Naked in the Winter Wind

by Dani Haviland

  My cell phone! I have a cell phone! I recheck my pocket, and find it—tucked down deep and easy to miss between the coat’s thick seams. I bulldoze my way through the front-door brambles, running away from the cave and its earthen interference, out into the open clearing. Maybe I can get a strong signal here and call for help. I have no idea where I am, but all cell phones have a GPS built into them now. If I can get a signal and make a call, we can be rescued in short order, then Ian can get proper medical attention.

  So far, I’ve only been reacting to situations, taking care of what was immediately needed. I have spent the last 24 hours extracting a wolf/dog from an exotic snare, rescuing a man from a drunken mob, making a home out of a hole in a hill, and playing emergency room nurse to my rescued human piñata. Now I have a mission: take assertive action to get two people rescued from a remote and primitive situation, and get them to food, warmth, and one of them to a hospital.

  My pro-active plan starts right now. First, find a spot with good reception. I know I need to be higher. Cell phone signals and radio waves travel in a straight path—line of sight or something like that. That means I have to get to a place that’s in the clear. This hill, this mini-mountain that houses our cave, is one of the tallest in the area, and certainly the closest. I’ll try it first.

  Upward progress proves to be my first challenge. I start the ascent up the crumbly slope with a big step, and promptly lose my footing. Scaling the fractured rock here is as slippery as crossing a swift-moving creek in high heels. Baby steps, woman, baby steps.

  I hold back my enthusiasm to race to the peak. I’m so amped at the thought of being rescued that I can hardly contain my joy. I want to sing out loud, let the world know how happy I am, but remember to be quiet just before the first syllable leaves my lips. I might be found by the wrong people—I keep forgetting about that.

  I don’t have a piton hammer, ice cleats, or anything other than my gloved hands to help me scale this stony monster. I’m certain rock climbing never appealed to me, because it sure doesn’t now. As far as I’m concerned, rocks should be pushed out of the way or driven around, not climbed up or over. Isn’t that what bulldozers and four-wheel-drive pickup trucks are for?

  Since I don’t have a clearly defined path, I’ll just stop complaining about my challenge and take care of it the old-fashioned way. I step back and take a minute to study the mountain’s terrain, hoping an easy route will reveal itself. Okay, so going up the west side of the opening looks like the easiest way. I double-check the phone to make sure it’s still turned on, lock the keypad, and stuff it into my coat pocket. The right hand side pocket, the same pocket I always use. Habit is a comfort to me, an inherently important and essential part of me. I’m sure of that—amnesia or not.

  I get about half way up the hill and check the phone for a signal. Still no bars, but the battery has full power. That’s a good thing. “Onward and upward! Trudge, trudge, here come da judge. Step one, step two, top of hill, I’m comin’ to you.” Softly singing silly songs is a nice distraction and really does make the climb easier.

  I notice small puffs of smoke coming out of the top of the hill. That must be my chimney! I scamper over a few more rocks and come to my exhaust vent. It’s a small rock fissure with a short but ancient juniper shrub growing into it. Well, my chimney will draw better, and I’ll be able to build a larger fire, if I enlarge the opening. All I need to do is pull it out, roots and all.

  “Wait a minute now, girl, don’t get distracted. You came up here to check for a cell phone signal. Oops, I’m talking to myself again. Well, at least I’m talking softly and not giggling, snorting, or laughing hysterically.”

  I check for a signal. Still no bars, not even a flicker. I almost drop the phone putting it back into my pocket. “That’s not the way to drop a call,” I say under my breath, then snort at my own pun. Okay, better safe than slipping out of my pocket and losing it down the hill. I unzip my coat and put the slim smartphone inside a zippered pocket over my left breast. “Now that’s better,” I say to myself. “Ergh, I just can’t seem to hush!

  “Okay, it’s time to play chimney sweep and get rid of those vegetative clogs. Ah, what the heck, I can see for miles, and there’s no one around. I’m going to sing as loud as I want. Chim Chiminey, Chim Chiminey, Chim Chim Cheroooo. A chimney sweep’s life is as…. Dang, those are some tough roots.”

