Naked in the Winter Wind

by Dani Haviland

  Sarah crouched on the ground, her skirts gathered close to her to in an attempt at keeping them off the dirt floor. She carefully untied the knots in the rags that bound his feet. I could see the ring of raw flesh above his thick ankle where a boot top would have been. He cleared his throat and said, “Sorry to be troublin’ you, ma’am. We ain’t even been introduced. My name is William Leuga. Do you think there’s somethin’ that can be done about them sores?”

  She glanced up, gave a congenial smile and said, “Sarah Pomeroy; pleased to meet you,” then looked back down, resuming her examination of his feet. “Yes, we can take care of them.”

  I didn’t need to be a podiatrist to know what this man needed. First order of business would be to wash his feet. I could smell them from across the room, even though I had taken to breathing through my mouth at the first whiff.

  “Andrew, do you have any goat’s milk soap?” Andrew nodded. “Mr. Leuga, use this soap, not lye soap, with warm water to wash your feet at the end of every day. Dry them with a soft cloth and then put a balm on them. If you happen to have a clear vegetable oil, not animal fat, use that as the balm. I don’t have any lanoline, but oil will do. Let the fresh air get to them as much as possible. After they’re completely dry and the oil has soaked in—then, and only then—put on clean, dry, soft stockings. Don’t wear shoes when you’re sitting down, and put your bare feet up at the end of the day. And don’t walk any more than absolutely necessary until they’re healed.”

  While Sarah gave her foot care instructions, I went outside and retrieved my backpack from under the seat of the wagon. I grabbed the bright green Crocs out of it, hid them under my jacket, and went back into the store. I popped in just as the hygiene lecture was finished.

  “Mr. Leuga, hi, you can call me Evie. If you’ll allow me, I’ll see if these will fit.” I grabbed the counter for support, squatted down beside him, and put one shoe next to his now exposed foot. His feet were probably EEE width, but that didn’t make a difference. No one here used that sizing method. My Crocs were wide, soft, durable, and according to my quick side-by-side size comparison, would work just fine for the man. “I think we have a winner,” I announced.

  Sarah leaned over to look at the shoes and grinned. “Now don’t be wearing those until your feet are washed, dried, and oiled up, okay? Andrew, do you have any oil for Mr. Leuga to buy?”

  Bill cut in, “Oh, I have plenty of that in the wagon. Sunflower oil will work, won’t it? I just built me a press and got lots of it.”

  I looked over at Sarah’s suddenly glowing face. “Oh, yes, that would be perfect,” she crooned.

  Bill saw the look of desire in her eyes and heard it in her voice. He smiled like a dog with a stolen sirloin steak and said, “Now, I think it only fair that I square things up with you for the doctorin’. Would a skin of my fine sunflower oil be enough?”

  “Oh, yes, yes,” Sarah gushed, “thank you so very much.”

  “And Miss Evie, I think I owe you quite a bit for these Eye-talian shoes. I don’t have much, but how about I give you a big bag of rice and another skin of that sunflower oil? I know you won’t need that much oil, but Andrew here might just trade you for what you do need.”

  Andrew had been quietly following the proceedings and joined the conversation. “I could use the oil, and we have lots of goods here. Just let me know what you need.” Andrew nodded in our direction, and then over to Big Bill. “Will there be anything else for you, sir?”

  “No, no, all I needed was a pair of shoes, and I got them and a doctor’s visit at the same time. And I already have some of that goat’s milk soap. Ladies, it’s been a pleasure meetin’ both of you. If you’re ever in need of help, don’t hesitate to call on Big Bill Leuga.” With that, he tipped his well-worn three-cornered hat, and waddled out the door, his pretty green ‘Italian’ sandals cradled under his arm.

  Ӂ Ӂ

  I guessed they called it cabin fever for a reason; I felt ‘ick’ all over, and it was hard to breathe. Claustrophobia could wield its evil little panic attacks in small houses, too. After living in the cave for so long, I thought I had grown stronger and braver, but that phobia still had a mosquito bite of control over me: irritating, but not debilitating. I could only tolerate staying inside for so long. Our four walls were not much more than an arm’s reach away in any direction, and the air was thick with the smells of ashy smoke and simmering stew. But, then again, maybe it wasn’t claustrophobia and I just wanted to be outside, to bask in fresh, moving air, to view and commit the springtime beauty of my new surroundings to memory.

