by William Bell
I suppose an artist would have been thrilled to death with the pattern of shadow and dazzling white, the brittle branches against the blue sky; but me, I just stood there calculating how I was going to handle this latest wrinkle in the saga of Crabbe the Traveler. Where I stood, right outside my nest (now shaped like an igloo) I was hip deep in snow and god only knew what was waiting for me further on.
One thing was sure: I’d have to abandon the canoe. But soon I was packed up again, slogging through the snow. It was hard going, I’ll tell you. In the places where the wind had got up some momentum during the storm the snow was only knee deep, but I had to plough through drift after drift as I went along. Some, deeper than my hips, I had to go around. Progress was very slow.
By late afternoon the sky was jammed up with low, ugly-looking clouds that came in on a freshening wind, a wind that came head-on against me.
But I kept on, mostly out of frustration in spite of the fading light and the unwelcome snow that began to sting my face. I repeated to myself, “Where in the hell is that lake?” I figured the most I had to cover that day was three, maybe four miles, yet here I was, still slogging. Though I was certain I was on course, I checked the compass every few minutes and even hauled out the map to double check.
Well, I was right. I reached the lake at nightfall. Completely exhausted, I leaned against the trunk of a thick maple as I looked out over the ice, for the lake had frozen during the blizzard for as far out as I could see. My legs felt rubbery and I panted from an attack on a hard-packed drift that swept up from the shore in a huge curve.
As my breath returned so did my common sense. I had reached the lake, but so what? I was still miles from nowhere and landbound.
In the rapidly fading light, back to the wind, eyes squinted against the swirling snow, I checked the map. Ithaca Camp was the only place near and it was a few miles northeast from where I was. Though probably closed for the winter, it would at least have shelter.
I quickly dug some food out of the pack, stuffing my mouth with jerky. As I chewed, I took a final check of my clothing.
This last leg was going to be rough. I would be travelling in the dark and no light would come from that snowy sky. The wind was stronger here, slamming against the trees, tossing the branches which snapped and clashed in protest. The waving trunks groaned and squeaked eerily.
I was wearing every article of clothing I owned, including the canvas pack-coat which was frozen stiff and crusted with ice and snow. My toque was yanked down across my brows and over my ears. My parka (inherited from Mary) was buttoned up tight but I snugged the drawstring on the hood a little more. Hood and toque were stiff rimmed with frozen breath. My hands felt okay in the mitt-socks and my feet were only a. little chilly. All systems go.
I set out into the teeth of the wind without the pack. I couldn’t carry the thing another step. So this trip was all or nothing.
Why didn’t I hole up again, as I should have? I’m not sure. Looking back, I think the reason was I felt so close. I was only a few miles from where I wanted to go and I kept thinking, just a little farther, just a couple of hours, and I’d be out of the cold. Which wasn’t sensible at all, of course. A couple of miles in a blizzard is a long, long way.
I tried to stick to the shore of the lake because the land was fairly flat and most of the drifts, though packed harder here, were only knee deep or so. But Mommy Nature always makes you pay. Out of the bush meant into the wind, which raced freely across the lake like a steel-cold demon, snatching away my body heat as I stumbled along, eyes on either my compass or the few feet of snow in front of me. It was dark now. There was snow on the wind -not much, but driven horizontally until the wind struck the trees on the rising shoreline and dropped its burden.
I don’t know how many times I fell before I lost my mitts: I fell forward in a deep drift and threw my arms out to break the fall. But the snow was deep and I went in up to my shoulders, burying my face. I cursed and struggled in frustration, unable to push my way out because my arms just kept plunging into the snow, nothing to push against. Finally I managed to roll sideways, only to find that my mitts were lost in the drift and impossible to find in the dark. Snow was jammed way up my sleeves and I had a hell of a time digging it out.
