Naked in the Winter Wind

by Dani Haviland

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  Ian had devised a sort of tall meat locker. Well, it wasn’t a locker per se, but he had suspended the skinned carcass from a sturdy tree branch with the blue and white braided rope I had in my backpack. He had skinned her and folded up the hide. He had also gutted and skinned the two premature calves and had what I supposed were the edible innards and veal split between the two calf-hide bundles. “Do you need some help?” I asked.

  “Aye, I’d appreciate it. It looks like a big dinner tonight. If ye could handle this parcel of meat, I’ll carry the rest and the big hide. It still needs a lot of scrapin’. I was hopin’ ye could help with that.”

  Ian turned out his hands. They were worse for the wear and tear, that is, cut and saw, of the ordeal. They hadn’t completely healed, but the adrenaline of the butchering had overcome any pain in his broken fingers and still tender hands. He was hurting—I was sure of that—but he was also happy. He had found his worth. He was a man again.

  The climb uphill to our cave was triumphant. Earlier in the day, I had gone for water, alone because Ian couldn’t/wouldn’t walk. My stomach and pantry were both empty. Now, we had both food and hope. Ian was back from depression, and that was better than having the meat.

  I was stowing the bundle of veal in the deepest, chilliest crevices at the rear of the cave, when I realized how much of his maleness had returned. He was rubbing my bottom in a frisky way as I knelt, pushing the packages back as far as possible. It had been days since he had initiated any intimacy. How did that song go, ‘It feels like the first time?’ Welcome back, husband!

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  The next day was a lazy day. We had gathered firewood and water earlier, and were snuggled down for the rest of the afternoon, just waiting for nightfall. Elk steak was the fare for supper. All was calm on the surface, but something had been bugging me recently, so I decided to bring it up and give it a shot. “Why did those men attack you, and how could you possibly believe God would punish you by using scum like that to do His work?”

  Ian grimaced. I could tell he was uncomfortable, but I wasn’t sure why. I knew he was embarrassed about all aspects of his capture, hazing, and torture. We had never talked about it before because of that. And maybe I had just put him on the spot with questioning his intelligence.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that you were stupid to think God worked with creeps. It’s just that, well—I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you think about what happened. It’s in the past. Let’s forget about it and just think about the here and now, okay?”

  Ian closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and held it for what seemed like forever. He let it out in a burst and finally opened his eyes. He looked wrong—as if there were someone else behind those orbs. It scared me. He looked directly at me without any sign of tenderness.

  “I will forget and remember what I choose,” he said flatly. He blinked a couple of times, and then started again, this time with the Ian I knew behind the eyes and voice, “Let’s not talk about it, aye?”

  My jaw dropped open when he—or his evil twin—spoke to me. I closed my mouth, swallowed, and said, “Sure.”

  And that was that.

  *18 The Cougar that came to supper

  Ian had reclaimed his position in life and now took an interest in the day-to-day chores. It wasn’t as if he could do much himself—both the blisters he had received from the butchering, and the fingers that were still mending, limited him. The blisters never seemed to bother him, nothing more than an occasional gasp or flinch, but I doubt he would have said anything if they had.

  Today he showed me how to scrape hides. It wasn’t very complicated, a simple task—one he could have done himself—so I figured he had an ulterior motive.

  “Show me what ye learned,” he said, and handed me my Leatherman.

  “Okay, Huck,” I said sarcastically.

  “What?” he asked, totally confused. “My name’s Ian. I’ve never been called Huck in my life.”

  “You know, whitewashing picket fences, Tom Sawyer…” But Ian was clueless. “Oh, shoot,” I said in quick recovery. “You went to school in Scotland, right?”

  He nodded hesitantly, unsure of where this was going.

  “Huck is a fictional character in a couple of American folklore books, stories about life in Missouri before slavery ended. Real cute books; next time I’m near a library, I’ll check them out for you.”

  “Hmph,” Ian snorted, with an attitude I didn’t recognize; nor did I want to. I ignored it and went on with my task, showing off my hide-scraping skills, a talent I was evidently born with.