  I pull, grunt, fart, grab the shrub again with both hands, bend my knees, and really put my legs into it. I groan the next refrain, “A chimney sweep’s life is as sweet as…

  “Oh, no!” My foot slips, I lose my grip, and now I’m stumbling backwards. I catch myself, take two steps forward, and grasp the leaves and branches in front of me, managing to regain my balance by clutching onto that stubborn bush. “Whew, that was close. I’m not going to do that again!

  “Oh, crap.”

  The roots lose their hold, and so do I. The scraggly shrub flies into the air as I plummet backwards, flailing and panicking, falling and bumping, crashing, and then falling again. My right hand smacks a boulder on the way down and is hyper-extended. I hug it close to my chest as I roll to a stop. I take a quick breath and struggle to get up. I’m unsteady on my feet, like I’m standing in a small boat on rough seas, but still upright—for a split second. Suddenly, I’m skidding down the same path I just came up. I have totally lost control again and, by reflex, roll up like an armadillo, protecting my insides.

  The tumbling and careening goes on and on, like a bagful of bowling balls down a flight of stairs. I realize your life—or something like it—really does flash before your eyes in situations like this. It isn’t my whole life, though, only the last few hours, replayed in fast-forward mode. It still doesn’t make any sense—they’re just disjointed images with flickers of emotion.

  I open up from my balled-up position—the pitching and rolling is over—and put my legs out to slow my descent, skidding to a stop on my side, feet first, as if coming in to home plate. I roll over onto my back, look up at the cloudy sky, and then there’s nothing.

  *11 Bashed and battered

  I must have passed out there at the end. My skull feels like it’s split down the back. If it’s not cracked open like a pistachio, it’s at least crunched like a peanut shell. I reach around to check, scared of what I might find. The skull is intact, but the scalp is definitely split: my fingers are tacky. I bring my hand in front of my face and force my eyes open. Oh, I wish I hadn’t looked. I can handle someone else’s blood, but the sight of my own makes me sick.

  And sick I am. I roll over onto my side, heave a couple of times, but only bring up a little water. Well, that’s one good thing about having an empty stomach. That is, if retching can be good in any way, form, or location.

  I roll onto my belly to get up, and am made painfully aware of the multiple bruises and contusions I just received. I try to ignore them since there isn’t anything I can do about them right now. I push up with my right hand—or try to—and my wrist gives way. I curl into the fetal position, cursing in pain and frustration, trying to resist the urge to give in and cry. I try again, this time pushing with my elbows on my knees. As soon as I’m near vertical, I break into a cold sweat and get so dizzy that I have to drop back to the security of the ground.

  Well, it looks like I’ll have to crawl home. I can probably do that. At least my knees seem to be okay. I check my arms—the elbows are okay, too. I guess the heavy padding of my coat and my instinctive tuck and roll maneuver cut down on the number—or at least the severity—of my injuries.

  As I do my ‘begging for mercy’ belly-scoot across the rocky ground, I realize I’m not getting out of this part of the ordeal unscathed. The joints are okay, but the uneven ground is driving rocks and tree parts of all sizes into my bony knees. It looks to be only a hundred yards to the cave, but it may as well be 100 miles. I don’t think I can make it.

  Rocky finds me and gives a quick “yip” in greeting. He puts his head down and sniffs my chin as
if to ask, “Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not okay. Would you stay with me until I get home? I don’t feel so good.”

  I crawl in the direction of the cave and start to get nauseous again. I faintly remember something about concussions and vomiting. That, and don’t let a person with a head injury fall asleep. Now that’s not fair. All I want to do is lie down and sleep! “Ah, to hell with it,” I mumble, and curl up for a nap before I finish my journey.

  Ӂ

  As my consciousness slowly returns, I feel movement—up and up higher, up and up higher. What am I? A cloud? A butterfly? I feel as if I’m floating, but I’m tethered to one spot and can’t move away. There’s another movement up, then another one even higher. My face—I have a face, and something is passing over it, touching it. And it’s cool when the movement stops.

  Oh, gross! It’s a tongue licking my cheek and nose!

