had walked over it. Since then, nothing had touched it – small wave patterns testified to little wind, small traces of snow drifts, but no animal tracks. Just an almost completely flat surface that testified to absolute silence.

  “Check the edge over there where the ridge meets the forest,” he pointed to the natural boundary.

  Rolf moved to the left, where the land sloped gently down to form a shallow depression. The herds' path would inevitably have to lead through this depression. The conditions were perfect – a steady but not biting north wind, the right season for even the last herds to retreat south. Instead: nothing.

  Gunnar followed Rolf after taking one last look around. They walked the entire length of the corridor. Slightly offset so that they could be sure they wouldn't overlook any tracks across the width. Their steps fell into a rhythm that had become second nature through long practice, which was only natural when hunting. A reasonable pace that allowed them to search the area they had divided between them with a practiced eye. Nothing.

  The sky above them was a gray that could, over time, cause real oppression in a featureless landscape. No drifts. No changing light.

  The birch trees along the ridge stood bare, their white bark shimmering in the dim light. Gunnar had passed them a thousand times, measuring the seasons by how their branches bore or shed leaves and snow. On the gently curved ridge, they had always served as a point of reference for him. Even after the worst snowfalls or high snowdrifts that could completely change the landscape, they could still be seen as a fixed point. Gunnar kept looking back at the small grove for reassurance. At least they were still there. They waited stoically for what was to come.

  Halfway through the corridor, Rolf slowed down. He didn't stop, but his steps became more hesitant. He moved closer to Gunnar so he wouldn't have to shout.

  “It's feeling longer. We should already be at the end of the corridor.”

  “We're in no hurry.”

  “I know, and yet...”

  They continued walking, but Gunnar also noticed that something had changed. Not the ground—that remained solid under their boots. Not the air—that was still cold and still. Something else. Something that made every step feel as if he were covering less distance than he should.

  The trees in front of them were still as far away as if they had only gone halfway. They weren't really retreating, but they also didn't feel like they were getting any closer. Unnoticed by Rolf, he looked around more closely. The familiar split tree—struck by lightning a few years ago—which stood alone on the wide plain and normally marked the half-way point, had been behind them for some time, yet it was only a few dozen meters behind them. Ahead, he recognized the buried stone—now visible as a dark hump in the wide flat plain, breaking through the white surface—approaching and then receding again without ever really getting closer.

  Rolf fiddled again with the leather strap holding his bow on his shoulder.

  “We left before dawn.” he stated.

  “That’s right.” Gunnar’s voice held no doubt.

  “It doesn’t feel like it to me,” Rolf repeated stubbornly.

  Gunnar stopped. Not suddenly – any unexpected movements in the exposed area would automatically attract the attention of any creatures that might be watching them. He slowed his pace just long enough to reorient himself and at the same time hide the fact that he was pondering.

  He turned slowly and once again compared what he knew intuitively with what he actually saw. The split tree trunk to the west – exactly where it should be, with its clearly visible scar in the bark from the old lightning strike. The buried stone that always poked out of the snow cover first in late winter – it was just the right size and at exactly the right distance from the border between the ridge and the edge of the forest. The gentle slope of ground in the hollow leading up to the ridge, which offered them, as well as the game, natural access as long as they moved carefully. Everything as he would expect to find after twenty years of experience on this route.

  They proceeded on their way, but the unsettling feeling of something being out of place remained. Almost as if they were passing through something denser than air. Like the ground itself was reluctant to let them pass.

  They reached the ridge at exactly where they aimed for. The well-known slope rose up before them, outlined by a group of birch trees that caught the wind and made a soft whispering sound. A intense view back offerd now hint ehy the way felt so different. The distances between the landmarks obviously hadn't changed. Only the path itself had been somehow different.

  When they had reached their destination, Rolf blew out through his nose.

  “Strange morning.”

  Gunnar did not respond. He instead thought about the reports of the border markers. About the rumours that they had been moved or knocked over. How the village had become noticeably ‘smaller’ since the rumours spread. More cautious, wary of what lays beyond its palisades.

  The door to the smokehouse closed behind Eirik with a dull thud. Inside, he was greeted by the familiar mixture of dry salt and cold smoke. The smell of heavily cured and carefully stored meat was strong but pleasant to him. The strips were lined up in neat rows, hanging from iron hooks. The fastenings were firmly and evenly embedded in the ceiling beams. Each fastening was marked with careful little tags indicating the allocation for the corresponding household. In addition, the individual pieces of meat were marked with colored strings indicating the time of smoking or curing.

  He paused for a moment and enjoyed the scent that surrounded him with his eyes closed. Then he slowly opened his eyes again to get used to the dim light falling through the only small window. He also lit a small lamp hanging on the wall next to the door. Count exactly, don't estimate!, had been Brynja's instruction.

