Wyrd Gere

by Steve Curry

  I waited as long as I dared for the kindling to catch into a stable if small fire. Once that was crackling, I poked a few of the smaller sticks into the flames. When those caught some slightly bigger ones went on. The whole time I fought the shakes from the cold, the weakness and the blood loss.

  While my fire grew, I kept an eye on the coyote. He hung around circling my little shelter and the tiny fire. The fire seemed fully capable of keeping him at bay. That was a good thing because I could feel my eyelids getting heavier by the second. With the last bit of time I had, the remainder of the sticks got tumbled in a pile on the fire. It might not last all night but there wasn’t much I could do about it.

  Somehow I wasn’t dead by morning. I woke up unable to move. Every muscle was an unbending bundle of agony. The wounds felt inflamed. Even my good eye was now hard to lock onto any target. I might have had one foot over the line the previous evening. But right after waking up I was almost certain that everything was over that line except one clawed hand trying to keep me from going into that dark night.

  The fire was down to coals but still gave off enough smoke to tell me it hadn’t gone out very long since. I lifted my head on a neck as wobbly as a newborn colt’s legs. Peering through the smoke I thought it was another dream. Actually, I hoped it was another vision.

  What I saw was a raven gliding quietly on spread wings. Underneath those ominous black wings, a hooded figure walked clutching a tall staff. Or was it a spear? I dreaded that vision more than even my nightmare of Kara.

  The one-eyed god never came for one of us. I’d heard stories of him coming to Midgard to deal with a valkyrie who had disappointed him. There were plenty of stories of his arrival disguised as a wanderer or vagrant to test a follower’s hospitality. Even those tales usually ended with a curse or a punishment on those who did not meet his high standards. I’m pretty sure escaping from my lot in the afterlife was not up to his normal standards. I believe I already mentioned, Odin is not a God of forgiveness.

  I was barely able to speak. My tongue felt like a piece of jerky in my mouth. The lining of my mouth felt like sandpaper grinding at that piece of jerky. But I was damned if I’d go back without spitting some defiance. Come to think of it I was pretty much damned anyway I guess.

  I rolled over onto my side and had to try several times but I managed to hiss out a barely legible word. “NO!”

  It was a start. If I could say one word then chances were I could say more. My head lifted on muscles made of spaghetti. The spaghetti was probably overcooked too considering how flaccid the muscles were. I couldn’t focus with all of the rolling around of my head on those limp noodles. Come to think of it my head itself was probably something of a limp noodle.

  “NO!” See? I got it out again. No stopping me now. I was on my way to chattering. “I’m. Not.”

  A bloody cough and series of shuddering breaths broke my flow up a little. “Not dead yet! Can’t. Can’t take me.”

  “Well, what bloody use would you be to me dead mo chroi? I didn’t go to all of this trouble to come and bury you so I guess you better decide to live eh? It would be unforgivably rude to die on a lass now.” The voice was not Odin’s. It was not even male. It was delightfully female and colored with an absolutely enchanting Irish brogue.

  “Dumbass” The last word didn’t match the others. That last word was harsh and mocking and not very human. The previous speech had been anything but harsh. It had resonated from the hood with a warmth and healing that made me think I was dreaming again.

  The hood came back to reveal red curls and a face that actually went with that lovely lilting Irish brogue. It also had a tenderness mixed with some humor and just a hint of tears. In other circumstances that tender regard might have set off my little antisocial alarms. I was just so eternally grateful it wasn’t Odin coming to call that I didn’t have a single concern about romance or tender feelings.

  Maureen reached behind her and pulled out her satchel style purse or bag or, well, satchel. She laid her tall staff atop my log shelter and bent over to peer inside. Beside her, I saw the beady eyes and gaping beak of my old crow Rafe.