It wasn’t long after that that my hands, which I tried to withdraw up the now snowy sleeves, developed a stinging sensation in them. The same sensation slowly invaded my feet. Then it went away. I thought with relief that I was beginning to warm up, since the pain was gone. Then a horrible thought struck me and — I tried flexing my fingers. They were very stiff. Then the toes. Same thing. I realized with a shudder that they hadn’t warmed-up. The pain went away because the tissue was beginning to freeze.
I really got scared then and did something stupid. I began to run. But I didn’t get very far before the run became a stagger and I fell again, gulping in big mouthfuls of the frosty air. I was feeling cold all over now and didn’t rise. I didn’t want to. I sat in the snow, drew my knees up to my stomach and tucked my chin into my collar.
Maybe I’ll just sit and rest awhile, I thought. My breathing became more regular. Boy, was I tired. I needed a rest. I began to feel very comfortable. The cold was going away and I felt less afraid, and then not afraid at all — almost contented.
You know, some people say reading is a waste of time and maybe for them it is. But as I sat there watching tiny grains of snow dancing around in front of my face I thought, this is just like a story I read by Jack London. Something about a fire. The guy in the story froze to death but just before he drifted off he lay down in a snow drift hallucinating, waiting happily to fall asleep.
Well, I didn’t think I wanted to go to sleep — at least not yet. But as soon as the image of that poor fool crossed my mind I struggled quickly to my feet. Hell, I almost fell for it!
I jammed my hands into my sleeves and pushed on, fighting the urge to run.
It was an eternity. I remember telling myself, chanting, push, Crabbe, push. Don’t quit after all this. I also remember praying, sort of, to Mary, to help me just this one last time.
It was right after that I broke through the ice and crashed shin deep into water that was so cold it seemed to burn. I was so excited I shouted, “I’ve made it!” in words that were immediately whipped away by the wind. I now knew I was at the mouth of that shallow river that I’d floated down at the very start of my journey, the one with the sand bar. On I charged, exhilarated, breaking through ice all the way across the river and stumbling up the bank. In minutes I reached a cabin that was, luckily, unlocked.
With wooden hands I clumsily unlatched and pushed open the door. It took ages to fish my matches out of my pocket and to light one, since I could barely hold the box. In the dim light I saw a coal oil stove, bunk, sink, dresser. With the help of a second match I found a stub of candle. The thin linoleum crackled with the cold as I worked to get the stove alight. In no time the small cabin began to feel the effects of the stove.
Then I stripped off my outer clothing, letting it drop and stay where it fell. After drying my feet on a blanket, I dragged the bunk closer to the stove and climbed in.
I’m sure I smiled before I began to doze.
But the smile didn’t last long. Pain would not allow me to fall into sleep, burning pain in my hands, feet and face. I knew that was the frostbite withdrawing and that there was nothing to do but wait it out. I climbed out of the bunk after a few hours of half sleep and turned the stove down. The room was stifling by now, the windows fogged.
It was daylight — past noon by the look of the bright sun. Outside the cabin was a fantastically bright world of white. It hurt my eyes to look at it. And, incredibly, melted snow dripped off the eaves of the cabin.
I was still very weak, my legs shaky and my head light. It hurt to walk but I was parched so I found some old enameled pots under the sink and set about melting snow. I drank and drank, coughing all the time: the warm liquid set me off. My chest hurt deep down.
I continued to doze. By the end of the day my face and feet were okay. My right hand was much better too, a bit stiff but clearly fine. My left hand was in deep trouble, though. The pinky and ring fingers were swollen up like ugly, yellow-brown sausages and the skin had begun to split. Anything that touched them set off ragged waves of pain throughout the hand and up my arm. When I made tea (dusty brown stuff I found on a shelf) and hung my clothes by the stove it was nip and tuck, one-handed fumbling.
The other thing that worried me was my chest. It was still sore and hurt like hell when I coughed.
The next morning I pulled on my clothes and shut off the stove. Since I had no mitts I tore strips from one of the wool blankets and wrapped my hands — clumsy but all right. The left I wrapped especially carefully until it looked like I was carrying a huge red club.