  He started next to the door and worked his way systematically from left to right. Each hook carried its share according to the old standards that had been maintained since time immemorial. Three strips of meat per bundle, provided that the bundles had been tied properly. That made a total of nine portions at reduced rations: three per strip, as opposed to two per strip in summer or mild winters. In winter, the allocation could be slightly less, but this was generally accepted as winter rations. Since the hunting teams had been bringing in less, the winter measure had been reintroduced. In addition, there was no longer any increase for heavy work. Even the watch shifts did not receive any additional rations at the moment, despite the additional energy required for night duty in the cold. This was a significant restriction for the community, but for him it was easier to count than if he had to take additional special treatments into account.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He calculated the stock twice. When a result was so important for the future of the village, it was worth being much more careful than when only a rough estimate was needed. Five weeks and four days of supplies. The result was sobering. In other words, five and a half weeks.

  Provided nothing changed.

  That would be just enough if no other hunting teams were called back from their work and had to move to other areas. In normal times, the hunting groups would be able to procure food for another two to four weeks during that period. However, this extension of the time period was contingent on the southern hunting grounds continuing to yield at the current level. Another unpleasant condition: winter would have to end at the time it normally ended.

  He moved back to the second shelf, where the bundles for households with children were stored. The allocations for families with small children were somewhat more generous. The strips here were cut a slightly thicker – not enough to upset the overall balance of rations, but enough to ensure that the children got what they needed to get through the cold months.

  He counted again.

  As expected, the number did not change. Five and a half weeks remained five and a half weeks, no matter how carefully he examined every hook, every bundle, every carefully stored piece. Their stock meant the difference between survival and disaster. Eirik had heard about the lumberjacks' problems from Brynja. The wood teams had had to break off work twice that week—first when the axes became blunt in the forest despite proper maintenance. Then again when the woodcutter teams reported that the trees were harder to fell than usual. If this continued, they would run out of wood for heating as well as food.

  The hunting yield had been steadily declining for a few days in all the usual northern hunting grounds. A redeployment of the teams to the southern areas had become almost inevitable. A reallocation meant longer distances for noticeably lower yields, accompanied by more energy expenditure for fewer results.

  Five and a half weeks' worth of supplies if the current rations were maintained. He looked thoughtfully at the long rows of supplies. Not enough if they continued to lose ground. Even worse if the problems the hunters were beginning to report spread to other areas. The consequences would be devastating if the winter lasted longer than usual.

  Eirik reached the last hook and stepped back to the front door. Pondering, he took one last look at the neat rows of supplies. At least one good thing was apparent from the inspection: nothing was missing and nothing was spoiled. The food had been preserved properly, and previous estimates had not deviated significantly from the actual inventory.

  He hung the extinguished lamp back on its hook and stepped through the door into the courtyard. In the sudden brightness, he blinked a few times reflexively to get used to the light again. And yet something was wrong with the brightness. It was weaker than expected. He paused, his hand still on the door handle, and squinted again. Everything was where he expected it to be, everything was clearly visible, but the sun's angle wasn't quite right.

  The pile of wood behind the large hall casts a longer shadow than it was supposed to. Likewise, the shadow of the well roof reached almost to the middle of the courtyard—much further than it should in the early part of the afternoon.

  He turned his head toward two mothers who were already summoning their children from the darker area inside the palisade.

  A voice that only mothers posessed, making it unmistakably clear that playtime was over, whether the called liked it or not.

  He blinked again, then once more, trying to match what he saw with what he expected. In his head, he went over his time in the smokehouse once more. He started counting right away and repeated the count once more to be on the safe. Erik could not remember any breaks and no long delays due to miscounting or mixing up results. He had carried out the counting at his usual pace—methodical but efficient. It was a pace he had developed over years of performing all kind of similar tasks. It was the rhythm that allowed his hands to carry out familiar, repetitive work while at the same time enabling him to think about other things. The quality of preservation, the uniformity of the cuts, small variations that might indicate issues in the preservative process or early spoilage of food.

  Eirik estimated the position of the sun with his routine, a second nature, which was common to people who spent a most of their time outdoors. The somewhat pale disc behind the thin clouds was further advanced than it was supposed to be. Not much. Not dramatically. But far enough that someone who had been able to estimate the time well for fifteen years based on shadows and the position of the sun noticed the difference. What bothered him more was that even after thinking about it actively, he couldn't figure out WHERE he had lost the time. In his opinion, there had been no delay in the hut.

  His thumb rubbed against his index finger. He adjusted his gloves and walked toward the hall, his boots crunching on the snow that had been trampled down by daily traffic in the village. He paid careful attention to his surroundings—every step felt normal—the right resistance in the snow, the right sound, the right amount of time it took him to reach the hall.

  The sun and its shadows had obviously been wrong.

