Warrior Heart

by Laura Kaighn

  “Casey, it’s all right. He needs help. Now grab a hold and pull.” She positioned the collie’s long muzzle at the man’s leather-clad shoulder and commanded, “Hold, Casey, hold.” The dog obediently clutched the tunic in her jaws. “Now pull, Casey. Pull.” By guiding the dog with a steady tug on the man’s injured right arm, Dorinda slid the stranger easily the short distance to the steps. “Up, Casey. Pull,” she instructed tapping the stairs with her foot. The doorway was wide enough for only one of them to pass at a time. Still tugging at the man’s arm, Dorinda mounted the three treads, sidestepped inside the porch, and coached the dog up backward. “Up. Pull. Come on, Casey. You’ve hauled heavier loads from the woods. Pull, Casey. Up. Good girl.” The man’s torso was through the entryway. Panting, still grasping the leather garment in her mouth, Casey waited for the command to let go. “Drop.”

  Wagging her feathery tail, Casey licked her master’s face as Dorinda doted approval. “Now, Casey. Go get a towel. Towel, Casey. Fetch.” The dog bounded through the dog flap and into the house.

  By the arm, Dorinda slid the stranger all the way into the porch then closed the screen door. Before Dorinda could retrieve the hose and nozzle from the wall rack, though, Casey was back dragging a large bath towel in her mouth. “You had to pick mine?” Dorinda eyed the fluffy, peach-colored cloth with dismay. Gathering the hose in her arm, she then turned the spigot and doled out the line. “All right, Case. Out of the way, unless you want another bath.” She first tested the spray on a clear piece of grass carpet. Next Dorinda knelt beside her patient and forced herself to inspect his leg wound. The bleeding had stopped, leaving a sticky smudge of red-orange goop around the hole in his trousers. “Sorry about this, but the dirt’s got to go.” Starting with a light spray, Dorinda washed the fresh blood from the wound lifting the tightening leather away from the skin as the clotting dissolved.

  The man groaned. His arm thrashed, banging her leg and almost toppling her. “Take it easy,” Dorinda soothed pushing his arm up out of her way. “I know it’s got to hurt.” Does he even understand me? Once she was satisfied that the gouge was free of debris, Dorinda wrapped it snugly in her bath towel, knotting the makeshift bandage.

  Next came the chest wound, the most severe for a human. “Casey. Go get another towel. Towel, Casey. Fetch.” The collie promptly disappeared and returned just as Dorinda was unlacing the sleeveless tunic along the man’s left side. “Good girl, Casey. Now stand back. Back.” The collie settled by her small door whimpering anxiously while Dorinda finished. Pulling the garment up over the man’s head, she slowly removed it from his burnt right shoulder.

  Dori’s eyes narrowed at what she saw then, for this stranger had a single row of rounded, bony ridges along the crest of each shoulder, just under the skin, and again down the center of his sternum. “Not human,” she whispered confirming her earlier suspicion. Swallowing hard Dorinda fought her body’s urge to flee. The adrenaline in her bloodstream had her trembling. She must complete her work before exhaustion set in. She still had to get him inside. Hastily Dorinda wet the man down, gently rubbing away the crisped leather from around his oozing chest wound. It bled freely again, but Dorinda was glad to see that the injury was not deep. The leather tunic and silver medallion had saved her patient’s life.

  Not wasting time to recoil the hose or turn off the water, Dorinda opened the side door that led into the kitchen, set the stop, and returned to her charge. Next she flipped his ebony braid onto his chest, out of the way. Then, by rolling the dirtied towel lengthwise and sliding it under the man’s shoulders and up through his armpits, Dorinda was able to get a sturdy grip on the towel and haul her patient into her home. She dragged him across the kitchen floor, past the narrow living room, and into her bedroom.

  “Casey, help me.” Keeping her grasp of the towel with one hand, Dorinda positioned the dog on the floor, parallel to the bedside, between the bed and the man. “Stay.” Then, sliding forward, Dorinda climbed onto the platform kicking the covers aside as she went. Dorinda knelt there, towel still tight in her hands. She gulped a breath and heaved with all her might.

  The stranger’s shoulders appeared above the level of the mattress. Through clenched teeth Dorinda commanded, “Up, Casey. Get up.” The collie moaned, pushing paws up under her furry body. Casey stood forcing the man’s buttocks and upper legs almost level with the bed. At the same instant Dorinda scrambled over the other side and tugged with her remaining strength. Something gave suddenly. Dorinda toppled backward onto the hardwood floor. Her head banged against the low, knotty pine dresser standing along the far wall. Dazed, she blinked hard and rubbed the sore swelling already erupting on her crown.