It was tough going to the main road: the snow was wetter with the warmer weather and hard to slug through. I began to hitch-hike and saw my first car pretty soon. It swooshed past, throwing up a great cloud of snow. Shortly afterward a bright, clean pick-up stopped for me. The driver had to lean across and open the cab door for me as I fumbled at the outside handle with my blanketed hand. With difficulty I clambered up and shut the door.
“Gotta put on yer belt before I take off,” said the driver. He was a big, heavy guy, dressed in a red and green checkered bush shirt, denim overalls, and a wool hunting cap. He was friendly looking, with fat cheeks and a W.C. Fields nose. It seemed strange to hear his voice — the only human, other than Mary, I had heard in months.
I struggled with the seat belt buckle for a bit and he leaned over to help, after slamming the gear shift lever into Park.
“Some blizzard, eh?” he said as he drove off. “Heard on the news this morning it was the worst in twenty years.”
“Yeah,” I answered. “Pretty bad.”
“We got the roads ploughed, though. Worked all last night. I drive a plough.”
“Oh,” I said.
He kept looking over at me.
“Somepin wrong with yer hand?” he asked.
“Yeah, frozen I think,” I said, trying not to sound dramatic.
“Better have a look,” he said as he pulled the truck over to the roadside. “Don’t want to fool around with frozen fingers.”
I couldn’t unwrap it so he did.
“Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed when he saw the two yellowy fingers.
“What happened? That’s BAD!”
His eyes were bugging out of his face. Before I could answer he said excitedly, “We gotta get you to a doctor!” He rammed the truck into gear and tore away, fishtailing on the slippery road. Soon we were speeding along, slipping and sliding. I had visions of being wrapped around a tree in a metal envelope, or buried forever in the huge banks of snow that lined the road.
“Don’t worry,” my good samaritan almost shouted, “you’ll be okay.”
I didn’t feel okay. I was coughing like mad, every cough a sharp jab, but he was the only excited person in that pick-up.
He reached over his head and flipped a switch, then unclipped a hand mike. He said a stream of stuff into the thing but I couldn’t understand the weird mixture of words and numbers. I recognized “Ten-four” from T.V. shows, though. I wondered if he was really serious when he called the doctor a “sawbones.”
We ripped into town at a furious pace, ran a red light, barreled past a big stone church and pulled around a corner — slid is the proper word — onto a side street lined with spruce and stopped in front of a big rambling frame house with a wide verandah. A sign hung over the steps. My chauffeur jumped out, slammed the door, and ran up the steps.
He came back, hiked his portly body into the cab, made a skidding U-turn and got back on the C.B. as we tore through town. Hanging up the mike, he explained that the “Doc” was at the clinic, about a hundred miles south in Huntington. That’s where we were going.
“Don’t worry, Kid. I’ll getcha there,” he added confidently in a kind voice.
“Don’t hurry on my account,” I said weakly, hoping to slow this headlong flight.
“Gotta make tracks,” he answered. “Can’t fool around with frozen fingers.”
We were on the highway now and the motion made me drowsy. I dozed a little.
I awoke to find myself being carried by that hulking character through sliding glass doors and down a long hall. I was so weak I didn’t protest. I looked into his round face. You know, the guy really looked concerned. About a stranger.
He took me into a big room and laid me on a table. “Thanks,” I murmured as he stepped out of sight.
Three women in white stood around me and one began to unwrap my hand. One gave orders in a quiet voice. When my hand was unwrapped they all went silent, but only for a minute.
Then I felt a needle.
Crabbe’s Journal: 21
I woke up in a bed and my head hurt. So did my hand. So did my chest. I seemed to be in a white cell, under a high white ceiling lit with fluorescent lamps. Noises intruded slowly: coughing, slippered feet dragging on the floor, quiet voices.
The wall to the right of my bed began to move and I saw that the wall was a curtain hung on a track around my bed. It made a hissing noise as it moved away.
A face appeared above me, then disappeared. There was a needle in my right forearm and from it ran a clear tube to a bottle hung upside down on a rack beside my bed.
