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

by Dani Haviland

  “Did you know the Japanese Samurai soldiers used to practice sucking up their testicles so they wouldn’t be cut off or injured in battle? Looks like your body didn’t need instructions—it just came naturally.”

  Wallace flashed a chagrined smile, blushed red as an embarrassed teenager, and said, “Thanks.”

  “See, all better,” I crowed. Then I took it down a notch, assuming the healthcare-giver persona again. “I think you were in shock, but your coloring’s back now. Do you think you can sit up without falling over?”

  He leaned to one side, brought his knees toward his chest, and sat up effortlessly. “Oh, I think I’ll manage,” he said, grinning.

  There was an awkward moment. I wasn’t sure what else to say since I had just been so close to his private parts, and acting way too flip and casual toward him, even for a 21st century woman.

  He cleared his throat. “I do want you to know, though, I was scared pretty bad there. I think I would rather be dead than emasculated. Thanks for, um, bringing me around,” he said, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt, trying to hide his embarrassment.

  “Oh, I’m glad I could help. Then again, I’m relieved that it wasn’t life threatening. I’d want you with or without, the, um, fringe benefits.”

  I blushed as soon as the words left my lips. “Did I just say that? I’m sorry. How brazen of me to suggest that we would, could…”

  Wallace pulled me to him, cutting short my blathering with a passionate kiss that must have been a full minute long. I finally had to come up for air.

  “Phew, the kisser’s sure in good working order.” I looked down and saw the tent pole bump in the middle of his blanket. “And it looks like everything else is going to be just fine.”

  **34 Healing

  Wallace wrapped one of the blankets around his middle, and together we walked back to the hospital tents, rather, to the tarps suspended over the injured. There were wounded men all around us, but by the look on Wallace’s face, he was inside the same cocoon of peace that I was.

  I saw the pierced and battered men lying on the ground, leaning against the naked trees, but I chose to think of them as the once fallen who were now healing. Their warfare—for today, at least—was over. No one was going to ride through here again tonight and bring more chaos and destruction. “Let the healing begin,” I said to no one in particular.

  The patch-up crews were on duty. At least, most of them were. I had been absent too long and needed to get back to my job at the body restoration shop, otherwise known as surgery. Sarah had at least forty patients lined up to see her.

  I found her just as I had left her, bent over a wounded man. I was sure this was a different one, but after a while, they all started to look the same. All the men had the same drab-colored clothing, covered with dirt and blood, lots of blood. The faces, whether young or old, fat or thin—and most of them were thin—all looked the same: haggard.

  I walked to the other side of her patient and asked Sarah, “Do you know where there’s a sewing needle and some thread? I had to cut through Wallace’s pants to perform some first aid. They need repairing before he can go out into the field again. His quilted sarong really isn’t suitable for riding or walking.”

  Sarah looked up at me with a glare between anger and frustration that could have cut through steel, if we had any. I knew she had been working non-stop since we arrived. Wallace was beside me, and it was obvious by the glow on our faces that we had been doing something other than working in the hospital effort. “Over there, in the pocket of my cloak, is a little sewing kit.”

  She bent back to her work. I could tell she was just about to say something else, but I cut her off as I grabbed the kit. “Sarah, I’ll be quick about this, and then I’ll be right back to help you. I’m sure Jody and the others want Wallace back in action right away, too. I took care of his wounds, so all that’s needed now is his modesty returned.”

  I had the needle threaded by the end of the sentence. I reached up and rubbed my thumb and forefinger up and down the sides of my greasy nose, then slid them over the length of thread. I felt Wallace staring at me. I looked up and said, “The oil makes the thread go through the fabric easier and helps to keep it from knotting. Just a few more, there—done. These are basting stitches and only meant to hold the cloth together to keep you decent. They won’t last long, though. When you get back this evening, find me, and I’ll put in smaller stitches.”

