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The Hunter's Gloves

There was once a Hunter, living high in the frozen north of the world, who had never taken off his gloves. It was the custom of his tribe to sew thick mittens on the hands of their children, to protect them from freezing winds and snow that never fully left their lands. But the hunter had become separated and lost from his clan in a blizzard when he was still a child, and with them he had also lost the chance to remove the thick furs. He had grown up, surviving by the indifferent acceptance of a wolf-pack, forgetting much of his former life, unaware of who or what he was. He had even forgotten what lay below the bulky skins wrapped around his hands; believing them to be no different in nature to the paws of the animals who were his company.

As he grew, the gloves, which were large and baggy when first put on him, had become tight and constricting. Yet despite the restriction and reduced sensitivity of his hands, he had become skilled and dextrous, and able to do all he needed. His life seemed as it should be and he was unaware of the un-natural lack of contact he had with his surroundings. So much so that he would have continued this way had he not one day come across a tree, still burning from the strike of lightning.

At first cautious and unsure the hunter found himself drawn close to the fire by his little challenged curiosity. He put out his hands to touch the shimmering flames and watched in fascination as they melted the tips of his furry limbs. When the gloves started to burn, the hunter was more bewildered than worried. In fact he enjoyed the gentle heat that came through his thick layers. By the time he felt pain his hands were too well aflame to be easily doused.

A terrifying scream ripped through the forest as the hunter entered a world of agony unlike any he had known. In a mad frenzy he danced and jumped, wailed and raged; his face twisted in the torture of the burning, his mind contorted with fear and despair at his ignorance of what to do. So complete was his innocence of fire that he had suffered a long journey of anguish before the flames finally exhausted their fuel. The hunter, weak from the torment he had endured, staggered back to his shelter and fell into a sleep of many days. As he slept he healed, and as he healed he dreamed.

His dream was a curious one: in it he found himself looking into the Sun, feeling its heat on his face. As he watched it pulled and lifted him from the ground, drawing him spinning and falling towards it. It grew hotter and larger as he fell so that soon he could feel its heat - first against and then within his body. He saw his flesh, blacken and smoulder, melt and crackle, and finally fall away in lumps. There was little pain though, and what there was fell away with his burning flesh. More curious though was that despite this his body became no less - he felt the stripping, yet still he was whole. As the hunter looked at his new limbs and body he saw them filled with a light and brilliance that seemed to thrive on the Sun’s heat in a way that empowered and renewed it. In his dreaming the hunter, who did not understand, wondered that if he was still whole, what could it be that had burnt away.

Awake, the hunter sat up and shook his head clear - the dream faded. He quickly became aware of his damaged hands, and looking down saw the tattered remains of his mittens. He gently pulled at the fur, both marvelling and fearing at how easily it came away, and when it did he stared in amazement at what lay beneath. Seeing for the first time fingers and knuckles unlike any he had known on the wolfs or other animals. He wriggled them in wonder. He cupped his palms, then spread his fingers wide, and laughed with delight when he discovered the game of moving each finger individually. All this he discovered with joy and child-like surprise until - startled by a bird’s cry - he touched something. His hand had fallen on a jagged stone and he jumped back from the unfamiliar feeling - further increased by the sensitivity of his tender skin. The hunter trembled as he reached again for the stone, gripping it in his new-born touch, and lifting it in his palm. He held it lightly, feeling the rough contours and edges, then gripped it hard, knowing the prick of those edges in his skin. With a cry of pure wildness the hunter began the game of feeling.

The furs he wore and slept on, told him about softness and warmth. His shelter, the smooth surfaces of the cave he’d made his home, spoke of cold hardness and strength. Outside, pushing his fingers into the snow, he discovered with shock the freezing bite he’d long been protected from, and going further he felt the cool streams, knowing their purity and the renewing cleansing offered for his damaged skin. In the trees and plants sticking through the thin summer snow, he found a myriad variants of smooth and rough, tender and strong, delicate and hard, all whispering to his senses of worlds yet to be discovered.

Slowly but with eager wonderment the hunter learnt of that world, searching out each new sensation, each new pleasure; discovering all until his hands fell, perhaps by accident, upon the most amazing and depth-less wonder of all - his own face.

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