Naked in the Winter Wind

by Dani Haviland

  The next thing I need to do is reposition my rescued hostage so I can make use of the increasing daylight to check his wounds. I never really thought about it until just now—was the man I rescued last night a horrible criminal? Maybe I should have been more cautious about who I picked up off the forest floor—it might have been wiser to leave the bagged-up bandit where he was. But my gut argues that those creeps who tortured and detained him looked more like a lynch mob—nothing at all like a duly elected sheriff and his deputies. I doubt they held a trial with a real judge or magistrate, either. There was also the secreted location of their execution site to consider, and the fact that the backwoods group had to get drunk to do their dirty deeds. Ugh! Those maggots of the male persuasion who hurt him were too vile to be called men. Besides, if my banged-up guy is evil, I can handle him. He can’t even lift his head.

  *9 First Aid

  Smack! A lanky portion of my botanical front door—a sharp-leafed holly branch—springs back and assaults me, snagging my left earlobe as I try to sidle unscathed into my new home. I stomp down a low-lying branch, separating it from the parent plant, and install its forked end as a wedge between the shrub and the rock face. No more scratches when I pass through now. My hands already look like I’ve been playing with a catnipped kitten.

  I look up, back into the chilly blackness of the cave. Ergh! All I can see is frustration. There’s nothing I can do for Man until ‘real’ daylight appears. Even then, all I’ll be able to see is the extent of his injuries—I can’t treat them. My jaws clench, both from aggravation and to keep my teeth from rattling. I’m shivering uncontrollably—not even two warm muscles to rub together to create heat. He’s still wearing my coat, so in order to keep from freezing, I have to find some way to keep moving or cuddle up to the stranger.

  Okay, enough with the cuddling—I need to do something a little more useful than that. Hmm, maybe I can clear the floor. At least I can do that by feel.

  The sharp, loose stones on the ground make a lousy carpet and cut into my palms and knees as I work. Grrrr. It seems that the more of them I brush away, the more that miraculously appear. Doggedly continuing my task toward the rear of the cave, concentrating on clearing away the rubble, I look up and panic smacks me breathless. How’d I get back here again?

  The walls are closing in on me—I swear they are. The four-foot high ceiling is pulsing down, threatening to crush me into the rocky dust. I can’t move. I start gasping for air, unable to get enough oxygen. It feels as if a Clydesdale is sitting on my chest. Oh, crap: I’m hyperventilating. I have to get out of here fast. Double crap: I can’t remember how to move!

  I get a flash image, a picture of me turning in a half circle toward the open air. Suddenly, I’m outside again. I must have acted out the visual, because here I am, unaware of scooting, crawling, or moving a muscle. I’m safe, in the open, and am suffering nothing more than a panic hangover.

  I clutch my erstwhile security blanket—the rock face of the entrance behind me—and indulge myself with a couple of minutes of doing nothing. I know I need to take care of the man, but I won’t do him any good until I stop shaking. I close my eyes and concentrate on breathing, trying to relax all my muscles one at a time, hoping to remember, find, or create a peaceful safe zone.

  I’m reclining, safe in an urban backyard fortress, watching the tall palm trees wash the wind above the adobe wall. The green scent of freshly cut grass mixes with the spicy undertones of the vibrant red Chrysler Imperial rose bush, carpeted beneath with snowy alyssum. The orchestra of eclectic wind chimes, clinking and tinkling under the eaves, accompanies the mourning dove calls. The plastic straps of the chaise lounge are sticky under my bare legs. My whole body relaxes with the warmth of the sun, gentle on my face in the early hours of a desert day. Mmmm…

  Moments pass while I bathe myself in my blissful daydream. My eyes open reluctantly to reality and the chill of the dim, damp morning. Light snow is falling on my face, not warm sunrays. That backyard fantasy was so real, it has to be a genuine memory. That won’t help me now, so I blink back my delightful scenario to savor at a later time.

  My mini mind-vacation has done the trick. I believe I can handle just about anything now. I can handle ‘any’ thing, but I don’t want to handle ‘every’ thing, and that is what I’m up against. No food, no water, totally lost, winter snow falling, no source of heat nor way to start a fire, and in custody of a man who may not survive the day. “Take one step at a time—baby steps, lady, baby steps. First, attend to the injured.”

