Prowling the forest, Timo saunters between thickets and trees, identifying landmarks: the boulder with a snail-shaped crack, the layers of sediment between tree roots that create stairs, the crisp scent of wild gooseberries. Then, flicks of mulch and leaf fragments between a sapling’s branches. To his delight, one of his snares had caught a dawdy hare by the leg. When it sees Timo, it thrashes and pulls away, but the nettlebranch wire only cuts further into an injured and darkened leg. It’s still alive!
As Timo draws near, the hare exposes its incisors and pulls back its giant ears. Ignoring its powerful kicks, he grabs the scruff of its neck. He rubs a hand down its spine, and the hare screams, very much like a human infant, convulsing and thumping. Upon reaching the tailbone, he clamps down and pulls out the spine. The fur breaks open, and he pops the vertebrae from the base of the skull.
The hare limps like a rag, and Timo drops it onto the ground. The remainder of the animal's lifeforce is used to flatten the curve of the spine. He pushes and taps on the red and white clay, morphing the living calcium into a tapering skewer that's as long as his forearm.
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There aren't many artists on this farm. Strenuous manual labor develops the hand muscles, but has a caveat: thickness gets in the way of fine motor control. He heard about it from a woman, who said that after she was forced to pick crops for several months, she couldn't weave as well as she used to. If Timo has to choose between brute strength and finesse, he would prefer to work with finer things. It's also possible that she was just complaining, and he could achieve both.
Timo picks up the hare by its ears and travels to a brook. The treacherous downhill of the ravine really challenges the legs: slate and sandrock jut out in odd places, intuitive flexing of the toes is required, and the decaying leaves trick the eye where the ground truly lies. The coursing river sings over the wet rocks with clarity, and the air settles cooly. Batting the dangling leaves aside, he arrives at the water's edge, crouching on a rock elevated from the dark beach. Taking off his apron, he soaks it and wrings out most of the stains. Stain edges never want to come out, leaving ombre splotches. He dips his spine stick, watching the water and light bend around like hair. Splashing, he scrapes off the flakes of unwanted debris with a fingernail, then places it onto the wet apron. This is by far his most beautiful stick yet.