  That bold little rascal was on her shoulder. He looked like he belonged there, clinging to her cloak with red locks curling beside and behind him. He also looked smug as Hel. He leaned forward and cocked his head this way and that as if looking over the various wounds visible on my bare-assed skin. His appraisal was probably more accurate than I cared to believe. Once he’d made a decision he looked over as if conferring with an esteemed colleague. He made a couple of odd clicks and whistles then gave his verdict with a bobbing head. “Dumbass.”

  It took a few minutes for Maureen to convince me it wasn’t another dream. I mean c’mon, the talking crow didn’t lend any credibility to the situation. There was also no reason to expect the girl I’d left in Austin to suddenly appear in the middle of a desert when not even I knew where they’d tossed me. Then you had the fact that I’d already been having visions and visitations and hallucinations from being that close to death. It was the tears that finally convinced me. Maureen had tried to be encouraging and light-hearted. As her chemical light revealed more of my wrecked and battered body she stopped pretending.

  “Magnus I can’t move you. I...I’m not sure what’s safe to move or even what all is still attached.” She bit her lips and bent low to look at the awkward heaving of my broken bones. I felt the splash of warm raindrops, except they were salty enough to sting in my wounds. In the wan green light of her chemical sticks, I could just barely see the tracks of tears falling down on my bare chest.

  “Hey now. No tears. You’ll scare the patient.” I’m not sure how much of it was intelligible but that’s what I tried to croak out in my ravaged voice.

  “Shush patient. You’re talking way too much for someone that should be dead. Or should you? Eachan and I have talked about it but I don’t think either of us really has a clue what you can and cannot overcome. Unless you tell me differently, I’m just going to treat you like any other person that’s almost dead.” At least the need to be professional and competent had pushed the tears to a back burner. She might cry later but for the moment she was busy.

  I didn’t try and tell her what to do. Truth is I wasn’t sure she could save me anyway. I wasn’t even entirely sure how long I’d been hanging on. “How long?”

  She must have known I couldn’t ask much more and guessed what I was asking. “It’s been most of a week since we talked. I was patient for the first couple of days. I thought you might call and I was hoping you would. But I also knew you might have your hands too full with whatever stupidity you were getting into next. On the third night though, I went to sleep feeling a bit of a wreck, and the bird woke me up. Remind me to ask you what exactly he is when you’re up and about Magnus dear.”

  The look she gave me was one part stern reproach, one part curiosity, and three parts professional detachment as she continued gently wiping dirt from some of the wounds and checked various bruises and swollen areas. “First though let’s get you cleaned up and warm.”

  She turned away and whistled once before unloading a second pack I hadn’t noticed. This one had been on her back padded by the folds of her cloak. It was a serious backpack too. The kind you see worn by professional backpackers and outdoorsmen. While she was unloading, a great yellow bundle of excessive canine enthusiasm came bounding towards me.

  I braced for the impact but Grimmr was apparently as confused and concerned by my condition as the bird. He slid to a halt and just poked his nose under my hand and flipped it on top of his head. It took a major effort not to cry out as cramped and torn muscles objected to the rough treatment. I wasn’t going to do that to my dog though. I choked up a little myself about then.

  Maureen pretended not to notice and kept working. She drew a thin metallic-looking thermal blanket out and laid it over the opening of the log hollow. I had just enough opening in the blanket to watch her further preparations. She was apparently
no neophyte to roughing it or survival backpacking. First, she moved the coals of my fire a little further and babied it back to life.

  With a light collapsible mess kit, she started heating water from a bottle along with some bouillon powder. More of that same bottle of water went into a couple of paper cups she sat right into the edge of the fire. She was clever enough to know that the paper would only burn down as low as the water level. The water inside would heat up but until it started evaporating it would suck the thermal energy right through the paper and into the liquid inside.

  “I know you’re thirsty love. And I’ll help in a wee bit. Can’t just give you water though. We need to find a way to replace the blood instead of just wash it away with water. The bouillon I’m making has some proteins and salts and other minerals. It also has some special ingredients I added that your Yankee AMA would not approve of. Once it’s good and warm we’ll get some of that in you eh?”