  “Ouch!” My head—that I was unaware I even had a second ago—feels as if it’s going to explode. I open my eyes and see a long pink tongue and lots of teeth. It’s Rocky. I try to speak, but all that comes out is a low groan. That’s all I have. And then I am no more.

  *12 Fall recovery

  Rocky rushed into the cave, barking and yowling, trying to wake Ian. He was still in a comatose state, but Rocky didn’t know that. For all he knew, Ian was just napping. When the noise didn’t work, he went back to face licking. Ian did respond to that. At least he turned his head away.

  Rocky wouldn’t stop his persistent request for help, though. He licked again and again, and then bit Ian on the ear lobe. Ian started at the pain, and brought up his hand to knock away the nibbler. But his canine companion was insistent—he employed more licking, and when that didn’t work, he howled, right next to his friend’s ear.

  That got Ian’s attention. He managed to open his swollen eyes, but still couldn’t see. He reached up and pulled the thick, soft cloth off of his face. Where was he?

  The place was unfamiliar, but his dog was with him. Rocky was upset about something and wouldn’t stop making loud and obnoxious noises. The dog moved toward the opening of the cave, then turned around and came back. Ian got up onto his elbows to investigate. He might be confused about where he was and why, but he knew Rocky wanted him to follow him outside. The dog had never steered him wrong before. Experience had shown him it was best to do what the animal wanted.

  Ian rolled over, felt the pain of bruised bones and muscles from his shoulders to his hips, and recalled being tortured and beaten by the gang of eight. No time to reflect on that travesty of justice now—he needed to find out why Rocky was so excited.

  He crawled through the holly bushes and saw where the commotion was. He rose, but quickly dropped back to his knees in agony. His bare feet were cut and raw. His knees were still intact though, so he ‘walked’ twenty feet on his kneecaps over rocks, twigs, and snow to Rocky.

  The dog was poking his nose in the face of someone lying on the ground. The sun was low and his vision limited further by his swollen eyes, but the prone person didn’t appear to be moving. He came closer, pulled back the long hair of the teenage boy—not even old enough to have a beard—and saw that he was still breathing. A fresh, reddish bruise covered the left side of his face, but his limbs all pointed in the right direction. The thick coat and his youth probably helped him survive the obvious fall. He turned the lad’s head carefully, and saw the bloody gash on the back of his scalp. He and Rocky were going to have to get the boy moved inside quickly. By the smell of the moist wind in his face, a heavy snowstorm was on the way.

  Ian’s attempts at rousing the youth were futile. He tried again to stand up, but the pain of his feet wouldn’t tolerate his own body weight, much less the additional burden of another person’s. It would take too long to find materials to make a travois, so that wasn’t an option.

  The jacket! The boy’s jacket was big enough that he could have Rocky drag him by the hood. He carefully positioned the hood for use as a tow bridle. “Rocky, come help me drag this boy into the cave.”

  Rocky cocked his head to one side in confusion, then padded to his side.

  “Pull here, man—that’s it.”

  Rocky took one bite of the hood and released it, backed up two steps, and sat down, refusing to participate in the task. He didn’t like the taste of that fake fur trim.

  “Rocky, ye have to help me, I canna do it by myself.”

  The dog came back, grabbed a mouthful of hood, and started walking backwards. As soon as the slack was out, and he felt the weight of the makeshift sled, he stopped. This was too heavy.

  “Come on, I really need ye to pull.”

  Rocky gave a big tug, and the hood popped off, causing him to take a few awkward steps backwards to regain his balance, and leaving him with part of the coat in his mouth. He quickly performed the doggy version of spitting, and then wiped his tongue on his own coat, trying to get the remnants of fake fur out of his mouth. Ugh, that phony animal pelt was disgusting, and it nearly made him fall on his butt!

  Ian picked up the hood, turned it over, and saw that there were brads of some sort pressed into the cloth. He wadded it up, made sure the dog saw him, and tossed it into the brush. “Come on, Rocky, I threw that nasty thing away. It’s gone. Here, grab the collar.”