  The call of spring won, so off I went. I realized once outdoors, it was warm enough that I didn’t need my coat. I took it off and left it on the porch; I didn’t want to go back inside so soon. I inhaled deeply, feeling super-charged with my self-declared emancipation from the confines of man-made structures; the ability to come and go as I pleased a gift I had given myself.

  I sauntered to the clearing west of the house toward that tree with my name on it—figuratively speaking—the threadbare quilt I planned to sit on draped around my neck like a patchwork boa, my empty fabric tote bag nestled under my armpit.

  Bright green splashes of fresh grass dotted the ground beneath the south sides of trees and rocks everywhere, adding color to the otherwise dreary gray and amber hues of late winter. The warty willows, easily identified by the fuzzy silver catkins that covered them, were additional indicators that spring would soon be in full bloom. The thought of fragrant blossoms bursting forth—perfuming and pollen-dusting the air—immediately made my nose twitch in subconscious response. Hay fever. Hmm, at some point in my life, I must have had seasonal allergies.

  “That’s snot something I want to have here,” I murmured, then chuckled at my own pun. My voice disturbed a magpie and he—or was it a she?—joined my silly cackling, brightening my mood even more.

  Soon I was at my private little resort, just out of sight of the house. I laid out the quilt and leaned against my very own ‘let it be’ tree. When I relaxed and didn’t think about my past, little memories would sneak in, like recalling the sneezes of hay fever. I wasn’t searching for the whole story of my past, but I wouldn’t mind a smidgen of instant recall, either…as long as it was pleasant.

  I looked up at the sky and realized how quiet it really was. True, the little birds—I still didn’t know which ones were called what—were making their happy little noises, but they were just that: happy noises. I didn’t hear the plague of planes, trains, and automobiles zipping by, echoing the stress of their drivers and passengers while spewing toxic and noisome crud into the air, soil, and water. Here and now, the air was healthier. There weren’t any plastic bags or containers littering the landscape, no oily sheen on puddles, no howling train whistles, or roaring roadways. True, stores weren’t stocked with arctic grade outerwear or diesel-powered generators, but wool, candles, and a blazing fireplace were working fine for me.

  Speaking of blazing fireplaces, I had discovered that a warm, wide hearth was an ideal place to settle back to design and produce needful items in the evenings. Throughout the ages, BT—Before Technology—families would gather in the main room, where it was warmest in the cold winter months, to visit and do handiwork. Quilting, spinning yarn, sewing or knitting clothing, or carving dinnerware, tools, and/or toys for the children—all these arts and skills will almost disappear in modern times with the introduction—and intrusion—of vacuum tubes, transistors, and computer processors.

  Families of this era know one another, help each other, and generally try to get along. Technology is—will be—a poor replacement for the family structure it inadvertently sabotages. Two parents laboring outside the home just to get more, or bigger, ‘stuff’ doesn’t work—rather won’t work. A family working together for a common cause—food and housing—has worked for eons. Yup, these were just a few more aspects I really liked about living in this time. Of course, I didn’t have a choice…

  I pulled out the fold
ing tote bag I had made last week: the ultimate ecology-friendly bag. “Only naturally harvested, renewable ingredients were used in the manufacture of this reusable conveyance, constructed and designed by one very human Evie—not even an electric sewing machine was employed,” I said aloud in an infomercial monotone, chuckling at my own silliness, my laugh echoed by my magpie companion who was now foraging in a brush pile.

  Today I’d use the bag to carry river cane and other greenwood for weaving into baskets. Well, eventually they’d be baskets for laundry or gathering, but their first use would be as bassinettes. Not quite as romantic as Nile River reed baskets, but they should work fine for my little early Americans.

  Ӂ Ӂ

  I returned home from my mood-lifting excursion with a growling in my empty belly, a toteful of greenwood over one shoulder, the folded quilt over the other. I stopped at the porch bench and set down my woodland harvest. I’d unload it later. First, I needed to get something to eat.