  Casey was beside her. “I’m all right, girl. Good job. I think we did it.” Climbing to her boots, Dorinda Tanner resettled her glasses and surveyed her work. The stranger lay sprawled on the bed. Only his lower legs hung over the far edge.

  Now Dorinda needed a pail of hot water, some bandages and disinfectant. She tugged her cleaning bucket out from the linen closet and set it in the tub of the adjacent bathroom to fill. Then, rummaging through the medicine cabinet, Dorinda’s eyes settled on the alcohol. Stings like a bitch, but it’ll do the job. She also grabbed the tube of antibiotic ointment, knowing it would be empty by the time her job was done. A small pair of surgical scissors, a roll of bandages, adhesive tape, and gauze pads were her last requisitions before returning to the bedroom.

  Dorinda set her eyeglasses and these supplies onto the nightstand before adjusting her patient until he was lying almost parallel atop the mattress. This time she first attended to the more severe leg wound. With a grimace of sickened anticipation, Dorinda cut the supple leather pant leg off just above the wound and pulled it down to his boot top. Despite his orange-brown complexion, no new alien surprises greeted her there. With relief Dorinda unlaced then tugged off his boots ... and gawked. The tops of the man’s feet also had ridges. A trio of scalloped, bony rows ran almost to the nail beds of his three largest toes. Swallowing hard Dorinda had to admit, “Could be worse. He could have tentacles or scales, big bug eyes and a whipped tail.” Lungs sucking in spasms, she laughed at her absurd words. Then wiping her face with the back of her hand Dorinda sighed raggedly. If so, I would have left you in the woods.

  Feeling her strength draining as her adrenaline level dropped and the aches of exertion set in, Dorinda concentrated on cleaning and dressing each wound. She realized the leg gouge needed stitches, but she was beyond having the courage for that. Resigning to a good soaking with alcohol and a thick smear of antibiotic cream, Dorinda closed the wound and wrapped it snugly with a gauze pad and several strips of clean bandaging. His scalded chest received a dabbing of alcohol, antibiotic, a taped bandage, then an ice water poultice, as did the burn wound to the man’s right shoulder. That done, Dorinda wiped him down with a washcloth soaked in a solution of lukewarm water and alcohol. Except for a few twitches and a fluttering of eyelids, the stranger did not awaken. Instead he lay shivering under her ministries.

  As she worked, Dorinda noted the healed scars dotting his dark skin. “You’ve seen a lot of action during your life, big man.” She traced a long scar along the stranger’s upper right arm. He was also covered in what she now recognized as bruises under his mahogany skin. There were abrasions on his arms and hands, and she cleaned them thoroughly with the alcohol water.

  Next Dorinda apologized for the forced familiarity and removed the remains of his weathered trousers. She swabbed his bloodstained, hairless legs. Then, leaving him clothed in only his leather briefs, Dorinda wrapped the stranger warmly in her blanket.

  Finished, she trudged to the bathroom for a much-needed shower. Dorinda knew she could not keep watch over the stranger. So as she closed the bathroom door, she stole a last glance at the dark man in her bed. “It’s up to you now. Heal thyself.” Dorinda locked the knob.

  Once alone and baptized in the shower’s spray, Dorinda’s fears flowed freely. Sobbing, she allowed the cas
cade to cleanse the hot doubt from her eyes. Tension drained along with the sweat and grime. Dorinda emerged from the shower red-eyed but clean. Wrapping a spare towel around her, she trudged from the bathroom to her dresser. There she retrieved a New York Aquarium T-shirt and sweatpants. Another drawer held her underwear and socks. Then, clothes in arm, Dorinda stumbled to the living room to dress. With no strength left to even re-braid her tangled auburn hair, the young woman collapsed onto the couch. She was asleep moments after her head touched the throw pillows.

  * * *

  Out of a haze, Vesarius glimpsed Michael Bear Coty’s face, bronzed crimson with anger. Coty’s words were muffled by time. “You could have been killed, you idiot Vesar. I wasn’t going to fall. I was wearing a safety harness.”

  Vesarius grinned. “You looked like you could have used an extra hand. Vesar rock climb as infants,” he informed with just a hint of a brow rise.

  “But that’s the point, Sarius. You climb a mountain for the thrill of it, for the accomplishment of doing it yourself.” Coty fumed waving his friend away. “Vesar do everything as infants.”