  Wallace took the pants from me, the sparkle in his eyes and the dimples in his cheeks showing that he was holding back a full-blown grin of anticipation. He wanted to be with me as much as I wanted to be with him.

  “Thank you for the doctoring, Miss Evie, and for the quick tailoring. Sarah, is there anything I can do to help you?”

  Sarah was intent on her task, her head and shoulders hovering above her patient’s thigh as her hands pierced and tugged a long series of stitches. The man might wind up walking with a limp, but she had probably saved his leg.

  “Yes,” she said, her clipped tone and pursed lips letting us know she was trying to hold her frustration in check, “stay alive and in one piece. And bring your fathers back the same way, please.” She paused her suturing at the end of her request to find Wallace standing at her elbow. She looked up to face him. “Be careful out there,” she said softly, her brow wrinkled with worry.

  Wallace bent down and kissed her on the forehead, smoothing the stray hairs out of the way after the fact, trying to ease her fears with his touch. “You be careful, too. I don’t think you realize how important you are to all of us. And I don’t mean just your healing skills. You are a generous, selfless woman, and we, I, love you.”

  Sarah’s face, at first stunned, was now glowing. “Thanks, I love you, too. Now, go out there and look after those fathers, would you?”

  She was trying to put on her matronly nurse demeanor, but it wouldn’t quite slide over her maternal radiance. She had suddenly realized that Wallace was not just her husband’s son, or her friend Julian’s, but hers as well. This six-foot-five-inch young man, whom she had cared about since she first met him, had just bonded with her for the first time. Now it was my turn to glow. My wonderful family was getting lovelier and closer, all the time.

  Ӂ Ӂ

  “Sarah, what can I do to help?” I asked, bringing both of us back to the reality of our barely civilized, extremely unhygienic, field hospital. I was standing next to her, blotting the oozing blood from the suture site on the young man’s thigh.

  “Check on who’s coming in next. Take one of the healthier men with you to help get my next patient onto this table,” she said, indicating the other rise of sawn timbers that was our second surgery platform. “And when you get back, I need a latrine break.”

  “Okay, but make sure you take a sandwich with you when you head out of here. I want you to eat something before you fall down. You can’t sew up the wounded while you’re lying flat on your back,” I scolded.

  “Yes, mother,” she replied wryly, then was back to business. “There, all done. Where did you say the sandwiches were, Evie?”

  I already had a cheese and onion wrap in my hand for her. “And take a minute to throw water on your face. I promise, it will make you feel better.”

  Sarah took a deep breath, “Do I really look that bad?” she asked as she pushed her hair away from her forehead with the back of her hand.

  “No, you just look tired. The cold water facial is for your benefit, not for those who have to look at you. Now scoot, and drink lots of water with that sandwich. It’s cheese, and you know what happens if you eat too much cheese,” I said, making a face like I was in the privy, grunting.

  “Yes, mother,” she said again with a grin. She took a big bite of the tortilla-wrapped sandwich. “I’ll sure be glad when we get a smoked ham. The cheese is good, but a ham and cheese sandwich will be, oh, so wonderful. I’ll be right back; don’t start without me.”

  Wallace’s kiss on the forehead, along with a five-
minute lunch and necessary break, gave Sarah a strong second wind. I was sending her patients like cars through an express lube shop. Having the patients in order of urgency and someone—me—to tell her about the wounds, their severity and location, really did speed up the process in the surgery. I was right at her elbow, anticipating her needs: when clothing needed cut away, wounds washed, or suture needles threaded. It was almost as if we were sending and receiving psychic messages. She would start to ask for something, and I would already have it in my hand, ready to put it in hers.

  No matter how I tried to convince myself that we were doing well—there were few who had died after the initial conflict—it still bothered me to see these men wounded. I was glad young Nathan appeared to be the only child injured in the skirmish. Not all of the men were young. I was sure many of them had wives and children, parents, and maybe even grandchildren, who depended on them for a livelihood. There was such a wide range of ages.

