Naked in the Winter Wind

by Dani Haviland

  Wallace could have knocked out the phony captain in two punches, but drew out the punishment, savoring each well-calculated, painful blow, ignoring the bruising of his own fists.

  One two, one two. Wallace was bashing the captain’s face beyond recognition with bare-knuckle boxing combinations. The soldiers and most of the men from the mill gathered around the combatants, and were urging Wallace to ‘hit ‘im again.’

  But one man watched quietly, waiting for an opportunity to make his way into the arena. Ronald—the captain’s right-hand man—had been detained by the soldiers earlier, but had managed to slip away from his guards when the confusion began. He had procured a rifle, but the weapon was empty, and he couldn’t find any ammunition to reload it. He decided he’d avenge his captain’s beatings with what he had, though: the gun’s bayonet. The big, tall, quiet one who was now pummeling his boss wasn’t going to die quickly or quietly. Gut stuck was a horrible way to die, and that was how he would take him out.

  The watcher had a watcher. Clayton had been following Ronald’s movements all afternoon with the intention of killing him as soon as he was away from the soldiers. This man had slapped, twisted, and dragged about his little sister just moments ago, and would have raped her earlier today if it hadn’t been for her quick thinking and still quicker feet.

  Rape. He had never thought of rape as a personal thing. It was just sex, a form of pleasure—or so he believed. It was true that he and his brother got carried away with Wallace months ago and, although it was fun at the time, they both realized after the incident that it probably hadn’t been a good idea. When he saw the way the captain and Ronald had looked at, pawed at, and lusted after his little sister, unwanted sexual attention took on a completely different meaning. It wasn’t fun for her, and if it wasn’t good for both people, then it wasn’t good. Period. All of a sudden, he had intense remorse for the attack on Wallace, this man who today had defended his little sister.

  Clayton watched as Ronald began to move amongst the crowd, making his way toward Jenny. He flashed anger, hatred, and revenge—all at the same time. Clayton hadn’t come unarmed this time. He had taken a long knife from the wall of the mill. He worked his way around the circle of men to get near Ronald. Maybe he could stab him when no one was looking.

  “Hit ‘im again, hit ‘im again, harder, harder,” the crowd chanted. Clayton took his eyes off Ronald momentarily to watch Wallace the punisher wail on his brother’s murderer. He grinned. He was glad that the big man was relentless with his pounding on the man who had caused his family so much sorrow. He glanced back just as Ronald lunged forward into the brawl, his bayonet drawn, targeted on Wallace.

  Clayton instinctively jumped in front of Wallace, the intended victim, his sister’s protector and avenger. He defended him, retaliating by thrusting his own purloined long knife deep into the would-be assailant’s belly.

  In a bizarre twist of fate, the same man who had raped him months earlier saved Wallace from a potentially mortal assault. But the protection had come at the ultimate price for the defender.

  “Arrgh!” Wallace didn’t stop the pummeling when he heard two men scream in combat behind him. The sounds of bellies being punctured could have been birds flying overhead. He was focused on his task—the punishment of the man who had killed his fiancée—and nothing else mattered.

  Two bodies fell onto Wallace just as he threw his last punch. He didn’t let it distract him, but merely moved aside to let them fall, never taking his eyes off of Captain Asshole. He grimaced; he had lost control of his temper, and it would be a long time—if ever—before the captain’s face looked like it had even an hour earlier. He took a deep breath of regret, then realized it was a moot point. The man was due to be hanged for murder, insurrection, and illegally taking taxes in the name of the King—and then, in ultimate stupidity, keeping the loot.

  Lost in his own reflections of remorse for losing control, Wallace suddenly realized that there was a commotion around him, and it didn’t concern him or the beaten prisoner. He kicked over the unconscious captain so he didn’t have to look at his mashed and bloody face, and saw the two bodies at his feet. Ronald had a long knife in his stomach, and Clayton—he winced at the thought of him—had a bayonet in his.

  Then he heard it: Jenny screaming. The other soldiers were trying to calm her. The sergeant had pulled her away from Clayton, but she was fighting to get back to his side.