  I wasted no time in finding an appropriately shaped sharp rock to use for scraping so I could save my knife’s keen edge for other purposes. One of those uses was to whittle a needle out of a rib bone and carve an eye into it. I wanted to make something, and insisted that Ian tell me rather than show me how. The moccasins I eventually fashioned for him were obviously my first attempt. They weren’t identical in design, but were functional and almost the same size. He didn’t complain, but then again, he never did complain about anything.

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  “What color are my eyes?” I asked.

  “What?” Ian answered in surprise.

  “What is not a color,” I chided. “I don’t have a mirror, and I don’t know what color my eyes are.” I leaned in close to him, almost nose to nose, so he would have to look at me.

  “Weel, they’re kinda like a summer bog. There’s a bit of brown in them and lots of green, like the moss on the north side of a tree durin’ the wet season. Why do ye wanna ken?”

  “I suppose it must be a female thing. I don’t know. I just wanted to know what I looked like. I can see I have straight brown hair, and I was hoping I had blue eyes or long eyelashes or something else that was pretty. I don’t have any big moles or scars on my face, do I?” My hands flew up to my cheeks—skimming my flesh, searching for irregularities—as I suddenly became more insecure.

  “No, no moles or scars, and yer jest about as pretty as any lass could be or any lad could want. I guess I’m not verra romantic. I shoulda told ye how pretty ye are.” Ian bent down and brought my hand to his lips. He kissed it in a very proper, gentlemanly way, and continued his kissing all the way up my forearm to my shoulders. He then became very improper as he nibbled my neck while surreptitiously copping a feel a little lower. He worked his way back down with more kisses, and then stopped abruptly, teasing me by not following through after getting me all hot and bothered.

  “Ye do have a wee mole,” he flattered, “very wee and pale, more like a freckle, aye, right there.” He nudged a spot on the right side of my face just above my lip with the knuckle of his index finger. He stroked it lightly and—when he was just under my nose—flipped up his finger, pushing my nose up in the air, and laughed out loud.

  “You got me! Just you wait, mister, you won’t see it coming when I get you back.”

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  We had been together for about seven weeks now. We kept time by the moon phases and were up to our second new moon together. We were doing well with our store of preserved elk meat and a reliable water source nearby. We were able to get fish on a regular basis now, pretty much whenever we wanted a change from the elk meat. A little bread or rice, fruit, or vegetables would have been nice, but at least we had the protein group and wouldn’t starve to death.

  I had constructed a fishing rod out of a straight stick, a safety pin, and some of my dental floss. Ian hadn’t ever seen nylon thread or a safety pin, and was amazed at how strong my little set-up was.

  It wasn’t the first time Ian was surprised at what I thought was a common item. I still didn’t know ‘when’ I was. I was afraid to ask, and he wasn’t keen on volunteering any dates. He spoke of his past, but never with any sort of political or historical marker mentioned. He had sailed to the Caribbean as a youth—was shanghaied, he said—but I knew pirates had been around since men sailed to sea. Current events were avoided with an immediate, “I dinna c
are fer politics,” comment and a quick change of subject.

  I guess what year it was didn’t make a difference. If by some fluke of man-made science or nature I had transported to another time, there was nothing I could do about it. I was here, today, with a man I loved so much that I had married him—and I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t know or care where I was from. I was happy where I was now.

  And that was that, for me.

  Ӂ

  We hadn’t seen anyone but each other since Ian’s ‘incident,’ and that was good. Rocky was usually around, but had taken off two days earlier on another one of his Romeo escapades. This time, I wasn’t concerned; I knew he’d be back when he was ready for human companionship.

  Today I stayed back at the cave—again—while Ian took the pan and went to the lake to get water. He said he would do the fetching since I didn’t feel well. Actually, I didn’t have any symptoms of illness—no chills, aches, fever, or nausea. I just didn’t have any energy. We had been eating well and getting plenty of horizontal exercise, but I was always tired. From the time I woke up, well after dawn, until I fell asleep shortly after sundown, I was beat. I tried to take at least one nap a day, but even that didn’t seem to help. I figured I was either going to get better or worse, but so far, I was wrong. This had been going on for a lunar month, and I still felt the same way every day—just tired.