  “I take it you are grateful.”

  Coty spun to shove his grimaced face at his Vesar companion. “No! You spoiled my climb.”

  “Dr. Waters was hard pressed to contain his laughter.”

  Coty drew a deep breath, as if preparing to continue berating his first officer, but Vesarius’ ebony eyes glinted with mischief. The captain battled a smile and he waved his friend away again. “Get out of my face, Iron Man. And remind me later never to take you on a trip to the Sierras again. You’re bad for my ego.”

  “Michael,” Vesarius called out groggily. “Michael?” He moaned as the images from his past faded. There was a person in the room with him. Someone was wiping his steamy forehead with a cool towel.

  * * *

  “Michael who?” Dorinda urged. The man’s strangely accented voice had startled her awake, her first thoughts of her dead Cherokee husband. “Michael who?” she demanded again, but the bleary stranger soon settled into unconsciousness once more.

  For a long moment, Dorinda studied his slack face. She traced with a tentative finger the bony ridges which divided his mahogany-painted forehead. Who was this man? This … alien? Yes, that’s what he was. But why was he here? Did Dorinda even want to know?

  The man was rugged, with a squared chin and hawk-like nose. Jagged sideburns traced a line of high, chiseled cheekbones. His heavy brows severely overshadowed mahogany lids. This stranger was frightening and different. Not Michael.

  Rising stiffly, still weary, Dorinda grabbed her abandoned glasses from the nightstand then retreated to the kitchen to heat some vegetable soup. She left it to simmer atop the stove. When the man roused again, she would try to feed him. Then, with a mug of coffee, she plopped down at her note-strewn kitchen table. Dorinda examined the lethal looking survival knife her charge had thrown to blow her tire. Clever man. It had gotten her attention. Turning the blade over, she again read the inscription: To a kindred spirit, M.B.C. “M for Michael?” Puzzled by the initials, Dorinda set the weapon beside her glasses to sip her coffee. Her conflicted thoughts drifted with the steam from the mug.

  Chapter 3: Getting to Know You

  Within his healing fugue, Vesarius was reminiscing again. Grunting, he watched Dr. Yolonda Sheradon suture a six-centimeter, deep gash in his upper right arm. “A local anesthetic would take care of the pain, Commander,” Sheradon chided as she knotted her fourth stitch. They were in the Pompeii’s medical center. “You sure you don’t want the skin regenerator?”

  “He doesn’t want to be a shpleep, Doc,” Coty explained stepping closer to watch. Brushing past the captain, Tundra sat beside Vesarius’ chair and leaned his furry head on the Vesar’s lap. Vesarius patted his malamute Kin and grinned at his captain.

  “Thank you for the help, Bear,” Vesarius said. “Tloni are supposed to be a peaceful race. But I believe that crowd was about to execute me. I have never seen them so irritated.”

  “They were considering it,” Coty assured, hands behind his back. “Of course your death would have been totally painless.” Coty gave the Vesar a hard stare. “You’ve got to get it through that steel-plated skull of yours. Vesar aren’t welcome on all Tloni or Earth colony worlds. Many still see you as hostile people who signed a peace treaty for completely selfish reasons.”

  Vesarius tried to laugh, but Coty’s words were sobering. “You saved my life, then.”

  Coty bowed slightly. “I take it you’re grateful.”

  Vesarius caught himself before smiling again. This was no joke. In the two years Vesarius had known him, Michael Bear Coty had taken the time to learn Vesar traditions and customs. Coty was expecting a very specific answer. Reaching past Sheradon’s protesting shoulder, Vesarius picked up the doctor’s surgical cutters. He pulled his black, braided hair around and snipped an eight-centimeter length off the bottom. Holding out his injured arm, Vesarius laid the lock across it and offered the hair to Coty. “I am indebted to you, Captain.”

  Coty’s eyes were approving though his lips twitched. The captain leaned forward and took the severed braid from his friend’s arm. Smirking, he nodded. “That’s what friends are for.”

  The ensuing silence was broken by the good doctor. “If all this ego stroking is finished, I have a wound here that needs suturing. Since you insisted it be done the old-fashioned way.”

  Vesarius smiled broadly. “Just be sure I can use it, Doc. I have a Tloni Clue Cluck Clan to educate.” Slapping his friend on the shoulder, Coty corrected the Vesar’s cultural error and left. Tundra nudged him for attention, and Vesarius complied, gritting his teeth as Sheradon drew another stitch.

