I’m doing my best to be gentle, but occasionally I feel Ian’s muscles twitch while I’m extracting a particularly difficult shard. He doesn’t say a word, though. He’s either stubborn or stoic—or both.
Now, time to apply the hand sanitizer. If it kills germs on unwashed hands, it should work as an antiseptic on wounds, too. Or I hope so—it’s the only thing I have.
Ian gulps in air, begins panting in pain, but otherwise doesn’t move.
Dang! Now I remember—bottled germ killer is mostly alcohol. Alcohol on an open wound would get a three-minute scream and a bucketful of four-letter words from me. Ian must have thought when I said don’t move, I also meant don’t yell.
I quickly grab the bandanas and use them to secure the snow-filled baggies to the soles of his feet. The soft snow conforms to fit his arches. I make a mental note not to leave them on too long. He doesn’t need frostbite on top of all of his other miseries.
I climb back towards the sunlight and Ian’s face. I follow up Rocky’s face cleaning with a more thorough job, using the baby wipes. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in about a week, and that makes it hard to clean his face. Another thing I don’t have is a razor, but I think his skin is clean enough without a shave. And, thank You, Lord, it turns out that what I thought were hot poker wounds on his face, are a series of star-shaped tattoos. I think his nose is broken, too, but I don’t know anything about fixing it, so I’ll leave it alone. At least he can still breathe through it.
It looks like he’s asleep again. I don’t know if that’s good for his health, but it’s easier for me. I don’t feel so invasive if he’s unaware of me.
I had checked the front of his shirt earlier and it wasn’t bloody, but I never checked his sides. If Ian had been protecting his chest and stomach, his ribs and back quite possibly received most of the blows.
I move his hand to check his side, but when the light hits it, I stop, sick to my stomach—again.
I hadn’t looked at his hands earlier; I never even thought about them. It was too dark to see much beyond my nose when I cut his bindings. I just found the rope and freed him. I hadn’t checked them when I did my triage because, well, I didn’t think about it. When I saw his feet, I knew they needed taken care of stat. Maybe I should have continued with my examination, but I can’t change history; I can only go forward. Maybe it’s not too late.
His hands and fingers are horrendous. They’re going to need more than baby wipes and shard removal. They’re swollen and battered, and look more like purple baseball mitts than hands. I doubt that even a piece of dental floss could be wedged between any of his three middle fingers. Gratefully, there aren’t any obvious breaks or gashes, and all digits are pointing in the right direction. Maybe it’s good that I practiced my procedure on his feet first. This isn’t going to be easy or pleasant for either of us.
Feet: I suddenly remember the ice bags on his feet. It’s time to take them off. I crawl to the back of the cave and remove them. I don’t have a problem with claustrophobia this time. I’m on a mission. I don’t even realize that I’ve just emerged from a cramped space until I hear the birds singing outside and remember the mourning doves I was meditating on earlier.
I dart into the sunshine, reload the bags with snow, and then get back to work. A quick washing of the cuts on his hands with the baby wipes and it’s time for the hand sanitizer. This time I’m ready. As soon as I apply the germ killer, I pack the snow-stuffed baggies around his hands, pre-empting the fiery effect.
Now where was I? Right, I wanted to check his sides. I gently tug at his buckskin shirt, but the way he’s laying, I can’t pull it up. There is, however, just enough wiggle room for me to put one hand up inside it. Wiggle is the right word, too. I wedge my hand up the right side of the shirt, skimming my hand over his skin to feel for broken bones, cuts, or whatever on his lean torso. As I near his armpit, he starts squirming. Evidently, Ian is ticklish.
Moving my hand across his chest doesn’t seem to disturb him, but when I get near his left armpit, he starts squirming again. I don’t find any injuries, so move my hand down, toward his stomach. Instead of moving away from me, though, Ian seems to be pushing his belly up towards my hand. I hear an “mmm”—it sounds as if he’s enjoying my inspection. I stop, hold still a moment, and then reach up towards his liver. No swelling, although I don’t know what I’d do if he did have internal injuries. I almost pull my hand out all the way, but then give in to the temptation to tickle those swirly hairs near his navel again.
