Naked in the Winter Wind (The Fairies Saga Book 1)

by Dani Haviland

  “Thank you, Lady. You’d better go home to your babies now,” I said, completely composed—which very much unsettled both Julian and Wallace.

  I had noticed her swelled udders or teats—or whatever they call them on a cat—as she walked—no, she strutted—away from us. She must have a home nearby with her babies, and the shouting and ruckus had disturbed her.

  I didn’t know she had been tracking me from the cave and watching over me these past few weeks. Well, at least that’s how it felt when I looked over at the man she had killed in my defense, and the little present she had laid at my feet.

  “What is it?” asked Julian, looking at the small pile of fresh meat at my feet.

  “Vengeance,” said Wallace, as he looked right at me.

  A screech came from above us. An eagle was circling overhead. We all stepped back as it swooped down and grabbed the pile of male reproductive parts that had been at my feet. “Soon to be eagle poop.” I added.

  I looked up at Julian, took a deep breath, and said with finality, “I don’t want to talk about it now.”

  Julian didn’t reply with words, but he nodded, wide-eyed and mute. He probably didn’t know what to say or ask right now, anyway.

  Wallace kept me at his side as we walked back to the scene of his rape. He found his shirt and put it on mechanically, his eyes fixed on some distant, unseen object. I located his pants in a heap at the other end of the log and handed them to him. He put them on and walked to the spot where his boots had been tossed. Using a stick, he picked up the shawl we had wiped away each other’s shame with. He walked over to Gimpy’s corpse, and tossed it over the face, forever frozen in terror. “We’ll get you another shawl, Evie.”

  I bobbed my head up and down. I swallowed hard and managed to say without letting the tears fall, “I want to go home.”

  Julian was shifting from one foot to the other, curious again. I knew he wanted to know what had happened. He looked at Wallace, but before he could ask, Wallace said, “Like she said, Papa, let’s not talk of it now. I want to go home, too.”

  **28 Wallace’s Recovery

  There was an uncomfortable silence, like a sooty fog, hanging over all of us for the long hour it took to walk home. I knew Julian wanted to ask about what had happened—there was a dead body and his son’s nakedness involved, after all—but he respected our wishes not to talk about it, ‘at least not now.’ It wasn’t as if someone was going to find a body killed by a ‘painter’ and come looking for us to blame.

  Well, what Julian didn’t realize was that ‘that’ was a real possibility. I didn’t know if he had seen that the ‘eagle chow’ was actually the remains of a man’s genitals. If the now dick-less Clyde—the one I was sure had been attacked and castrated by the cougar that appeared to be under my supernatural command—had survived and was able to talk, we had a problem. He was likely to want revenge.

  Duh? Who wouldn’t? If Clayton—his heinous partner in the rape of Wallace—had escaped the wrath of Lady, he would be another person who might come forth and make accusations. That is, if the two of them were brave enough to face Wallace or me again.

  I doubted Clayton and Clyde had many social contacts beyond each other. From their dress, manner, and excitement in the ravishing of Wallace, I’d say they were butt buddies, at least. But I didn’t care if they were backwoods lovers—they still didn’t have to attack an innocent man like that. Those two didn’t appear to have an ounce of ambition between them and—without a leader—would probably, hopefully, stay hidden in the hills.

  The recently deceased scumbag I referred to as Gimpy didn‘t exactly have a societal personality either. I hadn’t seen his old chums Ma and her boys around—I guess they had parted ways, which was a good thing. They had seemed decent enough people, although a bit short in the social graces. Yes, I doubt there was anyone in Gimpy’s life who cared enough about him to even lift a sling shot to avenge him.

  On the morbidly bright side, it was possible those two moldy maggots did not escape, but had been attacked and killed by my feline protector. No, no—I shouldn’t wish anyone dead, but their deaths were a real possibility. On the other hand, if either of these rapists had survived, it was possible they would seek revenge. And their revenge would not—probably could not—be against the attacking wild cat, but against her apparent diabolical controller—me.