  I was too weak to comment. I wouldn’t have drank much of the water if she’d given it to me though. I knew better. Of course, my will power was nowhere near where it should be and just the thought of fluid was enough to make me cry too. If I had the fluid for tears.

  While the fire took forever to warm up the broth and water, Maureen was busy with other tasks. She dragged a few long evergreen boughs over and then used part of my dead log to prop them up as a surprisingly sturdy lean-to. She tied the whole structure together with some paracord she kept unbraiding from a bracelet. With that done, she spread out a bedroll right beside me. “You should know, we’re several hours of hiking from any kind of help. There’s a dirt road up the slope but it wasn’t even on any maps I could find. I just stumbled across it looking for you. Probably would have still been looking if that dog of yours hadn’t chased a coyote over here somewhere. We practically fell right over you then.”

  That begged more questions. I’d have given anything to be able to ask some questions. Ok, anything except a drink. I was so dry now that I could barely think for want of water or broth or something of that ilk. But think I did. For instance, I still didn’t know how many days I’d been out. Near as I could guess she started this direction the same night the Bikers got me. That didn’t tell me how long it took her to find me though.

  And that was another HUGE question. How exactly had she found me? She couldn’t have tracked my clothes or used a GPS from my phone. I was completely naked and alone where I was trying to die in the high desert. I was beginning to wonder some things along the same line as Maureen as well. What exactly was that damned bird?

  First, he’d started speaking. It seemed randomly applicable to a situation. But it was almost always applicable- random or not. He and the dog had even teamed up to kill a very dark and malicious Bruja or central American witch that had snuck up and neutralized me and most everyone I cared about.

  The dog didn’t bother me as much. He was a good mutt. Just a big doofus golden-coated Catahoula Leopard dog with beautiful eyes. One was blue and grey granite while the other was burnished bronze. Bi-color eyes are pretty common in Catahoula’s but I’d rarely seen one of the dogs with prettier eyes than my Grimmr. Now the coyote he’d chased was a different story.

  Had it been a dream or reality when the lean scavenger had been slinking around all night? If so it was very unusual. They don’t tend to have the patience or courage to wait out a moving human. Then again I barely qualified as mobile. I had to hope that this one wasn’t rabid and that neither I nor the dog had received any bites. I could check Grimmr over when I was able, if I recovered. But there was probably no way to tell if any of my wounds had a bit of rabies slobber in them. There were just too many places oozing blood.

  While I’d been musing and trying not to think about dying, Maureen had been busy and productive. Under the limited shelter her lean-to offered, she fished the metal container of broth out and added more herbs a pinch or palmful at a time. “Here. This is not exactly blood but it should help you get started making some more of your own. If you get stronger I can try to get you to my rental car on the road. It’s probably not more than a mile or two away.”

  She helped me lift up on my tortured neck muscles just far enough to sip down some of the fluid. “Moving you may be the worst thing I can do. But not moving you seems as dangerous. So once that elixir takes hold I’m going to clean you up and move you to the sleeping bag. I’d move you first but who knows what manner of infections you would carry over onto the clean material. Even with the herbs, this is probably going to hurt. If we get you stable enough to leave alone. I’ll see about going for help.”

  I could tell she was talking more to keep her thoughts on topic than to reassure me. If she let go of the tasks, then she would probably go off into a dark and frightening place. She obviously had some training, formal or otherwise, that told her how badly injured I was. That means she probably had a guess at how likely a human was to recover even partially from the damage they’d done to me.

  I almost wanted to tell her I’m not human. I tried not to make any noise or jerk as she cleaned wounds and straightened limbs. Several times I felt bone scraping on bone while she tried to move me about gently as possible. At least once or twice I felt bones snap back into place. It might have been one of the most intimate days I’d ever spent with another human being. It was not the most pleasant.

