Ian knew he needed to be pumped for this. Needed to feel that drive, that motivation that would carry him through another brutal day of non-stop labor. But standing there in the dark of morning beating out the sun, with his body screaming protest, the enthusiasm was forced. Artificial. Like trying to convince himself he was excited about running a marathon when what he really wanted was to crawl back into the lean-to and sleep for three days straight. Which was what was happening.
But the hide wouldn't wait. Winter wouldn't wait. The cabin walls were still too low for a roof, and every day he wasted was a day closer to freezing to death in a half-finished structure.
Ian grabbed the pole and forced his legs to move toward the hide. It lay draped over the log where he'd left it, the brain paste dried into a crusty coating on both surfaces. He touched it carefully, testing the leather underneath. Still pliable. Still workable. The paste had done its job overnight, soaking in deep enough that the fibers had begun their transformation.
The knowledge stirred—time to rinse. Every trace of brain tissue needed to come out before the hide could be stretched. That meant the river. Multiple trips, probably, scrubbing the surface clean.
The sky was lightening gradually, that predawn glow that meant he had maybe an hour before full sunrise. Ian gathered the hide carefully, folding it so the paste-covered surfaces touched each other, and headed for the river. His bare foot found the path automatically despite the dim light, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought felt too exhausting.
The river looked black in the early morning, the current moving with that same lazy persistence. Ian waded in and immediately regretted it. The cold hit like a physical blow, shocking enough that his breath caught and his legs tried to retreat without consulting his brain first. But he forced himself deeper, until the water reached mid-thigh, and began submerging the hide.
The brain paste dissolved into milky clouds that the current carried downstream. Ian scrubbed at the leather with his hands, working the surface to dislodge the dried tissue. The water was so cold his fingers started going numb within minutes, but he kept working. Every section needed attention. Every inch of surface had to be clean or the leather would rot from the inside out.
His hands moved mechanically, scrubbing and rinsing, while his mind drifted to everything else that needed doing today. The cabin walls required at least three more logs to reach a height where roof construction made sense. The fish trap would need checking. Firewood was a constant demand that never seemed to end. And after rinsing, the hide would need that marathon stretching session—hours of continuous manipulation to keep the fibers from binding as it dried.
The calculations of time pressed against his skull. There weren't enough hours in the day. Even working from dawn to full darkness, even pushing his body past reasonable limits, he couldn't do everything that needed doing. Something would have to give. Some task would get half-assed or skipped entirely, and he'd pay for it later when winter hit and his shelter leaked or his clothes disintegrated or he starved because he'd prioritized wrong.
Ian's jaw clenched hard enough to make his teeth ache. He scrubbed harder at the hide, the cold water making his hands clumsy. The paste was coming off gradually, the leather emerging pale and clean underneath. But the process felt interminable—each section requiring multiple passes, the hide heavy and awkward when waterlogged, his numb fingers barely able to grip the slippery surface.
When both sides were finally clean—no visible trace of brain paste remaining, just pale leather showing its grain—Ian waded back to shore. His legs had gone past cold into that dangerous numbness that suggested hypothermia wasn't far behind. He needed to get warm. Needed to get the hide stretched before it started drying wrong. Needed to eat something because his stomach was cramping again despite the fish last night.
But standing still meant wasting time, and time was the enemy. Ian forced his legs into motion, carrying the dripping hide back to the clearing. The sky had lightened considerably, dawn spreading across the forest in shades of gray and pale blue. He had light to work by now. That was something.
The hide needed to be stretched. The knowledge was specific—continuous manipulation while it dried, pulling and working the leather to keep the fibers from locking up. Hours of work. His hands were already protesting, the cold having done them no favors, but stopping wasn't an option.
Ian draped the hide over the log again and began working it with his hands. Long pulls along the grain, stretching the leather, feeling it resist and then give slightly under the pressure. His fingers moved in patterns the pole had taught him—kneading, pulling, rotating to a new section, repeating. The leather was cold and damp against his palms, the texture somewhere between suede and raw meat.
The sun climbed above the tree line, painting the clearing in that familiar morning light. Ian's hands kept moving, kept working the leather, his mind settling into a kind of meditative numbness that was barely protection from the exhaustion that wanted to drag him under.
The leather was drying unevenly. He could feel it—sections along the edges going stiff while the center remained damp and pliable. His fingers moved to those problem areas, working them harder, pulling and kneading until the fibers loosened again. The motion sent sharp pains up his forearms, his muscles cramping from the repetitive strain. But he couldn't stop. Couldn't let the hide cure wrong after all this work.