“Mmmmm,” he murmurs louder still, his grin heard, but not seen.
I had better stop this. Both of us are enjoying it too much. He’s asleep, and doesn’t even know who I am. I scold myself silently and hope he doesn’t remember any of this when he comes to.
I look out at the sky and guess it to be about noon. I’m not a woodsman by any stretch of the imagination, but when the sun is directly overhead, it’s probably noon in every land and in every season. I figure I’ve been playing doctor for nearly four hours now. I’m due for a break.
I grab the backpack and clutch it to me. I know it’s mine, I’m positive it belongs to me, but at the same time, I don’t know what else is in it. Strange familiar items: how contrary. I upend the contents onto my freshly swept foyer, then hold the empty bag up to the daylight, looking for a nametag. Bummer. There’s a space for a name, but it’s shiny and blank: nothing has ever been written on it.
Well, Miss Ann Nonymous, here’s what else you have to make your rustic life more comfortable: reading glasses in a hard-sided needlepoint case, a large zippered plastic bag of what looks like homemade granola, a long reach butane lighter, a waterproof container of matches, Thinsulate-lined gloves, neon green plastic Crocs, a folding pocket saw, a tube of hand cream, some spare clothing, a mess kit with a metal plate, cup, and utensils, eight packages of freeze-dried meals, a hand towel and two washcloths, a short stack of paper napkins, a travel size pack of cotton swabs, a hank of blue and white braided nylon rope, and a quart-sized pot with lid
Cool! Now I have a pot to cook in and two ways to create fire. My means are frugal, but definitely better than they were a few hours ago and, joy of all small joys: I have something to use as toilet paper. Woo Hoo! That reminds me, it’s time for my personal hygiene check. Hopefully, this is just a spotting episode and not a full blown, cramping, bloating, farting menstrual period.
After attending to my renewed fertility issue, I want to see if I can build a fire. “Fertility issue! Who can I impress with my puns now? Ah, just hush up and get some firewood.
“Uh-oh, I’m talking to myself. Did I just say that out loud? Uh, yes, I did. Oh, well, I guess I don’t have to worry about embarrassing myself—it’s not like someone will come along and hear me!”
Come along? Crap! I had forgotten about those creepy men from last night. I’ve been so busy attending to Ian, and then thrilled at the return of my backpack full of goodies that I forgot there was an enemy out there. ‘An enemy of my friend is my enemy?’ or was it ‘A friend of my enemy is my enemy’? Either way, I need to shut up. I don’t want to attract any unsavory characters with my babbling.
It’s a cloudless sky today and the air is still, which I’m pretty sure means it’s going to be colder tonight than last night. At least we can have a fire. I have wood nearby and both butane lighter and matches, but I’m not sure where to set up the fire ring. If I put it at the front of the cave entrance, I’ll have to make sure it’s far enough away from the holly bushes, or whatever they are, that they don’t catch fire. Or maybe that would be so they don’t catch smolder since the wood is green. That’s all I need to do—send smoke signals to alert the bad guys of our location. I hope they’ve gone on to bigger and better tasks, like falling off cliffs! Either way, I’d better gather some wood now, while I still have daylight.
I search my little area for firewood, but all I find is either wet or damp from the fresh snow. It’s not ideal, but hopefully usable—and at least it’s
not frozen to the ground.
Hmph! With all that seems to be going wrong, I realize I can still find things to be grateful for: a sunny day, wood and a lighter for a fire, a dry place to lie, and gloves. Ian’s hands remind me of how vulnerable man’s most valuable and versatile tools can be. I know the wood I’m gathering is rough and difficult to carry, but I have protection from slivers, thorns, and the cold. I’m healthy, and the task is nothing I can’t do.
Yeah, well, what I need to do is remove the bandage on Ian’s head and see why there was blood coming out of his ears last night. That’s something I can do, but not something I want to do. I’ll see to other stuff first.
Ӂ
Okay, I should probably stash the wood in the back of the cave so it isn’t ignited by a stray spark. That would really ruin my day, a wall of fire at my threshold, blocking my exit, trapping me and my comatose patient in an oversized pizza oven.