  Vesarius opened his eyes, awakened by a snuffling at his ear. “Tundra?” He cleared his croaky throat. Though his head was a throbbing mass, he rolled it to see the long snout and crescent eyes of a sable collie regarding him from the edge of a bed. “Hello to you too, girl.” Stiffly the Vesar shoved himself into a sit upon the mattress and groaned. His entire body screamed in protest. Vesarius’ left hand kept his head from toppling off his neck.

  When he opened his eyes again, the Vesar was pleased to see the room no longer teetering on its axis. Then his nostrils flared at the acrid scent of burning food. Quickly he tossed aside the blanket to swing his legs over the side of the bed. When he stood, however, Vesarius grimaced. His left leg was a pillar of arcing nerves and heated blood. He sat back down.

  This gave him a chance to evaluate his injuries. His chest wound was tender to the touch, but Vesarius was grateful to feel the rounded ridges of his crest still intact and unbroken beneath the scratchy gauze. The shoulder was healing nicely with new, reddened skin already emergent around the edges of the bandage there. Nothing else seemed to hinder his movements as he tested his sore and battered body. The cracked ribs he had received from an Orthop foreclaw two days earlier caused him to flinch only when he twisted his torso. The leg gouge, however, required more attention. Vesarius would need to find a curved needle and some thread.

  Another burning whiff drifted past the warrior’s nose. This time the collie at his feet whimpered and stood to pace in a tight circle as if looking to him for directions. Picturing in his mind a fusion-stove with a smoking fire, Vesarius stared at the collie intently. “Show me.”

  In response the dog only fidgeted and whined. So with a pained sigh, Vesarius raised himself from the mattress and hobbled to the bedroom doorway. From there he surveyed the next room.

  It was a simple living space with an old-fashioned viewscreen, a triple wide bookshelf overladen with both hard and softbound volumes, and some antique, twentieth century furniture. The odor, however, was coming from the space beyond, one with a tile floor, a row of cabinets, and a tall metal unit standing along the far wall. The kitchen. Shambling forward, Vesarius came to lean against the room’s doorframe. He searched with roving eyes.

  * * *

  The forest was burning. Michael Ta
nner’s hand-planted spruce were groaning and popping. Flames engulfed the trees, extracting their lifeforce with every hungry lap. Startled awake, Dorinda sat bolt upright in her kitchen chair. An arm spasm spilled cold coffee over her eyeglasses. Brown liquid tendriled across the loose papers that were her novel notes. Blinking she focused on a tall figure leaning in the doorway – a stranger with fiery mahogany skin and jet black hair.

  Instinctively Dorinda kicked the chair to spring to her feet. She grabbed the only defense at hand, the jewel-studded knife. “Stay away. I’ll use this if you come any closer.” She backed up one step.

  The mahogany figure raised a hand to her palm outward. “I doubt you would harm the person you worked so hard to save,” he countered dryly. The man drew out his vowels in his odd, alien accent.

  Dorinda’s eyes narrowed at his sagging form. “Who are you? You were badly hurt, your leg ...”

  The man shrugged slightly, wincing as if that small gesture took immense energy. “I am not quite recovered.” He leaned more heavily against the doorjamb. “Might you have some suturing tools?”

  “What?”

  “You do understand me.” The stranger’s voice weakened even as his legs buckled beneath him. “Your food is burning.” This last but a whisper as he sank roughly to the floor.

  “What?” Dorinda’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Oh, the soup.” Her nose had finally taken precedence over her alarm. She rushed to the stove, turned off the burner, and placed the smoking, dried pot in the sink. There she ran cold water over the sizzling mess. Then, pushing Casey out of the way, Dorinda crouched beside the alien man slumped against the doorframe.

  He blinked and focused on her oval face with its jade-colored concern. “Green eyes,” he moaned wearily. “I am Vesarius.” The man’s ebony gaze drifted shut again.

  Sighing Dorinda tossed the knife up onto the table. “Big man belongs in bed,” she acknowledged dryly and rose to haul him by the arm back to the bedroom. Her already strained muscles protested, however. Dorinda resigned to leaving the stranger sprawled on the short-piled living room carpet. After propping a throw pillow under his head, Dorinda retrieved the blanket from her bed. She wrapped his bare shoulders and torso warmly, leaving his legs exposed in order to inspect his wound there. Dorinda was suddenly conscious of the man’s near nakedness. What wonders do you hide beneath those leather briefs? She was afraid to know yet intensely curious.