T’aakshi knew the path to the lake almost as well as he knew his way around the village itself. With the snow as deep as it was, there were few landmarks to mark the route, and those that remained were subtle. He curved to the right after the final one—a black granite rock that jutted out of the snow at the height of his knees like a southern shield—and saw the hollowed-out pine tree remains that had marked the shore of the lake since long before he’d been born.

He walked past the tree, putting it directly between him and the village, and headed towards where he knew deeper water would be. Most would have needed to bring far more equipment than the small box that he carried and the spear that he wore, but T’aakshi had an advantage they didn’t.

Finally satisfied with a spot, he knelt, placing the box carefully next to him and held his right palm just above the snow. He took a handful of deep, calming breaths and closed his eyes. It had taken years of meditation and practice to gain enough control of his thoughts for this. He had heard that it was different for others, that the image used to access could change depending on the person. For him, it was a book that appeared in his mind’s eye. He could smell its aged leather bindings, and etchings on its surface caressed his fingertips as though it were on the floor before him.

It opened, unbidden, and across the time-stained pages he could see his memories. Each had its own page. Some were so startling in their clarity that it felt as though he was reliving them again when he looked at their pages. Others had faded to different degrees, as though T’aakshi had left their ink exposed to the sunlight for too long, the memories themselves disappearing or lost entirely to the passing of time.

Self may have been a gift from the Gods, but this did not mean they did not demand a price.

T’aakshi skimmed through his memories, searching for one that had just the right amount of strength behind it. A bright, cloudless day. Sparring on the lake. Have to prove myself, but it’s futile. S’aahiri is just better with a spear in her hands. She swept his legs with the haft of her weapon and bitterness swelled in him. He leapt to his feet, flushing, and stepped toward her, only to be met by cold, black eyes, full of contempt. He could see the glisten of crimson-tinted saliva ooze from its gaping mouth and taste its flesh-soured breath. The Beast lifted its arm, tree-trunk thick, and-

He gasped, staggering back across the snow. T’aakshi wasn’t sure when he’d stood, but he was grateful for it as his head jolted left and right, searching for any signs of danger. But, of course, there weren’t any. He was far enough away from the village that the only sound was that of his own ragged breathing.

Learning to grasp memories could be a difficult thing—when he had first started, he would often get them jumbled together when he tried to grasp one. But he had never had part of one memory merge with another as he grasped it. Had that image of the beast even been a memory, or was his mind playing the sort of trick it normally reserved for his dreams?

He returned to his spot beside the box and tried again, this time with a fresh memory. A spat with another child he’d had in his eighth summer. This one’s page had faded—he could no longer recall why they had been so angry with one another, nor which adult had hauled them away from each other when the argument had turned into a fight. What he could remember was the righteous indignation only a child can muster, and the boy’s snarling face, his fur matted with blood—

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

He let go of the memory, and the indignation melted away like spring ice. T’aakshi scowled and set his jaw, reaching this time for the same memory. Beast or no, he would not be defeated by something he had been doing since his tenth summer. He took hold of the memory, and child-like fury flooded through him. T’aakshi didn’t give the beast a chance to interrupt again. He burned the memory, searing away the colour and leaving it an ashen grey.

The fury burned away, too. But in its wake, a tingle of power crept through him that set the hairs on his arm on their end. Self. The power the Gods had first granted to the Inari-da. He took hold of it, channelling it into the palm of his outstretched hand, brow knitted in concentration.

Creating fire had been the first thing he’d taught himself to do. Small amounts of it were easy enough to conjure with the right memory, and living where they did, mastering it had not been optional. A lick of amber flame sprang from the palm of his hand, dancing between him and the snow. He could feel the heat of it, but despite how close it was, he knew his own flame wouldn’t burn him.

The snow melted, and the moisture it left behind bubbled and steamed, his flame boiling what little water there was. He moved his hand in a circular motion, creating a small, circular pit, and before long, he was burning through the layer of ice that led to the glacial waters beneath.

He kept the amount of Self he channelled into maintaining the fire under tight control. It was easy to get carried away when you could feel the raw power of the Gods running through your veins, but a larger flame would burn through the memory’s power more quickly, and he’d likely not make it through the ice. Memories were too precious to use frivolously, even memories that were themselves frivolous.

T’aakshi allowed the flame to flicker and die moments after he had finished the fishing hole in the ice, but he kept hold of the power left over—he would need it again to stop the hole from freezing over as he fished. He reached for the wooden box and carefully lifted away its lid. Resting atop a fur base to protect it from the wood was the fishing equipment he’d made before he’d been old enough to hunt. A wooden handle with a line he’d had to braid himself using deer sinew wrapped around it, with a hooked lure he’d carved into a fish from a bear’s tooth under the watchful eye of his father.

He reached inside, fingertips brushing the finely carved lines as he savoured the memory of it, and then got to work. T’aakshi dropped the lure into the black waters and leant over the hole he’d made to hide its silhouette from the fish below. He tugged at the handle rhythmically, making the lure dart back and forth in the water, using his other hand to periodically heat the water to prevent it from freezing.

T’aakshi knew the motions well, and his mind quickly wandered. But, instead of his future and the summons of the Inari-da, he couldn’t help but think about his failed attempts at grasping his memories. He had not failed to conjure a small flame in years, and he had experienced nothing like what had happened before.

He could rationalise the beast invading his dreams. After what had happened, nightmares were to be expected. They were normal. As far as he knew, his memory of the beast shouldn’t have been able to interfere with other memories like that. But that, of course, was the problem with having no one to teach you a thing you didn’t really understand. As far as he knew. Who knew how what had happened might have affected things in his own mind? Were the images of the beast merely the result of his mind trying to deal with what he had seen, or was it something else, something more, that was wrong with him.

Then another thought struck him, and blood became like ice in his veins. What would happen if his magic were to fail again out on a hunt? Or worse, if they came across the beast again? How many more would die because he could do nothing?