I crank up the lantern, put the wire bail of the lamp in my mouth, grab two armloads of wood, squat down and duck-walk back to the newly-designated fuel depot. It’s not so scary back here now that I can see. Maybe I don’t have claustrophobia after all.
I can’t find a level spot for the lantern, so I smooth out a sandy mound and set it there. Even with the lamp’s limited glow, this place is nice and cozy, not terrifying at all. I carefully arrange the firewood in my little indoor woodshed: the larger pieces stacked on the right, the kindling and smaller branches on the left.
I reach for the lantern and notice a fresh dusting of sand on top of it. I look up and see the lantern’s light illuminating little flecks of dirt as they sift down from a high crevice at the back of the cave’s otherwise low ceiling. I’m not sure, but I think there’s a hole up there. Cool! If it’s big enough, I can place the fire back here, then the crack in the ceiling can be the chimney.
It’s actually fun building my little fire starter house, using twigs for walls and the paper and plastic packaging from the solar blanket as flooring. Now for the best part: torching it with the butane lighter. Yup, the smoke is going straight up, drawing through the cleft in the rocks. The back wall will reflect the heat toward the front, and I won’t have to Jack-Be-Nimble to go outside.
Back to my front yard, once again, to gather more fuel for the fire before it gets dark. I spot a jumble of wood down the rise that looks like it would make an easily accessed, ready-made woodpile. I skip down to it and see it’s bigger than I thought, maybe eight feet across. I wiggle the end of a decent-sized piece from the giant Jenga timber puzzle, carefully extracting it to add to my indoor wood box. Hmm, the ends are chiseled. I do believe that what I have here is a beaver dam that has somehow washed ashore. I know I’m not standing on ice now, but the presence of this dam means there should be a river or lake nearby. I’ll check it out later. Right now, I have a pan, snow, and a fire, so I can put off my search for fresh water. Just one more armload of logs, and then this Paula Bunyan will do her best to emulate Florence Nightingale.
Ӂ
Ian is still unconscious. I dump the melted snow from the hand baggies into my precious aluminum pot. For now, it can stay parked on the flat rock at the fire’s edge, keeping the water warm and handy for the task I dread the most: Ian’s cranial rag bandage removal.
I guess I’ve put this off long enough. It’s time to assess the damage to his ears. I squeak out a quick prayer, “Please help me, Lord,” and then return to the fire and my urgent care center.
Plop. I watch the washcloth float atop the warm water of my improvised sink. It soaks until saturated, then drops to the bottom, waiting to be employed as my all-in-one emergency room repair appliance. I squeeze it out minimally, gently turn Ian’s head to the right, and place it over the filthy rag stuck to his ear.
While the water is softening the bandage, I recheck the swelling of his face, cranking up the dynamo on the lantern for a closer look. Ian starts at the noise, but doesn’t wake. Looking closer, I see the swelling has gone down around his mouth, but his eyes are still swollen shut—he doesn’t react to the light.
“Here goes,” I say softly, more to myself than him since he’s hard of hearing. I need all the encouragement I can get, even if it’s only from me. I gently pull at the now pliable rag bandage, but it’s not coming loose—it’s still stuck to his face. I rewet the washcloth, gently urging the rag away, trickling extra drops of water on the leading edge as I tug. He grimaces and I pause, but he’s still out.
I bite my bottom lip in concentration as I continue working it loose until it finally releases with a pop, just in front of his ear. I bring the lantern closer and see there’s a rock wedged in his ear canal. I pry it out with my fingernail. It’s sticky, but not with blood. If I didn’t know better, I’d believe it was honey.
I rinse and rewet the washcloth, setting it under the left side of his head to soften the bandage while I check his right ear. I still can’t see worth a darn, in spite of the artificial and natural lights.
“Aha!” I exclaim loudly then add, “Oops, sorry.” Oh well, he didn’t hear me anyway. I just remembered seeing a pair of reading glasses in the backpack. I reach in and locate the needlepoint case by feel, take the glasses out, give them a quick blow to knock off the lint and dust from the lenses, and set them on my nose. I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
Changing the focus on the lantern from the broad, floodlight mode to a focused, directional beam also helps. The ear canal is goopy with honey and blood, but doesn’t stink with rot. Thank You, Lord, for that.