  “Let her go to him,” Wallace said calmly, but with authority. The sergeant looked up and obeyed. He recognized an officer, whether he was in uniform or not. “Now, have someone go and get Sarah, Mrs. Pomeroy, the healer.”

  Wallace went to Jenny and knelt beside her, knowing that Sarah would be with them soon. It was doubtful that anything could be done for either of the men. He knew about abdominal wounds, and survival was just about impossible. It was supposed to be the most painful way to die and wasn’t quick either. Clyde had had it easier, he thought. Then he looked at Jenny, the real victim in all of this. She was a mess, crying and clutching at Clayton’s head.

  “Here,” Wallace said as he lifted Clayton’s shoulders, “you can hold him if you’d like.”

  “Yes, please,” she sniffed, and scooted under her dying brother. “You’re gonna be fine—I’m here now—all right?” she consoled, as if she were a mother, talking to a toddler with a skinned knee.

  “Oh, God,” Wallace groaned, and collapsed next to the little girl. “Mother, no mother,” he mumbled in shock. Evie was dead. He had three little children to rear, and no one to feed them. His eyes rolled back in his head, and the sobbing began—this time, his own. He felt a heavy hand drop on his arm and looked over to follow it to its owner. It was Clayton.

  “Please forgive me; me and Clyde for, you know. I am so sorry, and I know Clyde was, too, but I am the sorriest, for sure.”

  Clayton grimaced in pain, then coughed, and yelled out in agony. Jenny was stroking his forehead, pushing the hair out of his eyes, trying to comfort the man. The yelling stopped, but he was still alive. The hand came back to Wallace’s arm, beseeching this time. “Can you forgive me, please?”

  Wallace sniffed back his tears for Evie and wiped his nose on the back of his shirtsleeve. He looked at his attacker, and saw the sincerity and need in his eyes. He started nodding his head slowly, and then moved up to a real assent. “Yes, I forgive you, you and your brother,” he said.

  Wallace didn’t have anything left to give. He rolled over onto his side to face Clayton, his whole world empty except for the dying man and his sister holding him. “If I don’t forgive you, how can I expect the Lord to forgive me for the wrongs I’ve done? That’s what it says in the Bible, you know.”

  Wallace was now the preacher and counselor to the rapist and murderer lying next to him. He reached out and held onto the dying man’s hand. He sighed. Now that he had forgiven him and reached out in compassion, his world didn’t seem as dreadful as it had moments before.

  Then he felt another hand on his. It was Jenny. “Would you say a prayer for him?” she asked, her big blue eyes red-rimmed and pleading.

  Wallace looked over and saw the grayness of Clayton’s skin. He didn’t have long, if he was even still alive. Then he heard another groan, and knew the man was still a resident of this realm. He started to say the Gaelic prayer that Jody had taught him, but realized that it wouldn’t help either of them. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name….”

  Ӂ Ӂ Ӂ

  The sergeant ushered Sarah to the carnage. “What happened here?” she asked. Three bodies lay on the bloodied ground. Wallace was grim, reciting the Lord’s Prayer to a young girl with one of the dying—Clyde’s brother—in her lap.

  Wallace looked up, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Was she in pain before she…she died?”

  “Yes, I mean no, I mean,” she took a steadying breath and started all over again. “She’s in pain now, but she’s not dead. She’s…”

  Wallace didn’t wait to hear th
e rest of the story. He sprinted to the site where he had last seen his fiancée. He had seen her fall—a musket ball shot into her chest—then saw Sarah bent over her, shaking her head. He was sure she had been killed. But there she was now. Jody was sitting next to her, his hand holding a cloth over the bloody hole in her chest. The wound was on her left side, and it looked as if it had gone straight into her heart.

  Jody looked up and said, “She’s not deid, but Sarah said she canna fix it. It needs a proper surgeon and tools she doesna have. Weel, she’s a proper surgeon, but she doesna have any anestheez, that is, special pain medicine; or lots of other things she needs to get the ball out and sew the vein back together. Wallace, if only we could get her back to her own time some way, she could be healed. She said she dinna know how she got here, so how could she go back, even if she wanted to?”