  Ӂ

  “Now I want ye to get yer rest. And make sure ye remember to eat. I’m gonna check the area. I got this itchy, crawlin’ feelin’ that somethin’ isna right. Ye stay here, and I’ll be back in a day or two, maybe three or four. Is there anythin’ ye need before I leave?”

  Ian had made sure the pot was full of water, that there was plenty of wood stacked in the back, and that the fire was burning well. It was cold today, so he was taking the coat we shared, leaving me with the stiff but warm elk-hide robe.

  He came over and rubbed my back and shoulders, gradually making his way up to my neck with his now healed hands. He gently stroked the underside of my chin, making me purr like a kitten with a belly full of salmon. I knew he didn’t want to go beyond first base. He was content just to pleasure me with the caressing and attention he knew I loved. If he had wanted to go all the way, he wouldn’t still have the coat and moccasins on. I reached out to him, “Take care out there. I love you.”

  “As I do ye. I’ll be verra careful—I wouldna want to damage our, er, yer coat,” he said, bending to give me a peck on the lips. “I’ll be back before ye get a chance to miss me.” He turned and quietly pulled back the branches, set them right again, and then was gone.

  I dozed on and off for I didn’t know how long, then had to get up—again—for a potty break. I’d swear I was peeing more than I was drinking. I did my business, but didn’t want to go back inside right away. It was sunny and there wasn’t any wind, rain, or snow intruding on the perfect day. It seemed like a good time to bask in the bright winter sun’s rays. After spending so much time in the cave, I was probably lacking vitamin D, which might explain my lack of energy. I leaned back against the rock face and addressed the sun, ready to charge my solar batteries and get those much-needed sunshine vitamins.

  After twenty minutes or so of achieving irradiated contentment, I forced myself to move. Now I knew why the cat always chose to lie in the sunny spot—I was just about purring myself. Unfortunately, my bones and muscles had settled into the rock’s concave contour.

  I groaned, leaned forward, and rose to re-evaluate our site. My little world—or rather, our little world—what were we going to do when spring came? Would Ian take me to meet his family, would we go live with the Indians, or would we just be nomads, always trying to stay one step ahead of those heathens who had tried to kill him?

  I shook off the uneasiness. Solar regeneration and reflection period was over; time to be productive. I decided to check out the landscape from a different perspective. If I had just arrived here, what would I do? I’d find a reference point, that’s what I’d do. And I’d do it from a high place so I could see in all directions, too. I looked around and spotted a trail I had never seen—or at least never paid attention to—before. That trickle of a deer path up there was probably where I had been climbing when I fell and cracked my head several weeks ago. Worth taking another look, I thought. But this time, I’d be more careful. I wanted to make sure I returned to square one on my feet—not on my back—and with both my skull and memory intact.

  I didn’t have climbing gear, but was confident that I could manage. The way was clear and there weren’t any obvious obstacles. The wind was calm, and that was a good thing. All I had to keep me warm as I climbed the tall hill—or was it a short mountain?—were my two shirts and the sun. Either way, this tall earthen lump was still the highest rise in the area and had the best vantage point.

  I took baby steps up the path. Haste makes waste—and I wasn’t going to risk getting wasted again. I tested every step before putting my weight down. I wanted to make sure I didn’t slip or start a rockslide. I was also using the three-point system. I always had three points—two feet and a hand or two hands and one foot—touching a solid object before I ventured another move. It was slow progress, but gave me peace of mind: slow, steady, and safe.

  That worked for thirty minutes or so. Then, almost halfway up, I got scared. There was nothing to be afraid of, but I was starting to freak out. Panic attack? Nah, well, maybe. Whatever it was, I wanted to go back home to my stony shell, puny fire, and stinky elk-hide robe. The view from the hilltop could remain a mystery for another day.

