Free The Descent to Madness by Gareth K Pengelly Page B

wonders it could do with good, honest, cooked fare.
                  He looked up, tearing himself from his reverie, and gazed from the grassy bank to the trees. The weather down here was warmer, drier, the ground not subject to the permafrost of the mountains. Could he… could he maybe make a fire himself? Materials wouldn’t be a problem, of that he was sure, but did he have the skill? He couldn’t think back to beyond the snowfield; he’d attempted on several occasions, each time rebuked by the violent migraines that left him gasping with pain, only to fade momentarily. No specific memories could be recalled, no events, no places or names, save his own. But basic skills, rudimentary knowledge, all were freely available to him, as though all but the most essential was barred him by some higher power. He knew that to produce fire he needed dry wood and he needed friction. He dimly recalled visions, like half-remembered dreams, outdoorsy people lighting campfires by rubbing sticks together in the midst of dry grass, all the while gently blowing and praying.
    Perhaps he could do the same.
                  It took him but a few minutes to build a worthy stockpile of ammunition; twigs, branches, grass, everything he could find that was dry and looked like it might prove vaguely useful. To be honest, he didn’t know what he was doing, how to go about it, but it couldn’t hurt to have a go. The aroma of roasted meats haunted him, giving all the inspiration he needed.
                  Taking a larger branch, he placed it on the ground in front of him. He took a small, thinner one and placed it perpendicular, with one end resting on the top of the other, then gathered a small amount of dried grass that looked like it could catch easily. Everything in place, he began, rubbing the stick between his toughened, calloused hands.
                  He sat, cross-legged, his whole world the pile of twigs in front of him, his entire being focussed on the spinning twig twixt his hands, eyes trained for the briefest spark of flame, the tiniest hint of smoke, lips pursed in readiness. Like this he sat for five minutes, then ten. After fifteen minutes the only thing burning was the muscles in his forearms and he sat back, drawing in deep breaths as he relaxed, not even realising that he’d been holding it in. He shook his arms to rid them of the lactic acid, feeling the blood rushing back in to replenish oxygen stores, his body replacing the spent energy quickly. He resumed his task.
                  The stick span, this way, that way, this way, that way, his eyes trained on the little, tiny area where wood met wood, willing, hoping, praying for a trace of fire. Nothing. Five minutes later. Nothing. Ten. Nothing.
                  With a snort, he threw the stick away, and leant back against the rock, shaking his head in defeat. He reached with one hand, touched the horizontal branch where he’d been rubbing; it was barely warm. Gah, he was annoyed. Something wasn’t right; perhaps the branches were too young, not dry enough, despite the weather, sap inside robbing the friction of any purchase. Maybe it was simply his technique, just something glaringly obvious to someone with experience that he was doing wrong, just his own ignorance.
                  He laughed to himself, humourlessly. He had probably lived on his own in the wild for longer, and with more success, than most, yet something as basic as lighting a fire eluded him. His thoughts returned once again to the night at the slave camp and, as the bright sun beat down on his face, it was easy to envision the roaring campfire, instead of the pile of useless kindling he had in front of him. He looked at the branches and dried grass, picturing the leaping flames that spat and danced in the dark. He closed his eyes, smiling at the memory of the fierce warmth on his skin, the welcome, sweet smell of wood-smoke