  I flick away a few more rocks, then use a relatively straight-edged stone to smooth the floor at the cave entrance, creating a temporary examination area. I’m not aware of having any medical training, but I know how to clean a wound and…what am I going to use? All I have is the snow outside. I don’t know if there’s a stream around here. How would I transport water, even if I found it? I don’t have any bottles, cups, or pans.

  I whisper under my breath, “I don’t even have a pot to piss in.” I start to giggle at my little joke, then start into stage-two laughter: snorting. I have a hard time stopping, but finally achieve some semblance of calm. Well, I guess that’s a good thing. If I start into stage-three—laughing out loud uncontrollably—I’ll know I’ve lost it. But by then, I doubt I’ll care.

  I try to reposition Man by pulling his shoulders towards the entrance and the soon-to-be-bright-enough daylight. His body bends sideways at the waist, following the direction of my tug. Now he’s formed a perfect right angle. That can’t be good.

  I climb over him and shove his middle into alignment with his neck and shoulders, then crawl toward the back of the cave. I quickly push his legs in the right direction and scurry back to my safe zone. Phew! That was so quick, claustrophobia-induced panic never got a chance to snag me.

  I grab him under his armpits and tug. Nothing. I readjust my grip and pull, but even after changing the angle of my approach a dozen more times, I still can’t budge him. I’m plenty determined, but that doesn’t make me strong enough.

  It’s time to try a new tactic. I sit down, open out my legs, and scoot as close as I can to him, gently lifting his head into my lap. My thighs under his shoulders, I wiggle further down, lifting him upright as I go, until his upper body slumps forward. I give him a bear hug and grasp my forearms, shadowing him, as I pull him towards me. His battered face flops sideways and rests against my resolute jaw as I dig my heels into the floor and inch backwards, dragging him with me. A couple more butt scoots and he’s into the daylight. I sigh in victory, glad to see he’s still breathing.

  I pull out from under his body and get my first good look him. The first thing I see is the strip of filthy rag wrapped around his head, covering both ears. It’s still in place, even after he was banged around in the bag, dragged through the woods, and shoved and repositioned in the cave. I untie the knot and try to take it off. It’s stuck on—his impromptu dressing glued to his scalp with his own dried blood. If I pull it away now, I’ll probably reopen his wounds, and that’s sure to hurt. I’ll attend to it later.

  Next: his face. It’s puffy and marked all over, as if his attackers took a fiery stick or poker and branded him, repeatedly burning his cheeks. He’s also been hit in the face so many times, I can’t tell where one swelling stops and another one starts. I don’t know what he was hit with, but Man survived one long, continuous bashing. I can’t see any part of his face that isn’t injured or covered in welts, bruises, burns, or blood blisters.

  He has a nasty two-inch-wide rug burn all the way around his neck, as if he had been strung up and used as a human piñata. It’s also swollen, but since he’s still breathing, it doesn’t seem to be life-threatening. If I had lotion or a balm of some sort to put on it, he’d be more comfortable, but I don’t have anything but snow.

  I sit on my heels, trying to figure out what to do next in my primitive triage. I recall a TV series—or was that a movie?—about doctors and nurses in a war zone. All the casualties
were laid out on cots or gurneys. A trained doctor would make the rounds, an attendant beside him taking notes as he performed quick assessments. The most severely wounded were taken into a field hospital. The tented facility was staffed with trained surgeons in fairly sterile conditions, with adequate surgical supplies and medications on hand. Right now, I would trade my left kidney for a fire, some warm water and soap, and a couple of blankets. Well, wish in one hand and poop in the other, and see which one fills up first. At least I haven’t found any gashes that need to be stitched or discovered any broken bones. Maybe I can fill one of my handkerchiefs with snow to use as a compress to relieve some of the swelling.

  When Rocky gets back, I’m sure I can get him to understand that I need water. Of course, then I’ll need to figure a way to transport it. The only thing I have to bring back water in is my mouth. I doubt Man would want me to give him a drink by spitting second-hand water through his lips. Eww, gross! I guess I can try giving him bits of snow. At least that wouldn’t choke him.