  Almost all of these men were Loyalists and our foes, but Sarah and I were respectful to them. They were still Americans in the making, as far as I was concerned. They lived side by side with the patriots, but were afraid to break away from the strong and domineering Mother England. Good manners and graciousness on our part might just help sway them over to the red, white, and blue side.

  We were courteous when we asked each injured man—and they were all men—where he was wounded. Sarah would also inform her patient what she was going to do next and usually warn him that it was going to hurt. We really didn’t have anything in the way of painkillers. We had the makings for willow bark tea, but didn’t have the time to stop and brew it.

  I saw my little friend Nathan standing guard outside the surgery area. He was staring at me, almost begging me with his eyes to come talk with him. When Sarah got to a point where I could break away, I did just that. “I need to be excused for a moment, Sarah; is now a good time?”

  “You know it is,” she replied as she followed my line of sight over to the little boy. “Go ahead, but don’t take too long.”

  “I did like ye said, mum,” Nathan said. “I told me mam where I was. She said to thank ye and to ask if there was anythin’ ye be needin’?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is something she can help us with. Does your mother ever brew willow bark tea?”

  “Yes, mum; she makes it fer me sisters when they get the miseries. She always has lots of it put away. Did ye need some?”

  “Yes, we do. Can you see if she’ll brew as much as she can, and then bring it up here? On second thought, it might be easier if she just brought a big pot and the bark up here to brew. We have a few able-bodied men who can fetch the water for her. And ask her to bring a few cups if she has them.”

  “Aye, I’ll do it right away,” Nathan said. He straightened up, saluted me, and turned to leave.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait just a minute, young man. I don’t want you to carry anything heavier than a chicken, remember? You can carry the tea and a cup or two, but nothing else, you hear?”

  “Oh, yes, mum; I’ll get me sisters to help mam. I tole ‘em about ye, but they wouldna believe me. Now they can come and see fer theirselfs.”

  “What wouldn’t they believe, Nathan?”

  “They dinna believe that a woman as big in the belly as ye could work with ailin’ men. They said that it would hurt the bairn to be around so much blood, and that a respectable woman wouldna do it. Oh, I’m sorry. I dinna mean anythin’ was wrong with ye helpin’. I think it’s great! Can I go now, mum?”

  “Yes, you can go now. Nothing heavier than a chicken, now, you hear. And that’s a dead chicken, not a thrashing chicken that you’re hauling off to the butcher block.”

  Nathan just waved as he ran off, happy to be helping in the cause.

  **35 Crocs, Cabin Fever, and a Cell Phone

  March 3, 1781

  Other than with my immediate ‘family,’ I seldom felt as if I fit in with the people of this time, but I tried to at least look like I belonged. I wore a simple drawstring skirt as a courtesy to the people around me. Women in trousers were…well, they just ‘weren’t’—weren’t accepted as ladies in this society. Based on my recent uncomfortable and nearly tragic personal encounters—the impressions by degenerate males like Gimpy, that a woman in pants was automatically wanton—I decided I should dress according to the prevailing fashion.

  My simply gathered homespun garment provided the required 18th century modesty, but little warmth. I didn’t have the benefit of a petticoat, so I kept my polar fleece sweatpants on underneath my blue rag-pieced skirt, the waistband of the gray pants shoved beneath my rapidly growing belly. I wore my green buffalo-checked flannel shirt over my white tee shirt in lieu of a feminine blouse, but usually had Sarah’s cream-colored spare shawl across my shoulders to soften my appearance.

  I wouldn’t have worn the women’s shoes of this era even if I could have afforded them. Their construction was weak—partly because of the materials used—but the design was lousy. Shoemakers of this era didn’t differentiate between right and left shoes. The leather uppers got stiff if they got wet, unless you rubbed loads of bear grease into them, and then they stank. The pegs that attached the uppers to the soles fell out when it got too cold, or they’d simply shatter from wear.