  Whatever she’d put in the broth was effective enough to make the experience better than it might have been. I can only imagine what it would do to a normal metabolism. For me, it quickly put a nice warm fuzzy glow on everything. The best part was how it stayed with me. Most drugs and other mind alterers tended to fade away pretty quickly. The exception is probably mead from Valhalla. They probably put stuff or magick or whatever into it to keep us merrily buzzed and less likely to ask questions. Whatever she gave me just kept things nice and pleasant all things considered. I mean everything still hurt like hell, but it just didn’t seem that important.

  I even managed to fumble with one arm and the leg that wasn’t too busted when Maureen finally tried to move me. That particular task made everything that had gone before seem like a tender massage. I’m pretty sure I cried out more than once.

  When my vision cleared a little bit I saw that I was on the clean bedroll. Above me, my redheaded savior was hunched with her arms crossed beneath her breasts to hold in shuddering sobs. I felt the warm salty tears splash on my upturned face and followed those tears back to Maureen’s tear-stained face. In those eyes, I saw real fear and a shadow of hopelessness.

  That wasn't’ right. Maureen shouldn’t be crying. She was my angel. Hadn’t she saved my life again? Maureen should never cry. I reached a fumbling hand towards her hair. More than anything I wanted to wipe the tears away and tell her it wasn’t as bad as it looked. With the help she’d already given my chances had dramatically improved.

  The sight of my hand swollen and purple was bad enough. The fact that it flopped only halfway in control was even worse. My numb and disobedient fingers missed her face and fell against my love’s shoulder to slide down her chest and flop on the ground. She grabbed the hand and picked it up to press a kiss against the purple sausages that were my fingers. “No mo chroi, you save your strength.”

  She pressed my hand back down beside me and turned away. I was still befogged enough not to be aware of time. I know some time passed but not how long before she turned back around and helped me up to sip more of the rewarmed elixir. “Now just rest. I’ll do some more work on you but it’s going to hurt.”

  She wasn’t exaggerating. I closed my eyes to reassure her, but I felt it when she grabbed my ankle and started twisting my leg to get the bones lined back up right. I felt it from my toes to my crotch as if someone were running a strand of molten barbwire under the skin in a back and forth sawing motion. That was about the last memory I had before the darkness rolled back up and pulled me in.

  Whether it was the broth, or just the toll of everything added up, I fell into an easier sleep than I’d kn
own in a very long time. No dreams disturbed that rest. If Maureen did more to me, I was blissfully unaware. Compared to the last couple of times I “slept”, this was pure heaven.

  I woke up with Maureen’s arm under my shoulders lifting me for more of her potent little brew. This one had a taste of coffee but still held some of the same herbal medicine flavor. I had only thought yesterday’s broth was heavenly. Enough had happened and enough time had passed that I’d almost forgotten what manner of magick lies in a cup of hot coffee. It helped that the girl remembered how I liked mine. She’d managed sugar and dried creamer even if there was no fresh milk or cream.

  She followed that with a morning gruel of some sort made out of what she said was wheatgrass juice. The wheatgrass apparently had chlorophyll which she said would replenish red blood cells. Then she told me about the other stuff she’d been giving me. Folic acid, iron, waters and minerals and sugars and all sorts of stuff in her little mixtures. There was even coconut water in some of it. I’d heard that in extreme cases people in the pacific islands had used coconuts for intravenous fluids and other more outlandish solutions. It probably couldn’t hurt. I was still pretty broken, but for the first time, I started to think I might actually come through this alive. The problem was, I didn’t have time to just sit there and recuperate.

  If I’d been a little more whole, and had my own supplies with me, I could probably get everything cobbled together with some of my own special skills. It wouldn’t be pretty and I’d not be good as new. I’d be mobile though, and if I didn’t get mobile quick then a damned immortal wolf was likely to whisper some words in very unforgiving ears. As far as I was concerned those words didn’t ever need to be whispered.

  A second problem was Maureen. She was obviously good at roughing it. Left on her own she would be perfectly competent to stay healthy and make her way out of the mountainous desert. She had her jaw set in that manner though. Even without asking I knew that she wasn’t walking away until I was mobile enough to accompany her or fend for myself.