  “I think I can help with that,” said a strange, yet familiar, voice behind Wallace. He turned and saw Master Simon walk past him to kneel beside Evie. “We need to take a ride to get you to help. Do you think you can make it?” he asked.

  I forced one eye open and saw who it was. “I want to get married first.” My eye fell shut—it was too much work to keep it open—and I resumed my slow, gentle breathing regimen. It had worked for labor, and Lamaze breathing was the only respite available for the fiery pain in my chest.

  “Ye heard the lady, she wants to get married. Do we have any takers?” asked Jody with a lilt of hope and happiness that was contagious to all who heard it.

  “I’d be honored,” said Wallace brightly, keeping up the optimism Jody had initiated. “Um, Master Simon, do you have any credentials that would work for performing a marriage ceremony? I mean, you seem to be dressed for it,” he said, nodding to Master Simon’s black frock coat.

  “Er, why, yes, but please, can we make it quick? We have to get to our, um, destination before dawn, and we have a ways to go. Oh, and it would be best if you or your father here would ride in the back of the wagon, just in case… Well, the ride may get bumpy, and I want her to be as comfortable as possible.”

  “Get on with it,” I said, my voice low and eyes still closed. “I hurt like hell.”

  “Ahem,” Simon cleared his throat and motioned for Wallace to scoot next to Evie. “This is the quickest rite that I am accredited to perform. It’s a sweet little ceremony they perform in the islands just off the coast of Norway. They do it quickly because of the weather…”

  “Hurry. Up.” I said.

  “Oh, yes, sorry.” Master Simon grabbed Wallace’s left hand and my right, put them together, and said, “Love, honor, and protect each other, no matter what happens, all right?”

  There was silence, and then Wallace realized that Master Simon was waiting for an answer. “All right,” Wallace and I said at the same time.

  “You’re man and wife, and I pity the poor fool who tries to separate you two. The marriage is good with or without, but you may want to wait for the reception and er, wedding night. Now, give your bride a kiss, and let’s get going. The wagon is ready, and if you two will help load Miss Evie…oh, my. What is her name now?”

  “Mrs. Wallace Pomeroy-Hart,” Wallace said as he looked towards the still seated Jody. Julian was standing behind him, his hand on his good friend’s shoulder. Wallace’s two fathers had made it to the wedding ceremony.

  Wallace bent down and gave me, the new Mrs. Pomeroy-Hart, a gentle kiss on my lips. He brushed his hand across my forehead. “I’ll do better later, I promise,” he whispered. I answered with a smile.

  “Okay, fathers, let’s load my lovely wife into the wagon for a trip to the hospital. Which one of you wants to join us for the ride?”

  “Load first, please,” Master Simon said. “And make sure she doesn’t lose her necklace. She’ll need that.”

  The Pomeroy Hart men looked at each other, confused at the comment, then gathered around, nodding to direct one another to lifting points. Wallace grabbed my shoulders while Julian steadied my head and Jody took my feet.

  “Don’t let her use her neck muscles,” Sarah said. She rushed over to the wagon and climbed in the back, ready to position me in the impromptu ambulance.

  I could tell by the feel that she had used a bag of rice to keep my head still, and it was as comfortable as could be under the circumstances, but the quilt had wadded up underneath my hips. “Move, blanket, butt,” I said.

  “Here, help me,” Sarah said to Wallace. “Lift her hiney, and I’ll get it straightened out.”

  Wallace did as instructed, then looked at Sarah and asked, “Hiney?”

  She shrugged her shoulders and grinned. “It’s a word I learned from your wife.”

  “Oh,” he said, dropping the subject, but glowing with pride. He had a wife.

  Ӂ Ӂ Ӂ

  Sarah didn’t know what was going on, but assumed, rightfully so, that Master Simon had arranged for a way to take Evie back to her own time for life saving surgery. Jody walked up to her with Julian at his side and said, “We tossed a coin and he lost—I get to go with the newlyweds. Sarah, take care of Julian, and dinna let him get into too much trouble, aye?”

  Julian said, “He’s making light of this because he’s so concerned. Wallace, you take care of everyone, and don’t let him get into too much trouble. Evie, I know you can hear us. Be strong, and hurry back home before I get a chance to miss you. Oops, too late—I miss you already, and you haven’t even left yet.”