  “Eeek!” Rocky is poking his nose into my ear, giving me a cold wet willie, to get my attention. If it is possible for a dog to smile—and I know it is—he is positively radiant with excitement. “Okay, Rocky, I’m glad to see you, too. Did you bring us breakfast?”

  I look around, half expecting to see a dead squirrel or some other critter, and almost miss his gift. Then I see it.

  “Oh, Rocky, I love you!” I’m so happy that tears well up, making my nose run. He’s found my lost backpack! Evidently it smelled enough like me that when he caught a whiff of it, he hunted it down. “Thank you, Rocky, and thank You, Lord; thank You for this wonderful helper.” I give Rocky a big hug, and wipe my face and my tears of joy in his fur.

  I open the pack and grab one of the two slushy water bottles, take a quick nip, and exhale in satisfaction. A fine wine couldn’t be more appreciated.

  First order of business: get some water through Man’s bloody and bruised lips. “Here you go, you need to get hydrated.”

  I can’t get him to open his mouth, so dribble a few drops on his lips. Feeling the wetness, they part, and out pokes a bit of pink tongue.

  “You can get a bit more into you now, can’t you, Man?”

  As soon as I say ‘Man,’ Rocky starts yipping. Maybe I’ve missed something, so I look around to make sure the bad guys haven’t returned. But Rocky is looking at the man. “What? Did I say his name? Is his name Man?”

  Rocky cants his head to the side as if to ask, “Huh?”

  “Okay, let’s see if you can tell me his name. How about Ann?”

  Rocky dips his snout as if to say, “Keep going…”

  “Ban, Can, Dan…that’s a good one. No? Okay, E-Ann...”

  Rocky goes ballistic, woofing and howling, dancing around in tight circles.

  The excited outcries of my canine compadre cause the man I now presume is E-Ann, or Ian, to turn his head toward the ruckus. “Rocky?” he whispers hoarsely.

  Rocky puts his nose in Ian’s face and starts licking. Well, at least I’m getting help with the cleaning. Rocky finishes the quick tongue-washing and lies next to Ian’s head. Ian—sensing his nearness—nuzzles into Rocky’s ruff and goes back to sleep.

  I think he’s going to make it. At least now he knows he’s not alone and has a friend nearby.

  Ӂ

  Okay, back to business. Ian’s shirt is made of some sort of leather, buckskin I think, and reeks more than a litter box two weeks past dumping. It’s stained with I don’t want to imagine what, but there isn’t any blood soaking through, at least in front, so that’s good. Apparently, he’s been bruised and bashed, but not stabbed. Stinky or not, I’ll leave the shirt on so he doesn’t get chilled. If he had major injuries, I’m sure there would be more blood.

  His pants are unusual. I expected Carhartts, camo, or denim jeans of some sort. Isn’t that what all backwoodsmen wear? These are totally different—they’re buckskin leather.

  I glide my hand over the outside seam. Shoot! That’s his skin at his hip—he’s wearing a diaper! Well, I guess it’s called a breechclout, but it sure looks like a leather diaper to me. At least it’s covering his privates; with this limited light, his skin, the breechclout, and his leggings all looked the same color—sure had me fooled!

  I wouldn’t think it proper to check between the buttons—or under the breechclout in this case—of an unconscious man, even if it looked like there was a need. I can, and do, check his non-personal lower parts, though, patting his legs down the rough-sewn outside seams, past his knees to his ankles. That’s when I notice his feet. Now I know what needs to be taken care of first.

  It was dark when I got him out of the bag and into the cave. I hadn’t noticed at the time whether or not he was wearing shoes—not that it made a difference—after all, he wasn’t walking. But now I see he is, and had been, barefoot.

  The tops of his feet are lacerated—bad enough to need tending to right away—but the bottoms are hideous! They’re slashed, charred, and blistered. It looks as if Ian walked through fire, but unlike the holy men who pass over fiery coals unscathed, his feet are both cooked and cut.

  The sight of burned skin and singed hair makes me gag, but something has to be done, and I’m the only one around who can help him. He’s still in a deep sleep—or a coma—so he certainly can’t do it himself, and Rocky lacks opposable thumbs.