Hours bled together. The sun climbed higher, the temperature rising enough that his wet legs finally stopped aching with cold. His stomach cramped periodically, demanding attention, but eating meant stopping and stopping meant ruined leather. He grabbed handfuls of berries when the hide needed brief rests between manipulation sessions, shoving them in his mouth without tasting them.
The leather was transforming. He could feel the difference under his palms—the grain becoming more defined, the surface developing that characteristic suppleness that meant the tanning had worked. Not finished yet. Not even close. But responding in ways that suggested he hadn't completely screwed it up.
By midday his hands were cramping so badly he could barely grip the leather. The hide had dried enough that the stretching was becoming less critical—the fibers had set in their elongated state, would hold that configuration even if he took a break. The knowledge confirmed it with that same certainty the pole always provided. Good enough for now. Not done, but stable enough to leave while he tackled something else.
Ian stepped back from the hide and flexed his fingers, trying to work feeling back into them. His back screamed protest when he straightened, the hunched position over the log having done it no favors. But the hide was draped there looking like actual leather instead of raw skin, and that was worth something.
The cabin walls waited across the clearing. Seven logs high. Still too low for a roof. Still exposed to weather that would turn lethal once winter really hit. Three more logs minimum before roof construction made sense, probably four to be safe. His body protested at the thought—more trees to fell, more bark to strip, more notching and lifting and fitting. But standing around contemplating how much it was going to suck wouldn't get it done.
The pole warmed in his grip before he consciously reached for it. Ian headed for the tree line, his bare foot finding purchase on ground that had become familiar through repetition. The pine he'd marked yesterday stood waiting, straight and tall, the trunk maybe ten inches across. Perfect for the next course.
The pole became an axe and he started swinging. The blade bit deep with each strike, chips flying, the tree groaning as the cut widened. The tree fell with that distinctive crack-and-rush, the impact sending vibrations through the ground. Ian moved to the next one immediately, his mind already calculating—one more after this, maybe two, get them all down before he started the processing work. Batch the labor. Make each trip count.
The second pine fell. Then a third. Three logs lying in the forest, waiting to be stripped and hauled back to the clearing. Ian's legs felt shaky as he knelt beside the first trunk and began removing branches. The pole shifted configurations constantly—saw, then knife, then back to axe as needed. The branches came away clean, falling into piles that would make good kindling later if he remembered to collect them.
Bark stripping went faster than it should have. His hands moved with that unsettling precision, the pole's blade finding the perfect angle to separate bark from wood without gouging the trunk underneath. Long strips peeled away, revealing pale sapwood that still wept with moisture. The smell of fresh-cut pine was overwhelming this close, sharp and resinous, coating the back of his throat.
The first log ready. Ian positioned the pole as a lever beneath the trunk. The wood seemed to shift of its own accord, rolling over roots and through undergrowth with a grudging momentum that required only his guidance. He love this pole thing.
He repeated the process twice more. By the time all three logs sat in the clearing beside the cabin, the sun had passed its peak and started its descent toward evening.
But now he had three more logs. Three more courses on the walls. That would bring them up to... ten high? About to his shoulder he will need another three to five before he can start on the roof.
The pole became measuring tools, then a saw, then a chisel. Ian worked through the notching with mechanical precision, his hands following patterns that sat in his muscle memory now. Cut the grooves, clean them out, test the fit. Each notch needed to be perfect or the log wouldn't lock properly, would leave gaps that wind and rain could exploit.
The first log lifted into places but the weight was distributed wrong, awkward, requiring multiple attempts before it finally settled into the notches below with that satisfying sound of wood locking against wood. Eight logs high now. The walls came up past his chest when he stood inside the structure, creating real enclosure for the first time.
The second log went up easier—his body had found the rhythm, remembered how to leverage the weight without fighting it. Nine logs high. The walls felt substantial now, solid, like they might actually keep weather out instead of just suggesting the concept of shelter.
The third log fought him. The weight seemed wrong, the angle refusing to cooperate, his arms shaking with exhaustion that the pole's assistance couldn't completely eliminate. He had to set it down twice, reset his grip, approach from a different position. But finally—finally—it settled into place with that solid thunk of wood meeting wood. Ten logs high. The walls rose to his shoulders now, creating actual enclosure that felt less like wishful thinking and more like genuine shelter.