  I smiled in reply. When I first met Julian, he could barely laugh at a joke, much less make one. Knowing that he would be here when I got back was like cuddling a warm sheet right out of the dryer—or should that be right off the summer clothesline? Either way, he was a warm and fuzzy memory for me to cling to.

  Master Simon took command. “We’re leaving now. Mister Pomeroy, would you take the honor of driving? Wallace, you need to stay back here with us. Try to keep her from being jostled. Here, drink this,” he said as he held a vial to my mouth. “Just a sip, now. It will ease the pain and help you relax. We don’t want your muscles to tense and,” he paused, obviously making a decision, “here; take another sip, just to make sure.”

  And that was the last I remembered of my journey, traveling in the back of an 18th century horse-drawn wagon to a 21st century hospital room in Greensboro, North Carolina.

  ***48 Voice sweet as chocolate brownies

  I must have been in a deep sleep, because people don’t wake up from being dead. And I was awake. Or almost awake.

  I didn’t know where—or when—I was, but I knew that I wasn’t alone. I couldn’t make out the words, but her tone was soothing, her voice as sweet and rich as double fudge chocolate brownies. “Mmm, brownies,” I cooed.

  “Brownies?” she asked. “Do you want a brownie?”

  “That would be nice,” I answered in a soft, dreamy whisper, “with lots of walnuts; no, pecans would be better. A nice tall glass of milk, too…” I rolled over to embrace my lusty wish and stiffened up with pain. “Oww!”

  “Don’t move,” the velvet-voiced lady said in an authoritative tone, “you’ll tear out your stitches. You have to stay on your back.” Her hands were chilly, but gentle, as she lifted my upper body, and rearranged the pillows behind me.

  “What happened, where am I?” I asked, now completely awake. I couldn’t see. I reached up with my right hand and felt a bandage. It covered both my eyes. I patted the gauze and found that it seemed to be wound all the way around my head. I lifted my left hand to check, and froze with the piercing pain. “Ow, ow, ow! What in the hell is going on?”

  “You were in an accident, I would guess. Let me see your chart. Hmm. This says your name is Jane Doe and that you had a musket ball removed from your left shoulder. It just missed your heart, but it looks like you’re going to be good as new. Renaissance Fair accident, it says.” The woman paused then added, “They didn’t have muskets in the Renaissance. Jane Doe?”

  “That isn’t my name, it’s, uh, oh, shoot. What is my name?” I asked
. “Crap!”

  “Well, I doubt it’s crap. Let’s see, it doesn’t say anything here about why your eyes are bandaged. Let me check this out.”

  The nurse unwrapped the gauze strip around my eyes. “I can’t see any signs of trauma; there’s no blood or seepage.” She got all the wrapping off, and then gently pulled off the eye pads one at a time. “Nothing obvious, and there aren’t any notes in your chart about ocular trauma. Open your eyes, please.”

  I did.

  Oh, boy…

  I knew her.

  “Leah?” I asked.

  “Mom?” she answered as a question.

  “I think so. What’s going on? I don’t remember anything,” I said. “I mean, really, I don’t know why I’m here. Nothing.”

  I really didn’t remember anything, but I knew that this was Leah—I was absolutely sure of that—and I had the gut feeling that I was her mother.

  “You disappeared ten months ago. No body was found; not a trace of you. You look good now except for the hole in your shoulder. You’ve lost a lot of weight and your wrinkles are, well, they’re gone. You dyed your hair, too—no more silver highlights, as you called them. You look good,” she repeated, “almost too good.”

  I was scared beyond words. I slunk back into the pillows and started to hyperventilate, casting my eyes down at my slim midsection. “Thanks,” I said softly in response to the complement. I pressed my lips together and just lay there, stunned, concentrating on my breathing so I wouldn’t have to think about this uneasy situation. There was a hole in my memory, and all I could remember was that I had had amnesia before. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

  “Well, aren’t you going to tell me what happened?” she asked, not even trying to disguise the edge of disgust in her voice.