  My jacket was still on the bench where I had left it. I picked it up to take it inside and froze. It felt as if the world around me had just throbbed—a powerful, invisible, soundless pulse.

  My first thought was that there was a tremor in the Force—whatever that was. I called weakly into the house, trying not to show the fear that was rising, “Hello, anyone home?”

  No response—no one was here. I sniffed around—Rocky had taught me well—but I didn’t smell anything out of the ordinary.

  It must have been those pregnancy hormones kicking up again. I didn’t mind the fatigue or claustrophobia that came with being in a family way, but I didn’t want to become paranoid. Oh, well. I’d eat a quick snack and then figure out something for dinner. That would keep my mind off this eerie feeling—I hoped.

  Ӂ Ӂ

  I was alone at the house today. Jody didn’t like me being by myself, but his sources said all military activity had moved south. Everyone but me had somewhere special to be, and I insisted that I’d be fine. He gave in to my request for ‘some time alone.’ I knew he didn’t understand my independence, but he accepted it. “Yer jest like yer sister,” he said with a big smile, blinking both eyes as he tried to wink at the word ‘sister.’ He knew we weren’t related by blood, but by the fact that we were both from a future time and ‘thought’ differently.

  Sarah was at the Donaldson’s for the delivery of what Mr. Donaldson hoped was his first son. They already had four daughters. He had told Mrs. Donaldson he’d have to get another wife if she couldn’t figure out how to make a boy. Jody was glad that he’d been there when he’d said that. The twinkle in the hardworking man’s eye made it clear that he loved his daughters as much as any man could love a son. He always did like old Mac Donaldson.

  In the past, Sarah had preferred to let the midwife take care of the deliveries, but the woman who had seen to the mothers-in-waiting, Mrs. Luebke, had moved west with her family. She and her husband had decided that they would rather take their chances with the Indians than with the volatile Loyalists and their erratic laws and taxes.

  Hannah Althouse had accompanied Sarah today. The bright young woman knew how to prepare herbs and tonics, and could take care of simple dressings for cuts and burns, but had never assisted in—or even witnessed—a human birth before. Young Hannah was the likely candidate for the midwife position, but first she had to get some hands-on experience.

  Wallace and Jody, protesting mildly, had left early this morning to visit Julian, José, and those fancy horses. Jody had wanted to see José’s sturdy and compact Andalusian horses ever since he had found out that they were ‘jest next door.’ He had read about the Spanish ‘royal’ horses, but couldn’t believe they could be that much different from any others. He wanted to see them for himself. Since they were so close, he could be there and back—visiting just long enough to see their compact form up close and observe their unusual gait—then he would return to watch over me.

  José gave Jody a tour of his well-furnished house, the outbuildings, and the property. Jody could see that the ranch had lots of potential, but needed long hours and strong backs to return it to its former glory. For the past three years, only one man—Robert, the hired hand—had taken care of the buildings, the animals, and, at the end, José’s infirm family. It had been a lot for just one person, but at least he left the house livable, the livestock healthy, and the property recoverable.

  Julian and José’s partnership had a good chance of becoming prosperous with José’s rare, spectacular horses and Julian’s good business sense. Julian had also managed to exchange some of his military script for a bit of silver, so they had funds for supplies until the mares started foaling and the ranch became productive.

  Jody could see that Julian and José were more than just business partners, and that was fine with him. Everyone should have someone special in his life, and Julian deserved a someone as much as anyone else did. He didn’t understand the male-to-male attraction, but had lived withSarah and her modern thinking long enough to accept the concept that two members of the same sex could love each other. Now, seeing Julian with José—laughing, smiling, working side-by-side—it was easy to see them as a happily married couple, at least in spirit.

  Wallace would stay with the men at the ranch for a while and lend his strong back, getting the heavy work done. It probably wouldn’t be too long before he returned to Pomeroy’s Place, to be with Jody and the women. Or rather, to wherever Evie was. Wallace loved his stepfather, the man who had reared him, but it was obvious to the men and to Sarah that he wanted to be with Evie. It didn’t seem to matter to Wallace whether she and Ian were handfasted, married the Indian way, or not at all. All Wallace saw was what Jody saw, too; Evie was a wonderful woman who was alone, not because of something she had done, but because Ian had abandoned her.