  The small pub was located in a building that had been used as a storage room until a few years ago. At a certain point back then, the council decided that everyday life needed a more suitable space for small gatherings than the large council hall or individual houses alone were able to offer. Since then, the council hall had been reserved for weekly gatherings and the old storage room had been repurposed. Now it was furnished with benches and stools made from local wood surrounding small tables. A centrally located bar made from old timber planks, decorated with somewhat questionable skill and taste, complemented by a stove in the corner, rounded off the sparse furnishings. The place was well received, but so far no one had found the time to build a matching interior. The stove was powerful enough to provide enough heat for those present even in winter, temporarily connecting stories and individuals into something communal and necessary for village solidarity.

  The beer was simply passed from hand to hand, the ceramic mugs warmed in winter, pleasant for cold palms. The beer was watered down, but honest—barley, time, and careful monitoring during brewing. A drink that they would carry through the remaining weeks of winter. Each sip symbolized the resources allocated specifically to the community, something to which everyone had contributed. Combining this with the opportunity for shared conversation, the place offered a small measure of comfort that made survival seem like life. It tasted of the malt reserves they had harvested and stockpiled together in the fall, when the world still made sense in predictable ways.

  Gunnar stood near one of the rear beams that held up the low ceiling. He leaned his back against the wall, as men who are used to surveying their surroundings tend to do. Next to him stood Rolf, still young enough to be slightly restless, but old enough to know that some things simply required patience.

  Eirik seated himself against the opposite wall, where he could see and hear those present clearly without overhearing their conversation too obviously. From his position, he had a good view of the room. With a warm mug of thin beer in his hand, he looked at the assembled villagers—hunters returning from their work, a few craftsmen taking a short break after a day's labor. There were some older men whose hunting days were long behind them, but they still had indispensable knowledge. His gaze wandered back to Gunnar, who was talking to a few others sitting at the table in front of him.

  “I'm telling you. No tracks at all – nowhere in the area,” Gunnar was just saying.

  “The whole plain is entirely untouched,” Rolf added.

  “Untouched, or you guys just didn’t see any animals?” asked Ardis from across the table next to the stove, her calloused hands wrapped around a cup that gently steamed.

  Gunnar replied, “Untouched.”

  Rolf shifted his weight slightly. “Besides, the trails took longer,” he added quietly.

  The conversations in the surrounding area spontaneously fell to a pause. It wasn't silence—the room was still filled with the soft murmur of people sitting further away—but rather a moment of attention, which meant that important information was being exchanged.

  “Define longer?” someone asked from the shadows next to the door.

  Rolf hesitated. “Hard to put into words.” He looked at Gunnar before answering hesitantly, “It just...stretched out somehow.”

  Gunnar nodded in agreement. “And we didn’t dawdle.”

  Another hunter spoke up from the doorway—older, with gray temples and a weather-beaten face that bore witness to decades spent outdoors—without looking up from his cup.

  “The south slope felt the same way yesterday.”

  Silence fell again, but this time it was more palpable. The reports were beginning to form a pattern that no one really wanted to believe.

  “Could it have been headwinds?” someone asked.

  “No. Not really... we haven't had any significant wind for days.”

  These and similar answers came simultaneously from different directions. No one disagreed. And no one could offer an alternative explanation.

  The room returned to individual conversations and the usual chatter at the tables without any conclusion. Wood crackled and hissed comfortably in the stove. Cups scraped across the rough table surfaces and clinked softly against each other. Someone laughed quietly at something that was too soft for Eirik to hear. He let his thoughts wander aimlessly as he observed those present and enjoyed a piece of the normality that had filled this room on countless evenings like this one.

  Finally, his thoughts inevitably returned to his inventory check that morning. He replayed the sequence of events for the umpteenth time: entering the smokehouse in the morning, counting the individual supplies. The unsurprising but undeniable result of the inventory check. He closed his eyes and imagined the courtyard again as he stepped out of the hut. The shadows of the woodpile and the well stretched further than his sense of time would have allowed. He was firmly convinced that he had not been in the hut longer than his inner sense of time told him. Nevertheless, the shadows, and with them the time, had clearly progressed further than they should have.

  He opened his eyes as Gunnar raised his cup to his lips on the other side of the room and quietly remarked through the rising steam, “It felt as if the ground or the landscape itself was holding us back.”

  Eirik observed nods of agreement from those who had similar stories to tell. An unspoken agreement that something was changing out there. Something that was beginning to affect the fundamental understanding of distance and time, and thus the relationship between effort and result.

  Eirik lowered his gaze to his mug and thought of the count in the smokehouse, the shadows in the courtyard, the reports coming back from the hunting grounds and workplaces.

  Three.

  Three different cases where time or distance behaved in a way that was unexpected. Three events involving various people in various places, all describing the same impossible thing.

  The beer in his mug had gone cold, but he drank it anyway. The mug now tasted of faint consolation and the bitter realization that winter was far from over.