“Okay, do you have any idea where we are?”
“I’m most sure we’re still in North Carolina, somewhere away from the coast. I canna smell the ocean, and the mountains arena so tall here, so we’re somewhere in the interior. Do ye ken where ye were goin’ when ye found me, or where ye were comin’ from?”
“Not a clue on either. I do know North Carolina is one of the fifty United States, but don’t know what day it is, or even what year. God, I don’t even know my own name.” I was getting frustrated now. “I don’t know how old I am, whether I have family or not—even what I look like.”
I looked deep into Ian’s eyes, “Ian, this is getting scary. Lie to me, tell me who I am, give me a history. Pretend you’ve known me all your life. If I have amnesia, I’ll know the truth when I hear it, or at least I hope I do. Right now, I feel like I’m standing naked in the winter wind. I just want to be warm and safe, with someone who cares about me.” I was starting to shake all over, and it wasn’t from any injuries. I was scared witless.
“Oh aye, Evie, the game of pretend is over.” Ian gathered me close to him in an amicable way. “Ye bumped yer heid when ye were out lookin’ for Rocky. We came up here last week on our way to visit my great-uncle Angus and his family. We got separated, and then some mean men kidnapped me. Ye hid out, came and rescued me, and brought me here. Yer, uh, seventeen years old and we’ve been together fer, uh, six months. We’re newlyweds, ye ken,” he added, with a grin that nearly split his swollen bottom lip.
“Thanks, I needed that.” I was serious. Now I had a name and a little bit of recent history, even if it was a fairy tale.
*14 Amnesia and Love
Ian hadn’t dressed yet, but still had the blanket in his lap. His stomach started growling and mine followed suit. “It sounds like our stomachs are performing a duet.”
“Aye, our stomachs must think our throats have been slit. Oh, sorry; that really wasna proper.”
“No, that’s okay. My mom used to say the same thing. That and, ‘I’m so hungry, the big ones are eating on the little ones.’”
“What?” Ian asked, his eyebrows lifting in shock. His eyes tried to follow suit, but only managed to part enough that I could see they were brown. “People eatin’ bairns?”
“Nooo. She said that in the old days, when people had tapeworms, they’d say the big ones—that is, the big tapeworms—would start eating on the little ones—the little tapeworms—when a person got real hungry. She had all sorts of old sayings.”
“Aye, maybe the wee fiends in my gut are feudin’ and that’s why the noise. We’ve naught but water to quiet the wame. I wish I could do more fer ye.”
“Well, I feel better already. I just recalled having a mother, even if I don’t remember anything about her except what I just said. Hmm, I seem to be able to remember stuff if I don’t try.”
We endured an awkward pause, neither of us knowing what to say or do next. I was uneasy: totally clothed, sitting in a small, dim cave with a naked man who just claimed to be my newlywed husband. At least he was a gentleman and not getting fresh, allowing me to recover from the amnesia. I didn’t know what he had done with his clothes, but if his nakedness didn’t bother him, I’d just pretend that he was wearing a fuzzy, flesh-toned bodysuit and do my best not to stare.
“Whoa!” I exclaimed as a burst of memory hit. “Here, lie back down. I have a surprise for you.”
I helped Ian lie back on the little patch of cleared dirt floor that had been our bed. He was taking care to keep the solar blanket over his unmentionables. He was still a man, after all, and a well-built one, too. Oops, keep thinking flesh-toned body suit…
I took a deep breath and grabbed my backpack. Yes, I knew it was mine, and that in itself made me happy. It had been sitting undisturbed by the cave entrance since I don’t know when. “Here we go: my magic bag.” I scooted next to him and peeked inside, not letting him see what was in it.
“Yer bag is magic?” he asked, rising to his elbow to look over my shoulder.
“No, not really. It’s just I know that this is my bag, but I don’t remember what I put in it. It will be a bit of a magic—a surprise for both of us—to see what’s in here. I’m pretty sure I have some food, though.”
“Ooh… Hmmm… Nope... Ah...Yes!” I glanced up at Ian’s face every time I made a noise of discovery. At “yes,” he sat up all the way, his back straightened in anticipation.