I carefully insert one of the cotton swabs and twirl it around. Those swab packages always have the same warning: do not insert into ear canal. Well, what are they for, then—fastidious nose pickers? Thanks for the warning, Mr. Swab Manufacturer, but I think I’ll continue to use these as ear swabs, despite your warning.
The crud on the swab has bits of wood bark in it, but otherwise is just dirt, blood, and honey. I dip the other end of the swab into the warm water and clean out his ear canal as carefully as I can. There are small scrapes, but no obvious infection. This was easier than I thought.
I’m sure glad those inbred creeps used honey and not mud to plug his ears. I get cold chills just thinking about it. Honey is a natural antibiotic, so the minor internal cuts and abrasions have already been protected. Right now, cleanliness and fresh air are the next steps in healing. If he has a burst eardrum or inner ear infection, I’ll be able to tell because any new drainage will be visible against the cleaned skin.
Removing the bandage on the other side is easier. The wet washcloth soaked all the way through to his skin so I didn’t even have to tug. Just like before, a rock was wedged in his ear canal. It’s almost as if they didn’t want him to hear, so they sealed his ears with a small stone and filled the gaps with honey. I used the same clean-up procedure, grateful once again for the swabs.
Yeah, that one side was easier, but now my back is hurting from all the hunching over and reaching across. There’s not much room to maneuver in here, so I’ll have to rearrange a body or two.
I roll Ian’s shoulders to the left, manage to get my legs under his shoulders again and, after a few more body tilts for him and a fanny repositioning for me, place his head in my lap. This is much easier on my back and shoulders, and the view is better, too. It’s also starting to get cold, so his body heat is welcome. Even if it does get well below freezing tonight, we should be cozy with a fire, a blanket, a big furry dog, and our shared heat. We have food and water—I think we’ll be fine. I just hope Ian pulls out of it. Except for his brief acknowledgement of Rocky, he’s been unconscious for way too long.
*10 Ass over teakettle
I’ve done all I can for Ian and I’m spent, both physically and emotionally. I need a break from the intensity and frustration, the challenge of repairing a broken man in a primitive existence. I don’t know whether to scream or cry.
I brush his dark, stringy, wayward hair off his face—again—carefully lift his head from my lap, scoot out from
underneath, and let Rocky take over the comforting.
My rumbling tummy reminds me that it’s been ages since I had a real meal. I giggle despite my circumstances. I really can’t remember how long it’s been, or even what I used to eat.
The crackers and cheese earlier were great for a snack, but now I’m ravenous. I doubt Ian will be able to consume anything other than sips of water, Rocky can take care of his own nutritional needs, so it’s only me I need to feed. I have those freeze-dried meals in my backpack, and all I need for a glorious spaghetti meal—or maybe I’ll try the beef stroganoff—is water. Ah, back to a positive attitude!
I take the pan I’ve been using as a washbasin, squeeze the washcloth into it, and offer it to Rocky. He hasn’t wanted to leave Ian all morning, and I’m sure he’s thirsty. “It’s not as good as toilet water, but if you don’t want it, I’ll get some fresh snow and melt it for you.” No need to bother, I guess—he’s already slurped it up.
I place the moist, wrung-out washcloth on Ian’s face. The evaporation of water from the cloth should be cool enough to help reduce the swelling. Hopefully he’ll be able to open his eyes again soon. I remove the bandanas from his hands and stuff the baggies in my pocket to take outside and refill with snow.
“Sure glad I have these,” I say to myself, realizing how valuable the bags are as a compact and lightweight means of bringing snow inside to melt for water. With the warmth of my small fire and the body heat of two people and a big, furry dog, the snow would probably melt overnight inside my new home. Still, I’ll store the water in the pot with the lid on it, so dust from the chimney cleft doesn’t sift down into it. Keeping it covered will also keep Rocky from drinking it all.
Naked in the Winter Wind (The Fairies Saga Book 1) Page 9