Ian stood inside the structure and looked up at the open sky. The roof. It was so close. Tomorrow, maybe, or the day after. Rafters and crossbeams and whatever the hell went on top to keep rain from pouring directly onto his head. The knowledge was there, waiting to be accessed, but his brain felt too fuzzy to process complex construction techniques right now.
As he got to work getting the fish from the trap and preparing them. The thought surfaced slowly of the hide, pushing through the fog of his mind. He'd left it draped over the log after the morning stretching session. It would be drier now, would need more work to keep it supple. The knowledge insisted on it—one more session tonight, working oil into the leather to replace what had been lost during tanning.
Oil. He needed oil. Animal fat rendered down into something liquid enough to work into leather. His eyes drifted to the fire pit, to the stones still radiating heat from cooking. The deer. He still had scraps somewhere, pieces with fat content that could be rendered. Or did he? Had he thrown it all into the forest with the spoiling meat?
His brain refused to provide answers. Everything felt distant, like he was operating his body remotely through a connection with significant lag. But he forced himself to stand, forced his legs to carry him to where he'd threw out deer parts days ago.
Some fat remained. Maybe a pound total, already starting to smell slightly off but he wasn't going to eat it, so good enough.
Ian grabbed one of the smaller pots and began cutting the fat into chunks, dropping them into the vessel. The pole became a knife without him consciously requesting it, the blade separating tissue with precision his exhausted hands shouldn't possess. When the pot was half full of fat chunks, he set it at the fire's edge where the heat would melt it slowly.
The rendering took time he didn't want to spend. He sat and watched the fat slowly liquefy, the solid chunks shrinking as they released their oil. The smell was rich and slightly nauseating—animal fat heating, the proteins breaking down, that distinctive scent of rendering that sat heavy in the sinuses.
The liquid fat pooled at the bottom of the pot, golden and viscous. Ian let it cool slightly—hot enough to stay liquid but not so hot it would damage the leather—then carried it to where the hide waited.
The leather had dried considerably since morning. The surface felt firm under his palms, showing that characteristic grain that meant the tanning had worked. But it needed this final step. The oil would penetrate the fibers, would keep them supple, would ensure the hide didn't go brittle the first time it got wet.
He poured fat onto the flesh side and began working it in with his hands. The oil was warm, slick, coating his palms as he massaged it into the leather. His fingers moved in circles, applying pressure, forcing the fat deep into the grain. The hide darkened where the oil penetrated, the pale leather taking on a richer color.
His hands cramped within minutes, the muscles seizing from overuse. But he kept working, kept massaging, moving from section to section. Both sides needed coverage—flesh side and fur side, though the fur required lighter application to avoid matting the hair completely.
The pot emptied gradually. Every drop of rendered fat went into the hide, his hands working it in with movements that bordered on mechanical. The leather was transforming under his touch—softening further, developing that supple quality that meant it could actually be used for something instead of just decorating a wall.
When the last of the fat had been worked in, Ian stepped back and examined his work. The hide hung from where he'd draped it over a branch, both surfaces dark with oil, the furmatted but not destroyed. It looked like leather now. Actually looked like something he could work with instead of just a deer's skin stretched over wood.
The smoking was all that remained. The knowledge surfaced with that familiar clarity—hang it over smoldering coals, let the smoke penetrate completely, waterproof the fibers. Another day of tending fire, another day of watching smoke curl around material while he could be doing literally anything else.
But his body had reached its limit. His hands refused to close properly, the joints swollen and aching. His back felt like someone had been using it for target practice with a sledgehammer. Even his legs were trembling, threatening to dump him in the dirt if he asked them to support his weight much longer.
The hide could wait until morning. It was oiled, worked, as ready as it was going to be for the final step. One night wouldn't ruin it.
Ian stumbled toward the lean-to, the pole clutched against his chest. The shelter looked even more pathetic than usual—branches sagging, leaves decomposing into mulch, the whole thing one strong wind away from collapse. He'd been sleeping in this thing for over a week now, and his body was developing a permanent hunch from the cramped position.
But it was shelter. Sort of. Better than nothing, which was the standard he was working with these days.
He crawled inside and pulled himself against the oak's trunk. The bark dug into his spine through his ruined shirt, but everything hurt anyway so what was one more discomfort. His eyes fell closed before he'd fully settled, exhaustion dragging him under with the weight of a physical thing.