“We have us a five course meal in here, Ian,” I said with a Southern twang. I reverted to my normal tone, “They’re small courses, but, hey, we can pretend we’re feasting. Open up for the oats.”
Ian closed his eyes and opened his mouth obediently. I put a small oat cluster from the granola mix onto the end of his tongue.
“This feels like oats in the mouth, but doesna taste like porritch or feed fer horses. It tastes like I’m eatin’ bits o’ fancy cake.”
“That’s because it’s sweetened with honey and cinnamon. It’s part of a snack mix to keep your energy up. Are you ready for the next course?”
His mouth popped open like a baby bird. I placed a cashew in it. “Make sure to chew that well. You haven’t eaten in a while, and we don’t want your belly cramping up.”
Ian sighed deeply, then almost purred in contentment, a spoiled tabby, enjoying the attention. He carefully chewed the nut, a blissful smile appearing, incongruent to his battered and swollen face. “This is delicious! What is it?”
“It’s a jumbo-sized cashew. Most people use peanuts or almonds in their mixes, but I like cashews better. They’re my favorite nut,” I said, and popped one in my mouth.
“I think they’re my favorite now, too. What do ye have next, if I’m not bein’ too greedy?”
“Here is the bread of our little repast—a pretzel.” These were miniature-sized pretzels in the mix, but I could tell that they, too, were new to Ian. He chewed thoroughly, either from my warning about belly cramps or because he wanted to savor the taste.
“Now, for our fruit salad...” I grabbed a piece of dried pineapple and a few shreds of the coconut, and put them on his outstretched pink tongue. I put some in my mouth, too. I was enjoying this as much as he was.
“Now what was that? It tastes familiar, but I canna recall what it is.”
“That’s piña colada, also known as dried pineapple and coconut. Now, for our last course: dessert. We can have more in an hour or so when we’re sure our stomachs can tolerate food. My head still hurts, and I think I’d better take it easy. Open wide,” I prompted, then placed a dark chocolate chip in his mouth.
“Now that’s chocolate,” he said, “but better than any I’ve ever had—nothin’ like they had in Edinburgh. There they prepared it as a hot drink, and it was bitter tastin’. My cousin did tell me there were other ways to eat it. Can I have another? I promise not to get sick and waste it.”
“Sure, but be careful…” I said as I gave him one more. I wanted to say, ‘Be careful; don’t become a chocoholic.’ Sharing the old wives’ tale, ‘Chocolate is considered a substitute for love,’ also crossed my mind about the time my eyes drifted down to his naked shoulders and slightly hairy chest.
Was this man really my husband? I know that if I were able to order one from a catalog, I’d choose him. Well, except for the beat up part. Kind, helpful, sweet disposition, well equipped, ahem…
I got up, sniffed back my unsettling thoughts, and headed for the exit and the non-naked air outside. “I’ll be right back; don’t go anywhere.”
“I’ll stay right here where ye put me,” he said, then snuggled down into the coat, wearing nothing but a satiated grin under that thin, shiny, solar blanket.
I fought my way through those nasty holly bushes to my little latrine, solitude—and hopefully—composure. My head still ached, but I was no longer nauseous. I was, however, becoming highly aroused.
I came back in and sat down beside Ian, who was now lying on the floor. He was provocative without trying, exuding a tantalizing male musk
, unmitigated by the stink of men’s cologne or deodorant. Right here at my feet was a beautiful, hard and lean—and very naked—male body. The man was well mannered, a bit worse for the thrashing…but otherwise Ian was practically perfect husband material, and quite possibly mine. And we were very alone.
Ah! What the hell…
I took my two shirts off over my head, rolled them up, and set them down next to each other. Thumbs stuck in my waistband, I shimmied out of my sweatpants, shook them out, and folded them neatly. I was using the extra time and attention I was paying to my clothing either to compose myself or to try and talk me out of what I was going to do next, I’m not sure which.
