an ill fated hunt

I was soaked to the skin, he lost his bow. All because of a fool's argument over whether he or I should be the first to jump a stream. I was quite correct, of course, but he would deliberately choose otherwise. And now look at us, all my clothing spread out before the fire and both of us cold and cross under the fur and nothing to show for the hunt. No white susi, whatever it is. The bitter numbing cold will pass, I know, with us both adding what warmth we have to the furs. More important is the loss of his bow into the partly frozen lake. He takes its loss hard. I do not know what significance the weapon has for him. While we can try to barter for another - and we must, for we need to hunt for furs to trade and I need his remarkable skill with the bow to survive here - I sense that the bow has a greater meaning to him. Certainly I would be loathe to lose my sword over what was such a foolish matter. First his lake, the lady, then his star, now his bow. The north is a cruel master, stripping him of what he is. Of what he is? Or revealing the truth beneath the flesh of this and that? I would not blame him if he thought I was an unfair exchange. A foreign woman, a foreigner's errand and no more comfort to be had than my own cold feet to warm him.