  I had something to keep my feet dry and warm though. The hiking boots I had been wearing for—well, ever since I could remember—were still in great shape. I had resorted to tucking the laces inside the boots, though, wearing them like slippers. My belly was too big for me to bend over to tie the bootlaces, and I didn’t want to ask anyone to act as my foot servant. My feet were swollen by the end of the day anyhow, so it was just as well that I left them untied.

  I would have been better off with my Crocs, but they were gone. Several weeks earlier, Sarah and I had gone to that little cluster of businesses we called ‘town’ for supplies. When we entered Gibson’s sparsely stocked general store, a short and very obese man was talking with Andrew, the proprietor. He said he was looking for a comfortable pair of boots. He didn’t have any money, but said he had barter goods in the wagon.

  That was normal for these times. Bartering commodities—like bacon, tobacco, and grains—were often more valuable than silver for purchasing everyday supplies. His Majesty’s money was not allowed out of England, so other forms of currency were improvised to transact business. Spanish silver coins—if one could find them—were often cut into eight pieces. These ‘bits’ as they were called, found their way into the backcountry. That’s why in the 21st century, twenty-five cents was called—or will be called—‘two bits’: the value of two bits of a silver dollar.

  I tried not to eat much, but an extra person—or two or three with Wallace and sometimes a visiting Julian at the table—depleted the pantry in a hurry. The men wanted to help, but didn’t have anything in the way of money they could use without raising red flags. They were soldiers, or had been, and their script was worthless outside of His Majesty’s service.

  Our little clan didn’t have much to trade, but we were going to try with what we had. Sarah was hoping to future barter—if there was such a term—two of the kids that were due next month. Two of her nannies were pregnant and, although it would have been nice to keep all of the kids for ourselves, right now we needed flour and salt more. Coffee and sugar would have been nice to have, too, but we would be fortunate just to get the essentials.

  We waited for the storekeeper to finish with the heavyset man looking for shoes. I inspected the entire inventory of Andrew’s puny fabric department—all three bolts of cloth—while Sarah bided her time checking out the small, dusty, colored-glass bottles and their contents on the back shelf.

  It wasn’t too long before the big man’s temper began to flare. “What do you mean, you don’t have any? I come all this way for some decent boots, and you don’t even have one pair? How about what you’re wearin’? Come here—let me see if they’ll fit me.”

  It was desperation speaking; I
could hear it in his voice. I looked down at the wide man’s feet and saw that he had rags wrapped around them.

  “Mr. Leuga, we’ve never kept shoes here fer sale, and those of us what have ‘em, need to keep ‘em. Lookit here—see, I had to put strips a’ cloth around mine, jest to keep ‘em together. They ain’t worth much, but I’m gonna keep ‘em, jest the same.”

  Andrew’s shoes were in poor shape, and they wouldn’t have fit his customer’s feet even if he were willing to give them up…er…rather, sell them.

  “Excuse me, sir,” I said. “I might be able to help you. I don’t have boots to spare, but I do have a pair of fancy Italian sandals that might work for you. You’d need to wear warm woolen socks with them at this time of year, though.”

  “Socks?”

  He shook his head at the unfamiliar term, and then realized what I meant.

  “Those ain’t a problem, I got plenty of stockings. What I need is something to protect the bottoms of my feet and not bind me.” He lifted his pant leg, “The boots I had rubbed the skin clear off. I got so mad that I threw ‘em in the river!”

  I gasped at the sight of his open wounds. He saw my reaction and liked the attention. He smirked and added, “You think those are bad? The ones under these bandages are even worse!”

  Sarah had come over to see what the commotion was. Anyone who needed medical attention was going to get it if she were around. No one was left untreated on her shift—and she was always on shift. “Let me see, please.”

  I moved aside so Sarah could examine the man’s feet. He leaned against the counter that held the store’s ironmongery—shears, hinges, nails, and other odd-shaped metal pieces that I didn’t recognize.