  Ӂ Ӂ

  It was still early, but Jody was ready to leave. He apologized to José, telling him that he was sorry he couldn’t stay and lend a hand, but he had to get back home to take care of some unfinished business.

  As they walked to the barn, Jody confided in Julian that he had a knot in his stomach as if something was wrong. He had lived longer than he should have by heeding his wame, and he wasn’t going to stop now. Julian understood and said that he, too, felt uncomfortable, that something wasn’t right.

  “God speed, dear friend,” Julian said as he patted the neck of Jody’s horse in farewell.

  “Thank ye, and pray fer us all,” Jody said, casually saluting Julian as he left.

  Julian waved at the quickly disappearing horse and the tall redheaded rider. “Lord, keep them safe,” he prayed with head bowed, “and all of us here too. Amen.” Julian raised his head and went back to the pasture to work with the other two men he loved: his son and his partner. “And thank You for all You have given me. I appreciate it. Amen, again.”

  Julian spent the rest of the day with Wallace and José, mending fences and marking trees to be felled for more pasture. This was his home now, and the many chores were labors of love.

  He was glad his son had stayed behind. Wallace told him that he actually liked doing hard physical labor—it helped him relax, he claimed. Julian knew that the necessity of laying low, staying out of sight of the soldiers from both sides, frustrated his son. Yes, working hard was good for both Wallace’s sanity and self-esteem. And it didn’t hurt that the ranch would be back in good working order in half the time with the strong young man’s assistance.

  He also knew that it wouldn’t be too long and Wallace would be back with Jody and Evie. Or rather, he would be leaving to wherever Evie was. Julian really liked Sarah’s sharp, yet sassy, ‘little sister,’ and was glad that Wallace did, too. She was such an intense and interesting young woman—it was hard to believe she was so young.

  Ӂ Ӂ

  Jody liked Evie, too. She was a brave young lass and, like Sarah, had adapted well to this time period. She could have been a whimpering, weak woman—bemoaning the absence of her husband and looking for sympa
thy with that big belly of hers—but she didn’t. She helped Sarah with all the chores and pitched in with some of the men’s tasks, just to lighten the load for the lot of them. She always worked as part of the family and didn’t ask for any special privileges.

  If his no-good nephew Ian wasn’t coming back for his wife and their bairns, then he would be more than happy to have them stay as part of his family. Of course, that probably meant Wallace would be staying, too, and that was fine with him. He’d have to add on to the house, though. At least this time, he’d have Wallace to help him. He’d built enough structures, both by himself and with others, to know that he didn’t want to construct anything by himself again.

  As he rode closer to the house, Jody could see Evie sitting under ‘her’ tree with the little satchel she had put together with rags and wee scraps of cloth. The bag was overflowing with long pieces of vine and green shoots. He’d have to bring out the wash pot a day early, he thought. She’d need to soak her woodland bounty before she could weave it.

  He stopped at the edge of the clearing and looked over his little homestead with a slightly biased eye. It wasn’t as big as his last home on Pomeroy’s Point, but land and buildings weren’t everything. He only had the two buildings, but he also had at least one male and one female of each of the animals he wanted for his stock. He didn’t need much more than hard work to improve his humble estate. Most importantly, he had a contented family.

  And now he had his son in his life. Their hidden relationship, awkwardly revealed by Evie when she let it be known that Wallace was his godson, had been seen through by everyone present—they knew it was only part of the story. Later, Wallace had privately thanked him for giving him life. Jody hadn’t sired him on purpose, but was glad of it anyway…and relieved that his son understood, without explanation, why he hadn’t been there for him while he was growing up.

  Wallace couldn’t have had a finer stepfather than Julian. The titled British officer was another blessing Jody hadn’t asked for. Fair, dignified, just, and with a good heart—his former gaoler and political foe was the perfect surrogate father—well, except for the British part. Then again, Julian’s citizenship and status had made it possible for Wallace to have more in the way of education and travel than he could ever have offered. Who would have thought that a friendship could evolve from spending six years together as prisoner and subjugator? Their status relationship was secondary to their respect for each other and their life situations, neither one lording over nor rebelling against the other.