  Well, Rocky bit into the nape of the jacket and tugged, but it just wasn’t feasible. “Thanks fer tryin’, but we’ll be pullin’ the head off the lad if we keep yankin’ on the coat that way.”

  Snowflakes joined Ian’s mobilization challenge, the odd-shaped blobs sticking to his eyelashes and blurring his already marginal vision, chilling and wetting his swollen hands, making clutching and grasping even more difficult. He tried a new tactic: crawling under the boy. Maybe he could carry him on his back and shoulders. That would have worked fine, but when he bent forward to assume the position, he discovered his hands were nearly as tender as his feet.

  “Weel, mon, what isna beat on ye? Seems that only yer arse and yer belly arena screamin’ wi’ pain. Ye can crawl on yer belly or crawl on yer arse. Crawl on my arse?”

  That actually seemed to be the only valid option. Ian scooted under the boy’s head, laid it in his lap, then ‘walked’ on his butt to the cave entrance. “Left cheek, right cheek, left cheek, ow! Right cheek, left cheek, cursed rocks and stones. Stop smilin’, ye damned dog. If ye hadda done yer job, I wouldna be here, shreddin’ my backside.”

  Ian scooted backwards into the cave, the unconscious body warm, but inert, in his lap. Access through the tangled botanical portal was easier than it should have been because the branches of the guardian shrub were propped away from the cave’s entrance with a forked stick. That meant fewer scratches when coming and going, but unfortunately, it was also a sign that there were occupants inside. He reached up and knocked away the greenwood prop rod. The prickly branches sprung back into place, quickly re-concealing the hideout’s location. He didn’t know where he was, but he didn’t want anyone else to know either.

  After a few more feet of walking on his fanny across the smaller interior pebbles, they were both safely inside. He carefully set the boy’s head down and, after several lifts, tugs, and twists, had him situated so that they both had their feet toward the rear of the cave where the small fire was burning. It was an odd placement for a fire ring, but seemed to be working. The smoke was drifting up and away, not out the entrance, nor was it polluting the air in the small cavern.

  He picked up a piece of wood between his wrists and tossed it on the fire, encouraging a more generous blaze. He hadn’t noticed the smoke plume when he was outside—it evidently dissipated quickly—and the snowflakes coming down now were the size of babies’ fists. If someone was dumb enough to be searching for him in this mess, it was doubtful any little puffs of smoke would be seen.

  Ӂ

  “What kind of wool or skin is this?” Ian asked aloud as he ran the back of his hand over the unconscious evacuee’s pants.

  Well, his young charge didn�
�t answer, and Rocky evidently didn’t know or care. At least he didn’t seem to have the disdain for the wool that he did for the hood’s faux fur.

  The hood—it was still by the entrance. Ian snaked his long arm under the base of the sentinel bush, swept his tender fingers across the ground, and located the soft, fuzzy remnant. He managed to grasp it between his thumb and fingers, working his digits like a flesh mitten. He brought it in, tucked the fur portion inside—creating a small pillow—and placed it under the boy’s head to relieve the pressure on his wound. He arranged the shiny covering he had found himself wrapped in, over the boy’s legs. How anyone could make silver so soft and warm was beyond him. Maybe it was from Italy. Those Italians were always using precious metals to make everyday goods.

  Rocky moved over to the entrance of the cave, circled three times, and then lay down, his furry back a mammalian shield against the winter storm trying to blow inside.

  “I’m glad ye like the cold. Ye make a good barn door.” Ian said. He found the pot with the melted snow, put the pan to his mouth, and took a long drink. “Supper can wait a bit. I canna remember when I last ate, but I’m sure an hour more willna make a difference.”

  He dipped the soft cloth he had found on his head into the rest of the water and wiped the young boy’s face. He turned the head to the side. It was dark in the cave, but he could feel the gravelly sand and leaf matter in the wound. “Ye have mighty thick hair there. Hold still while I clean out the bits and pieces lodged in yer scalp.”

  He carefully urged the skin apart and washed out the wound with the soft cloth and warm water. He couldn’t stitch it closed, so he just pushed the skin back together, securing his work with a bandana bandage.