Ian was watching me through slits of puffy eyes, not saying a word. He’d make a great poker player with the way he could hide his feelings. And he wasn’t grinning or leering at me either. That meant I was correct in my gut feeling about him.
“Pick up your head. I need the coat.”
He obeyed wordlessly. I gave him the rolled up shirts and motioned for him to put them down for use as a pillow. “Now scoot over a bit and let me spread these over you.”
“Ye’ll freeze in jest yer undergarments!” he exclaimed, his tone letting me know he was both shocked and being a gentleman at the same time.
“Just hold still and don’t argue, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly, stifling a grin.
“Okay, turn on your side; yes, that’s it.” I was positioning him so we could spoon together with the blanket, coat, and fleece pants spread over us. I was also trying to figure out why I felt so comfortable with him. I thought his custom-made, functional fairy tale—that I was his newlywed wife—was to plug the hole of my memory loss, to make me feel at ease with him and our situation. However, it felt right; it was a perfect fit. Whether or not I really was his wife—and that was actually a possibility, I guess—I certainly felt like I was.
Ian moved onto his right side again. Rather than spoon next to him, though, I slid under the blanket and clothing comforter ensemble, and snuggled into his chest, nuzzling him just below his collarbones. He gently settled his chin on top of my head. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was enjoying this as much as I was.
There were no words between us, but it wasn’t awkward. I rubbed my nose into the hair at the top of his chest. I couldn’t stop myself. His body was giving off those hard to describe pheromones. He had a distinctive smell: a blend of male musk and a forest wet after an autumn rain. I couldn’t get enough of it. I was rubbing my cheeks, nose, and lips into him, deeply inhaling his scent. I wanted to paint his fuzzy chest, using my face as the brush. I kept my hands above waist level so I didn’t grab or clutch places that might not be mine to seize. I was also using considerable restraint, not yanking off my sports bra and rubbing my breasts all over him.
I felt his hand come up my back. He was gently stroking me, saying words I didn’t comprehend, but somehow knew. Spoken in a foreign language, but related through our bodies, his words didn’t need translation. I reached around him as best I could in our awkward arrangement on the hard, stony ground, and held him tight, nearly squeezing the breath out of both of us.
I loosened my hold and pulled my face back a few inches from his chest. “Ian, I know this is strange for you. I don’t know who I am or why I’m here, but I do feel that you’re mine, and we were meant to be together. I’m not crazy; I can’t be, because this is so real.”
Ian pulled away from me enough that I could see his face. His eyes were still puffy, but red now—and it wasn’t from the beatings. He had been crying. I could see the wetness under his eyes and nose. “And I say to ye, it doesna matter who ye are, because yer mine. Please, dinna ever leave me. I couldna bear it.”
And with that, I received the full mouth and soul of the man I knew as Ian, and gave him mine in return. The force of the emotion pulsed from his lips and tongue to mine, coursing down my chest and belly, warming that juncture of legs and torso that leads to procreation.
My toes were curled and making their own love to Ian’s feet. I suddenly remembered that his were still damaged, tender, and certainly sore. I pulled away and rolled onto my back, panting, taking in deep calming breaths that almost made me lose consciousness.
“Oh, boy,” escaped my lips as I stared at the ceiling of our little residence. I sure hadn’t expected this to happen!
*15 A primitive marriage
The kissing was great, but both of us were holding back. It wasn’t that either of us didn’t want to go further. His nether regions made it evident that he was ready—there was still enough blood in his body to head south when excited. I was still dizzy from my fall, and he was being respectful. Yes, we were both highly aroused, but also very weak.
We lay together, holding each other for quite a while. Time by a clock didn’t exist; not that either one of us had a timepiece. We took turns emitting big sighs of contentment, followed by extra squeezes of reassurance. There really wasn’t much for us to do but talk, hold each other, or sleep. Neither one of us was strong enough to do the chores that needed to be done: to search for a source of water other than snow, gather wood, and to find civilization.
I spoke first. “If it’s all the same to you, can we just lie here for a bit? I don’t have much energy, and I really do have a headache.”