  I pull up his leggings to check further—all clear above the ankles. It’s a good thing the leather wasn’t flammable, or his legs would be burnt as well.

  “Hang in there,” I tell him, trying to strengthen my own resolve, “it’ll be all right.” I doubt he hears me, but Rocky does. He glances up, then puts his head back on his paws, his nose back into Ian’s ribs.

  Rocky! He just brought me my backpack! There has to be more than those two water bottles in there! I snatch it up out of the corner and tear at the Velcro closure. It feels like Christmas with the excitement of unknown presents and gifts. I must have amnesia because I have no idea what’s inside this nylon package.

  Cool!—or rather warm—there’s a brand new solar blanket in here. I pull and tug at the wrapper, then finally wind up using my teeth to get it out of its package. As I spit out plastic bits, I remember the one thing I do have is a knife. Oh, well. I spread the silvery shroud over Ian and tuck the edges under his body, leaving his tender tootsies exposed for my ministrations. “Hmph,” I chuckle to myself. My impromptu bedding arrangement make him look like a huge, foil-wrapped burrito with a head and feet.

  I dig further into my nylon treasure and find two plastic baggies—one with crackers and the other with cheese—and inspiration strikes! I make a quick little cheese sandwich and dump the rest of the contents into the pack. I stuff the baggies into my coat pocket and push the backpack towards Rocky, my in-house heater. I don’t want the goodies to freeze any more than they already have.

  I make my way past my barbed evergreen entryway to the chilly outside air. I take a deep, bracing breath—not a trace of smog here. Shaking out the baggies as I walk along, I look for a drift of clean snow. Actually, all the snow is clean, but there are lots of twigs, pine needles, and windblown tree trash embedded in most of the accumulations. I don’t want to apply a lumpy cold compress to my patient’s battered and burned feet. I open out the makeshift ice bags and put in a double fist-sized clump of virgin snow. I quickly press it against my coat to get the air out and it’s zipping time. Voila!

  Back at the cave, I stop to look into the backpack again. Great! I have both a pack of baby wipes and a small bottle of hand sanitizer. I grab them and take a quick swig of water, bracing myself for the challenge.

  “Ian, I have to wash your feet and see if I can get out the grit and glass in them.”

  There’s no reply, although I can tell by his breathing he’s not in a deep sleep. “Ian,” I say louder, as if to someone who is hard of hearing, “can you hear me?”

  Ian’s long black eyelashes jiggle—he’s unable to open hi
s eyes because of the swelling. He turns his head to the side as if to offer his ‘good’ ear for hearing.

  Okay, I get it; he can’t hear very well. “Ian,” I say as loud as I can without shouting, “I am going to clean your feet and put ice bags on them. It’s probably going to hurt, but it’ll be easier for both of us if you don’t kick me.”

  I’m not sure, but I think I heard him make a noise. I’ll take that as an assent.

  I get halfway back to where I’m going to do my doctoring when I realize I can’t see. A big grin comes across my face. I don’t have enough light to see, but I have the power to change that now. One of the goodies I saw in my backpack was a flashlight.

  I climb over Ian once again to retrieve my little treasure—a fistful of light. I take out the cute little camping gadget and turn it over for closer inspection. It can be configured as a handheld light, set down on the ground or a stump as a lamp, or hung from a tree for use as a camp lantern. It also has a little AM/FM radio and is powered by a hand crank. Cool, I don’t have to worry about batteries.

  I wind up the dynamo and give it a shot. The little lantern gives a comforting glow to the confines of the cave, and the pale-colored limestone walls reflect the artificial light, enhancing its effect.

  Most of the pieces of debris in Ian’s soles are big enough to grab with my fingernails although my multi-tool’s little knife blade does a good job of flicking out the tiny slivers. I do my best not to pierce the blisters dotting his soles. What I thought was charred skin was evidently ash and washes away. The baby wipes smell good, are pre-loaded with cleanser, and are very soft, much softer than a terrycloth washrag. I notice, too, that the synthetic fabric will snag on any little bits of glass that I can’t see.