  I doubt I could legally be accused of any harm or foul in the death of Gimpy—whatever his real name was. But it was a marginal possibility I might be associated with the dismemberment of Clyde. I was willing to bet, though, that these wild mountain men wouldn’t have the nerve or insight to have the local law authorities arrest me—not that there were any around. The ‘CL’ boys could, however, have some low-browed cavemen cousins who would believe their ridiculous story about a white witch and her familiar—an eight-foot long mountain lion. In that case, we might have a Paleolithic posse seeking revenge.

  The three of us trudged along like two-legged machines—mobile, but without souls. I didn’t know what was going on in their minds, but mine was full of doubts and fears of retribution. But as soon as I saw our humble little shack of a house, I started running to it as if it were my long lost mother.

  I stopped long enough to pull up a bucket of water from the well. I hiked up my filthy skirt and cleared the porch steps, barely touching them. I burst into the house and was glad it was empty. I definitely didn’t want to talk to Sarah or Jody about what had happened. I grabbed the hook from the front of the hearth and pulled out the large kettle containing the meager stew I had set on for supper this morning. I grabbed all of the bowls from the cabinet and started filling them, stopping only when I ran out of stew. I splashed some water into the empty pot, swirled it around, and divvied up the slurry among the bowls, thinning the stew into soup.

  I poured the water from the ewer into the cast iron pot to capture the residual heat, swished it around, and poured it back into the ewer. I dumped the rest of the water from the bucket into the now semi-clean pot, set it back over the fire, and shoved three split logs into the coals, pushing them around them until it was blazing. I took off my skirt, snapped flannel shirt, and pants, and threw them into the big pot of rapidly warming water. I didn’t have any soap handy, but I had to get the slimy filth removed from the only clothes I owned as soon as possible, even if only with boiling water. I grabbed a long stick of wood from the woodpile and used it to agitate the clothes. I worked furiously, wearing nothing but the tee shirt and white cotton panties I had arrived in this aulden world with.

  Then I remembered the fancy bar of soap I had been saving for the babies. It was the only item I had for their layette. With my shawl gone, I didn’t even have a piece of cloth big enough for a gown for one baby, much less two—at least two—babies.

  Oh, boy—what now?

  I didn’t want the initial use of this sweet-fragranced bar to be for removing the remains of my sexual assault, but I had to use something. I was fuming with hate for those three men as I debated the need for cleanliness over the desire to maintain the purity of my babies’ only worldly possession. I stood in front of the fire—the bar of soap a treasure in my mind—trying to decide what to do. Should I make this sacrifice or not? It was more than just soap to me.

  “Lord, forgive me,” I said softly, “but I sure hope those two degenerates…um, followers of Satan…didn’t make it. Or at least that they learned a lesson and won’t be back to bother Wallace or me again. I know vengeance is Yours, but thanks for sending one of Your creatures to help me—us—in our hour of need. Amen.”

  I hadn’t yet decided whether to use the soap or not when Wallace walked in—stiff-limbed and staring, moving like a zombie—with two more buckets of water. He didn’t look at me, scandalously clad only in my skivvies, but just stood motionless in front of the roaring fire. I knew he had heard my prayer, though. His eyes were glazed—the light of the fire reflecting the emptiness of his spirit.

  I didn’t know what to say, so sa
id nothing. I stirred the pot again and set the stick down. I took a deep, calming breath and said, “Put down the water and give me your pants.”

  He didn’t say anything, but set down the buckets and, one by one, took off his boots. He worked the buttons on the front of his trousers and let them drop, kicking them toward the fire with his bare feet. His long shirt fell almost to his knees, but I doubt he would have shown any modesty even if he had been naked as a newborn. He was in shock.

  He had kicked his trousers so hard, they almost landed in the fire, but I grabbed my improvised laundry paddle and pulled them back. I wiggled the stick into the middle of the pile and twirled, pulling the pants onto the wood like spaghetti onto a fork. I lifted the mass and dropped it into the middle of the hot—but not yet boiling—water. I put down the wood, poured one of his buckets of water into the pot, and stirred.

