Deeper into the impenetrable woods. Further than he's been since the boy was born. Supposes no recollection of this place. Still smells like the taste of God's mouth. Hard snow below powder.

Trees loom much closer together, like epistemology suffocates within an unbreathable metaphysics. The tangle stabs at him. Thick. He brushes the branches away from his face and shoulders. Crouches. Manoeuvres under. Stands. Takes a long step over a coil thin whip-ish bush. Crouches again.

As he pushes through the shin deep white, big toe in his mukluk kicks something. Stub of swears. Bends down. Plunges a glove under the white. Broken bits of Old Sol through the branches show him his darkening shadow. Grasps something like a large stick. Pulls the object out of the white. Gasps.

Holds a large forearm with a fingerless hand. Drops it. Looks back the way he came. Instinct is to flee. Notices the snow five meters behind is flat. His own tracks are gone, like he was never there. Like he's already a ghost. It's not snowing.

Witnesses down at the antebrachium. A tattoo of a standing bear silhouette takes shape. An aperture in the middle of the bear belly catches attention, like a bullet hole. A tiny cataract eye behind the aperture watches. Blinks.

Unsheathes his hewing axe. Swings at the body part. The blade bounces off the stern skin. Swings again and experiences the same result. The piece of flesh can't be cut. Frozen hard beyond such attack. The eye is gone. Seems like it was never really there.

Looks back to see if his tracks are still gone. Doesn't trust his vision fully. Glimpses a set of eyes close in the snow where his tracks should be. White on white in a shard of sunlight. Something's following him. Knows it though he doesn't know what or how.

A child screams again. Echoes through the cavernous sky of trees.

Can't leave his boy. The man continues toward the place he desperately wishes to find. Unsheathes his buck knife. Crashes forward. Breathes like contractions. Like he's the meat of a laborious vagina birthing the scent of ghosts.

Ducks under branches. Feels their pokes through his thick, wolf fur coat. Damages the snow like broken glass. It sparkles like the eschatological nature of prophecy within a memory of nothing.

Minutes pass away through umbrage like countdowns. Works hard to press through.

Child screams. He sweats. Can't stop now or he'll freeze to death. Can't take his time. Time is taking him.

His foot hits something solid. Trips. Falls into the powder. Hits his elbow on a hidden rock in the snow. Drops the buck knife. Doesn't know where it fell. Ignores his funny bone. Quickly digs at what caught his mukluk. Finds. Grips. Pulls the object out. Holds it in the Hecate sunlight. A slate wine dark human thigh attached to a piece of buttocks. Child size. Drops it.

"Jesus fuck Christ."

Child screams. Closer. A set of eyes close in the snow where his vision lands. Feels like a ghost passes through his body, collected by angels, howling its way down to Hell.