The hide waited outside, dark with oil, ready for smoking. The cabin walls stood ten logs high, finally tall enough for a roof. The fish trap sat in the river, probably filling again. The forest settled into its night sounds around him—insects and rustlings and the river's constant murmur.
Tomorrow he'd smoke the hide. Tomorrow he'd finish the walls. Tomorrow he'd keep moving forward because stopping meant dying and he wasn't ready for that yet.
Tomorrow.
Sleep took him before he could finish the thought.
—————————————————————————————————————————————————
Something dragged him out of sleep—not the gradual climb to consciousness but an immediate snap to alertness that left his heart hammering before his eyes opened. A sound. Movement. Too close to the lean-to.
Ian's hand found the pole in the darkness, his fingers closing around the familiar metal. The clearing was black—proper darkness without moon or stars, the kind that turned shapes into suggestions and distance into guesswork. He could hear his own breathing, too loud, too fast. And something else. Rustling. The soft scrape of claws on bark.
His eyes strained against the darkness, trying to parse shape from shadow. The cabin walls were a darker mass against the black, the fire pit long dead. And there—movement near where he'd left the hide hanging.
The rustling intensified. Something was climbing. He could hear it now, the distinct sound of something moving up the branch where the oiled leather hung. Too large to be a raccoon. Too deliberate to be a bird.
Ian's grip tightened on the pole. The metal warmed instantly, responding to his need even before he'd fully articulated it. Light. He needed light. Needed to see what the hell was raiding his camp in the middle of the night.
The pole shifted, the end beginning to glow with that familiar green phosphorescence. Not bright—just enough to push back the immediate darkness, to paint the clearing in sickly illumination that made everything look wrong.
The light caught movement. Something massive clinging to the branch, its body mostly hidden by the oak's trunk. But the tail—
Ian's breath stopped in his throat.
The tail was enormous. Easily three feet long, maybe longer, covered in fur that looked gray-brown in the dim light. It curved and flicked with the same motion a squirrel's tail would make, but the scale was all wrong. Way too big. The bushy fur caught the green glow, making it look almost ethereal as it swayed.
Ian shifted position slightly, trying to get a better angle, trying to see past the trunk to whatever was attached to that impossible tail. The pole's light pushed against the darkness but the shadows refused to cooperate. He caught a glimpse of something—a shape that might have been humanoid, clinging to the branch with limbs that seemed too long, too articulated to be a normal animal.
Then it was gone.
The movement was impossibly fast—a blur of motion that sent the branch swaying violently. No sound of impact, no crashing through undergrowth. Just... absence. One second something had been there, the next the branch was empty except for the hide still hanging where he'd left it.
Ian stood frozen outside the lean-to, the pole's green light painting everything in that sickly glow. His heart hammered against his ribs hard enough to hurt. The clearing was silent again—no rustling, no movement, nothing but his own ragged breathing and the distant murmur of the river.
He swept the light across the clearing. The cabin walls stood unchanged. The fire pit was cold ash. The hide hung from its branch, the oiled leather gleaming wetly in the phosphorescent glow. Everything exactly as it should be except for that branch still swaying from whatever had launched itself from it.
His bare foot found a stick and he flinched hard, the sound impossibly loud in the silence. Nothing responded. No movement, no eyes reflecting back at him from the tree line. Whatever had been there was gone completely, vanished into the forest like it had never existed.
Ian's grip on the pole was tight enough to make his knuckles ache. He swept the light across the clearing one more time, slower, looking for any sign of what had just happened. The hide was intact—no new claw marks, no tears in the leather. The branch showed some fresh scratches in the bark where something had definitely been climbing, but that was it. No tracks on the ground below. No fur caught on rough bark. Nothing.
Ian let the light fade, plunging the clearing back into darkness so complete his eyes couldn't adjust. The pole returned to its original form, solid and reassuring in his grip.
But what the hell was he supposed to do now? Whatever that thing was could still be out there. Could be watching from the tree line, waiting for him to go back to sleep. That tail alone suggested something large enough to be dangerous, and the speed it had moved with—
His body made the decision before his mind finished processing. The exhaustion was a physical weight pressing down on him, making his legs tremble, his vision blur at the edges. He couldn't stay up all night on guard duty. Couldn't afford to waste the few hours of rest his body desperately needed just because something had gotten curious about the smell of oiled leather.
The hide was fine. Whatever had been there hadn't damaged it, hadn't stolen it, had just... investigated and left. Maybe that was all it had been. Curiosity
I mean it was just a squirrel even if it was a big one. How much harm could it do?