  “My Leatherman!” I exclaimed, and used the laundry stick to fish in the pot for my fleece pants. I had forgotten to take the tool out of my pocket before starting the laundry.

  Wallace’s body burst from its stiff cast as he reached across me. He grabbed the pants as I lifted them up, searching the soaking mess with both hands for the pocket that held my multi-tool. He found it, picked it out with his thumb and index finger, and let the pants drop back into the water. He tossed the scalding hot knife back and forth, an awkward, almost comical, juggling feat, as he turned around and stepped up to the table. Two more toss ups, and he decided that the blue quilted tea cozy was a good place to set it.

  Wallace smoothed the folds out of the fabric carefully, the Leatherman now a treasure in a quilted frame. His face was still a mask of non-emotion as he said in a disembodied, far-away voice, “I think it will be fine if we put some oil on it.”

  I moved past him to the chaise and pulled my backpack out from underneath it. I opened it and found the treasured bar of sweet smelling soap Sarah had given me. I took down a small pot and poured some of the fresh water into it, picked up and dried the Leatherman, opened out the sharp blade, and started shaving slivers of soap into the water. I put the pot into the embers and turned to Wallace. “Do you have another pair of socks?” I asked.

  He glared at me, practically shouting in an angry whisper, “After all we went through, you ask me if I have another pair of socks?”

  I didn’t take the attitude personally—I knew it was misdirected hostility. “Well, yeah! How can you keep pulling me out of trouble if you catch pneumonia and become bedridden?” My reply was softly spoken, half-serious and half-irritating. I just wanted to goad him into showing some kind of emotion.

  “Oh, Evie,” he cried, and gathered me into his arms. He held me as if he had just recovered something he thought he had lost—a little boy who had just found the teddy bear he thought mama had thrown into the trash pit.

  My maternal instincts were kicking in. I grabbed the tea cozy, dipped it into the porridge pot with the now warm soapy water, and started washing his face. He took the cloth from my hand, poured the stew-tainted ewer water into the basin, rinsed the cloth in it, and then dipped it back into the soapy water. He began by washing my face. We took turns cleaning each other’s face, neck, and shoulders—rinsing with rabbit-stew-scented water.

  At some point, I grabbed Sarah’s tortoise shell comb and started combing the twig and leaf matter from his hair. When I was done, he held out his hand for the comb so he could tend to mine. I think he had some paternal instincts kicking in, too. It didn’t feel sexual, or even like we were siblings.

  Siblings. I flashed on that feeling, so I guessed I must have had one or more in a past life. I shuddered at the thought of me having a life other than this one.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “Just a bit; let’s get closer to the fire.”

  Wallace put one arm around me to guide me closer to the hearth. I inched nearer still, grabbed the potholder, and poured our bath soap/water mixture into our laundry. Normally I wouldn’t dream of washing clothes in a food pot, but this impromptu laundering had been an emergency. I’d deal with scouring out the soapy residue later. Right now, a spiritual cleansing was more important than off-tasting soups and porridge.

  “You know, I wasn’t unconscious the whole time,” Wallace said softly, as if admitting a fault. “I felt like a coward because I didn’t do anything to protect you. But that bast… monster had a knife to your face. He threatened to carve you a couple of new eye sockets if I moved. He told the boys to throw me over the log and fu…er, use a small log to…to…”

  Wallace couldn’t finish, but I didn’t want him to feel like he had to. “I get the idea,” I said gently, cutting him off so he wouldn’t keep fumbling for words.

  “Then the two boys—or men, I guess—couldn’t lift me, so the gimpy one who was holding you took his knife and started shaving your face. He said he’d start carving into it if I didn’t put myself over the log and pull off my own pants.”

  I reached up and felt my face. The right cheek was completely soft and hairless as was half of the left side. There was also a small nick on my chin where he had missed and brought blood—or maybe he hadn’t missed and brought blood on purpose.

  “The boys refused to use a stick on me—they said they wanted me for themselves. They argued about it for a minute, and then the old man gave in and said to go ahead and do it their way, as long as they taught me a lesson. Then the two of them fought over who got to…to,” Wallace’s voice softened to a whisper, “do me first.”