  I picked my way back down the hill just as carefully as I had edged my way up. I was intent on what I was doing and almost missed hearing it. Someone, or something, was rifling through my cave! I didn’t have a weapon and didn’t know if I had the courage to fire a gun even if I had one. I hung back, hoping that whoever or whatever was intruding would just get what they wanted and leave.

  Ian! Oh my God, if he came back and didn’t notice that someone—or something—was in there, he might be attacked. I decided to bypass the cave’s entrance and head straight to the route we used for fetching water. If Ian was already on his way back, I could intercept him.

  As I got closer to our front yard, I heard a noise like someone in pain. The yowl was coming from our front porch. If someone was injured, I couldn’t just leave him in pain, even if he was a bad guy. Well, I’d take a peek and see if that someone looked harmless or not. But, no matter what, if it was one of those creeps who attacked Ian, I was outta here! He could take care of any injuries himself!

  I was wrong, and wrong again. First, he wasn’t outside the cave, he was inside it. Second, he wasn’t a man. She was a wildcat: a cougar, a big old mountain lion! I’d seen pictures of them in books; I must have if I recognized her so quickly. I just didn’t know they were so huge! Her body was as long as Ian’s, and that wasn’t counting her yard-long tail. She looked like she was only half-alive though. She was panting and her head was flopped sideways on the ground, her tongue not quite fitting back into her jaws. The good news was that I didn’t see any frothing at her mouth. She was in trouble, but not rabid.

  Apparently, she was heading toward the food cache at the back of the cave when she collapsed. She must have smelled the meat, but didn’t have the strength to walk those last few feet to get to it.

  I managed to inch close enough to her for a quick inspection. Both her front paws were injured. Coarse twine was wrapped around them, and it had cut off the circulation. It looked like she would lose her paws, or die, if I didn’t get them unbound. I gasped as I flashed back to Ian’s poor hands when I found him. Could it be that those heathens got to her, too?

  I talked softly to the languishing feline. “Hey, Lady, I’ll be quick.” I looked up to see her reaction to me touching her. If she knew I was there, it didn’t bother her. She was panting slowly, near death I think, and didn’t even flinch involuntarily as I cut the sisal cording that had evidently been part of a noose-style tra
p.

  “Here, let me give you a drink.” I poured water into the shallow mess kit plate and offered it to her. She wasn’t able to do anything but roll her eyes. She wasn’t much of a threat now, but could be if she was in good health.

  I did my best to dribble water into her mouth, managing to get in a few drops. At least now she could pull her tongue back into her face. I pulled out the elk shinbone I had planned to use for broth and lay it within reach of her. If she wanted to chew on something, she could chew on the bone rather than my hand. That is, if she found enough strength to lift her head.

  “Pussy cat, pussy cat, you’re delicious, duh dum, de dum dum,” I hummed some song. I wished I knew all the words, but it didn’t make a difference to her. Music soothes the savage beast, all right. She was too weak to move, but still seemed quite mellow for a wild animal. I figured it was because she knew I was here to help her. That or she realized ‘what’s the use in fighting?’ Nah; animals would fight to the last breath, or at least so I’d heard, somewhere, I thought.

  I shook off the insecurity of not knowing how I knew what I knew. She evidently realized I wouldn’t hurt her. “Okay, Lady, I want you to rest and get your strength back so you can get better and go back home.”

  I adjusted my bed to accommodate my new roommate, and lay down for my afternoon nap, positioning myself in front of the entrance. If I didn’t hear Ian approach, he’d still have to step on me before getting in all the way and finding a cougar in the larder. Better a squished Evie than a spooked, injured wildcat were my final thoughts as I drifted to sleep.

  Sometime later, I awoke. Time wasn’t measured in minutes or hours for me, just morning, noon, and night. There was nothing to do, no one to talk to, and nothing to read. Read: I just remembered reading the back of cereal boxes at breakfast when I was a kid. Hey, a childhood memory! Now if I could only have about a kazillion more, that’d be nice—I think.