It was warm. I began to slip off again but the top half of the bed began to move, lifting me almost to a sitting position. I was in a dimly lit ward of about six beds, all of them occupied, it looked like. A woman in white pants and coat came over to the bed. I recognized her as the one who gave the orders in the other room.
“Hello. I’m Dr. Bruster. How are you feeling?”
“Lousy.”
“Are you fully awake? I want to get some information from you, but if you’re too tired I’ll come back. The anesthetic may not be fully worn off.”
“The what? What happened?”
“Be easy. One step at a time.” She took a pen out of her coat pocket, preparing to write on the chart she held clipped to an aluminum holder. She was small and skinny with vivid red hair cut short. The hair and steel-framed glasses made her look very business-like.
“What’s your name?” she asked, her pen poised.
“Never mind.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
She looked confused, her knitted brows bringing a harsh line to her face.
“Don’t you want your family to know where you are?”
“You might say I don’t have a family.”
“Oh, I see.” No, she didn’t, but I let that pass.
“What’s wrong with me? Why am I here?” I asked her.
She sidestepped that and tried a new tack.
“Are you still in pain?” The harsh line disappeared.
“I sure am.” I was too. “My head, hand, chest.”
She turned and mumbled something to the nurse who had just arrived. The nurse walked off again.
“Alright, Mr. Strange, it’s like this.” Her voice wasn’t unkind. “You want it straight?”
I swallowed. My throat was dry.
“Of course.”
“Your head hurts from the anesthetic. It will feel better soon. Your lungs hurt because you have a moderately serious case of double pneumonia. We thought there might be frost damage in there but so far the X-rays don’t show anything.”
The nurse had returned pushing a little cart with a tray on top. I saw a bottle of clear fluid and a needle.
“Your left hand,” continued the doctor, “hurts from the operation. Luckily for you, and thanks to Jack Johnson, the man who drove you here, we were able to save your hand.”
I lifted my aching, bandaged hand off the bed and looked at it for the first time.
&n
bsp; “But,” she went on, “we had to amputate the two damaged fingers.”
“Jesus Christ!” I shouted. “You what?”
“Take it easy, son,” she said softly. “Take it easy.”
I gulped. Looking at the bandaged hand, you’d never know something was missing. I was shocked, but not surprised, if you know what I mean. The hand had looked awfully bad back in the cabin. I lowered the hand, afraid to think about what a horrible mess must be under the bandages. Strangely, it felt no different, just sore.
“I know it’s hard, son,” said the doctor. “But you almost lost the whole hand. Be thankful for that.”
I said nothing, still dazed by the news.
“We’re sending you to the city, to a big hospital. You’ll get a free ride all the way in an ambulance. Maybe they can find out who you are.”
She turned to the tray and picked up the needle. She inserted it into the little bottle.
“But why?” I said.
“We don’t have room enough for you here. This is a very small clinic. Now, I’m going to sedate you so the trip will be easier on you.”
She leaned over, swabbed my arm and before I could say “Boo” I felt the stab and then nothing.
The next few days — maybe four or so, it’s hard to keep track when you’re drugged up — were mostly given to sleeping, getting needles, holding mediciny tasting thermometers under my tongue, and having an icy stethoscope stuck under the funny nightshirt that tied down the back. I was sort of aware of being in a ward again but was so tired and groggy I didn’t pay much attention.
As soon as I started feeling better they started coming after me about who I was: first a nurse, then a head nurse, then a doctor, then a stuffy looking guy in a three-piece suit, an administrator, I guessed. He tried threats, then the cops.
The day nurse, a skinny, grey-haired but kindly woman whose white uniform hung on her like a rag, got me up on the sixth morning and led me out of the ward, down an antiseptic smelling hallway to a small, corner office. Mr. Three-piece, a bony, lanky type with thinning black hair and gold wire glasses, sat behind a polished wooden desk. Standing before the window, looking out, was a big man in a black leather car coat. Through the window I could see a bright sky and snow powder whipped into crazy patterns by the wind. When the nurse and I came into the room the big guy turned around.