  I reached out to give him a hug, but he put up his hand for me to wait—or leave him alone. I was taking it as a wait because I wasn’t going to leave him alone.

  “Then the one said he won because his manhood was bigger and he’d make it easier for the other one. He…he…started, and I couldn’t help but squirm. That’s when you got the cut on your chin. I thought he was going to slit your throat. At least, that’s what he said he was going to do—the one with the knife. He said he could, ‘Have his way with you, breathin’ or nae.’ I couldn’t do anything to save you, but if I held still, at least he wouldn’t kill you. So, I just pulled myself inside my, my, pulled my soul into my body. I guess that’s what it would be. After that, I wasn’t aware of what was going on outside of my body. But I could actually see and feel my heart pumping. It was as if I were part of the blood flow—going in and out of the heart chambers. I didn’t hurt at all—didn’t feel or hear anything until I heard your voice.”

  By the end of his story, I had gravitated into both his arms. Our bare legs were starting to get the hair singed from our nearness to the fire. We walked away from the heat as if we were one body.

  “You know,” he said, “I know there are homosexuals in this world—men who have sexual relations with other men—but I don’t see how it’s possible to be human and enjoy that kind of…of…”

  I reached up and slapped Wallace hard across the face. “What was that?” he asked angrily.

  I then put the same hand on the cheek I had just smacked, caressing the cheek softly, working my way around to tickle his ear.

  “What happened to you was an act of violence—not love or even sex. You didn’t ask for it, or even agree to it except under threat of my life. This same hand that can love and treasure you, could hurt you, destroy you. It’s the same concept with any other part of the human anatomy. Rape is an act of hurting a person—showing domination, and inflicting humiliation. It is possible for two men or two women to love each other and make love with whatever parts of their bodies are accommodating. I believe there is nothing wrong with two people loving each other—no matter what their genders. I also believe that some people’s sexual attractions are not the same as mine—and obviously yours—but that doesn’t make it wrong. A man loving another man and not caring to be intimate with a woman is no different than a person being left-handed and automatically lifting his left hand in defense of something coming at his face.”

  I knew I had him identifying with me on this one—both he and Jo
dy were left-handed. “God made us all different. Not even identical twins are just alike. And I think I know why God made us all different.”

  We were both mute, just standing there. “Well,” he asked impatiently, “why did God make us different?”

  “To teach us tolerance and acceptance,” I replied self-assuredly. “I never read anywhere in the Bible that I was supposed to hate someone because he was different. It’s just the opposite. Remember, Jesus taught us to ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself.’”

  “That has always been my favorite scripture, and one I’ve tried to live by. Today was too much of a trial, though. I don’t think I can forgive them for quite a while, if ever. It’s too much for me to believe I could ever love those two. And I can’t say I’m sad that that big cat killed the man who hurt you.”

  Wallace’s eyes lit up with recall. “And where did that cougar come from?” he asked, his own personality suddenly taking over and, hopefully, conquering the zombie persona forever.

  “Oh, she and I have a history. Remember the story of Androcles and the Lion?” Before he got a chance to answer, my head raced through history. I relaxed when I recalled that there was a good chance Wallace had heard Greek fables in his extensive education.

  “Do you mean the story about the slave who took the thorn out of the lion’s paw?”

  “That’s the one. I’m the slave and Lady—that’s what I called her when I found her with cut-up feet—is the lion. I helped her mend, I suppose. At least, I fed her for a couple of days—gave her water and, well—I guess we gave each other comfort in the cave when I was all alone. I suppose the moral of the story is—a kindness given is a kindness remembered. Or maybe a good deed is repaid by a good deed. And God takes care of His own, too. Thank You, Lord!”

  “Aye, I guess you’re right. Bashed, battered, and humiliated—at least our bodies are still whole and we are alive to see tomorrow. Oh Lord, Evie; I didn’t even ask—are the babies okay?” Wallace turned me to him to look into my eyes for forgiveness for not inquiring sooner.