“Aye, that’s verra sensible. If we are to be together forever, there’s no rush fer the joinin’. I would like to have a bit more vigor to serve ye properly, too. I’d hate to faint halfway through makin’ love to my wife fer the first time.”
“First time? So…I’m not already your wife, but you want me to be? Aren’t we supposed to have some sort of rite or ceremony? I don’t think it would be appropriate to sleep with a man unless I was married to him. At least to have sex with him; we’ve already slept together the other way.”
“Weel, the Indians around here simply let the women choose their mate. That’s about all there is to it fer them, just selectin’ their man. If he no longer pleases her, she kicks him out and gets another. It seems to work fine fer them, but always did seem a bit unfair to me and the other menfolk.”
I didn’t say anything, but Ian could tell from my face that I was thinking hard about something. I was trying to rationalize a marriage to an unknown, injured man who I had just recently rescued from a death squad. I very much wanted to be his wife. Okay, what I really wanted was to jump his bones and ride him until he couldn’t draw another breath. But I was serious—I wanted to be married first.
My face went through a few more grins, grimaces, and frowns as I thought of the many forms of marriage I had heard of. Polygamy, arranged marriages, shotgun weddings, standing before a justice of the peace, those huge elaborate affairs with doves, roses, and limousines. Right now, I didn’t even have a scrap of paper to write a marriage contract on. How was I going to be married to him?
And then inspiration hit.
“I am Christian, and I believe God is in charge of this situation and everything else. I have free will and also know right from wrong. I want to do this properly so we’re not just two lonely people having comfort sex. So, Ian, will you be my husband before God and man? Will you keep me to love and cherish, through sickness and health, for better and for worse, forever and ever?”
“Aye, I will. And will ye have me, too; to love and honor, through good times and bad, feast and famine, hale or infirm, fer better or worse, even if I am jest a mangy man not worthy to wipe the dirt from yer feet, forever and ever?”
“I will. Lord, please bless us, and recognize us as married, even if we didn’t have a preacher and witnesses. Thank You for bringing us together. Amen.” I took a deep breath, put my hands on either side of his face, and looked deeply into his eyes. “Do you feel married now?”
“Aye, even more than I did ten minutes ago. And I also believe it was God who brought us together. I havena told ye, but I lost contact with Him fer a while. Ye see, I was livin’ with the Tuscarora, and they believe differently
than the white man. I lived as a heathen, my life rough and unsettled. Then there were problems. It wasna goin’ very weel fer me with them, and they asked me to leave. I had lived with the Indians fer so long, I dinna feel right livin’ alongside the white man and, weel, then the Indians dinna want me either.
“So I lived mostly by myself fer a long time, with jest Rocky fer company. I felt verra empty and alone. I thought the Lord was punishin’ me fer not havin’ Him in my life. I dinna ken how to get back with Him to make things right. I dinna want to go to a priest, and dinna ken where to find one anyhow. I had heard the Protestants say ye could talk to the Lord Christ directly. A man dinna need a priest or minister, but could do it all by himself. So I decided to give it a try. It took a long time, but I started talkin’ to Him again. I prayed fer forgiveness of my sins. It took me two years to ask God fer anything except fer the forgiveness. Then I asked Him fer a wife.
“If He dinna listen to me, weel, I guessed I’d ken that I would need to search out a priest to hear my confessions and requests. Of course, the priest couldna give me a wife,” he said, and leaned down, grinning at me with his last words.
“The Lord did hear me, though, because yer here with me now. But He did give me my punishment fer my bad deeds before I found ye. Or I suppose it was before ye found me.”
I looked up at the ceiling, then over at him. “I’ve been very blessed in my life. Of course, my memory is only about 24 hours long, but I know in my soul that I’m on the right track. Our housing accommodations may be rough, but we’re dry, have wood for our fire, and a bit of food. We’ll do fine, as long as we’re together, I know it.”
*16 Consummation
The ground that was our bed was definitely getting lumpier—not that it had ever been soft or supportive. It was probably because our bodies had been shifting the caked dirt away from the stones, making it feel like we were lying on one of those mattresses of nails that Hindu holy men were so fond of.
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