TRANSHUMANCE (4)
By:
February 6, 2026
We are thrilled to serialize Transhumance, a post-apocalyptic novella by HILOBROW friend and contributor Charlie Mitchell.
TRANSHUMANCE: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10.
He’s starving by noon and again before supper. In the dining hall, what little he says in between bites and slurps concerns what has been done and needs to be done before the true thaw. Eyes glazed over. Anything more is curtailed and guarded from his own people. He’ll meet Baba’s eyes, who tries to remember what he felt at the youth’s age, such a long time ago in such a different place.
Little Dog jumps to chop firewood for whoever runs low. Another ritual of thought burning and hand chafing. The sight of looking strong. Satisfaction of a good cleave, the sounds of the timber splitting and clattering apart. Only now he’s careful to suppress boyhood lapses; no more imagining that he’s splitting open a marauder’s skull with the ax, or any other sort of fancies.
He soaks in the hot spring at the end of every day — he likes watching the elusive forms of Kindred slither in the dark; the vagary of River pale and naked. Something swirls in his gut. The sulfur kneads out the working day. He submerges his head — thermal gushes in cadence with the earth’s heartbeat. Little Dog imagines this leviathan heart, arteries leaking out from rocks and cleft mountains; children bathing in black loveblood. Lanterns mark the path back towards the yurts.
His sleep is dark and dreamless. He likes the exhaustion of fighting for warmth, relishes that he’s trusted to look after himself in the lonesome of his own yurt. A rhythm is set. Curled up in furs, he feeds the stove and thinks of where the Transhumance might be.
He wakes up shivering; he quaffs the water bladder kept warm by his body. The embers have died out completely and he does his best to knead warmth back into his joints. He fumbles to pull on his layers in the dark. Something feels off — he keenly recalls sealing the vent on the stove. There’s no good reason the embers died. He blows warmth into his digits and undoes the entrance knots.
For a moment he’s blinded and recoils back inside.
Fresh snow smothers the valley again. Wind has lashed snow up against the yurt flap and it spills inward. “No,” he wails, craning his head out into the cold.
“No, no, no.”
He kicks back what he can back out into the crisp oblivion before setting out. The sun is almost worse coming off the shields and dunes of snow which now mute the land. Once again there’s two planes — sky and white, broken by Kindred dwellings. Something sinks in the youth. Robbed of spring, like time has been wound back.
He knows too well what it means. The tilling he’s done is now for nothing; and Baba will compare it to a mandala. More dreadful than that waste is now idle hands. Plenty of firewood already split. The fence posts are all replaced. Instead of assuaging him, these assurances – good staples to have in any season – only vex him worse.
Despite the pit in his stomach he heads to the dining hall. The last thing he wants to do is socialize — suddenly he needs a shovel. His stride is wallowing in the drift. Someone has to make clear paths in between the dwellings and main lodges.
He stops in his tracks when the main lodge bell is rung. Pausing to listen, he counts four timed clangs.
Visitor — stranger. Little Dog breaks into a run towards the Heart Cave green.
The snow threatens to swallow his boots with every step, and works his lungs well, but he makes it to a gathering of Kindred. The rough dozen throng up by the hall awnings talking in hushed tones or shushing children. River waves at him but puts her cowl up against the chill. Little Dog doesn’t care to make out else who’s gathered — he’s chipped his attention in with the rest of the gathering.
Out on the green Baba is stroking the muzzle of a placated palomino while parlaying with its rider. The man atop the palomino nods and shrugs, smoking — there is a taste of something copper.
The rider reminds Little Dog of a live red-tailed hawk he had found snarled by a barbed wire fence. Little Dog has never seen the pattern of the horse’s blankets, the stranger’s clothing or stark baggage, but recognized the sheath of a gun tucked into the saddle. His gaze moves past to the opposite side of the green where Khyber stands still by the dining hall; he has a hatchet in loose grip.
The Kindred, including Little Dog, have no idea what customs this stranger has. They keep such safe distance that the wind steals away whole strings of anything that could be eavesdropped.
The stranger swings his leg over and dismounts, facing Baba. Something is static between the two men — and it breaks. They bear hug in raucous wheeling foot to foot. The Kindred stir; Little Dog sees Khyber tighten, then all loosens as it dawns on the audience that what they’re hearing is laughter.
Both amble over to the gathering and Khyber is nowhere to be seen.
“This is Dalton,” Baba announces and claps the stranger’s shoulder.
“He’ll be our guest til enough snow melts for better passage. Right,” Baba claps his hands together and takes a sweeping look at no one in particular.
“Someone take Dalton to the stable, and the rest of us will fix up lunch.”
To be continued…
Complete story to be published at HILOBROW later in 2026.
MORE ORIGINAL FICTION & POETRY AT HILOBROW: James Parker’s COCKY THE FOX | Karinne Keithley Syers’ LINDA, LINDA, LINDA | Matthew Battles’ THE SOVEREIGNTIES OF INVENTION stories | James Parker’s KALEVALA bastardizations | Annalee Newitz’s “THE GREAT OXYGEN RACE” | Charlie Mitchell’s “SENTINELS” | Josh Glenn’s “VALIDATION SESSION” | & more.