Naked in the Winter Wind (The Fairies Saga Book 1)

by Dani Haviland

  After checking out the gifts, books, and videos in the museum, I was ready for the tour of the grounds. There weren’t any historical structures here—the original courthouse was long gone—but the monuments listed on the flyer looked impressive.

  As I drove down the narrow, one-way park road, bulging sporadically with parking lots for the numbered points of interest pullouts, an expansive graveyard loomed on the right. The huge granite monoliths—well, maybe not huge, but big and easily identified as personal memorials through the private property owner’s chain link fence—brought unexpected tears.

  So many men fell here—unnamed, but not unappreciated—without even a simple stone to mark their individual spots. It wasn’t hard to imagine those greenhorn soldiers in what was referred to as the battle’s First Line—the rag-tag full time farmers/part time militiamen who were the first line of defense against the incoming seasoned British troops. I, too, probably would have bolted at the sight and sound of those smartly uniformed and experienced Red Coats, marching in formation towards me with rifles, grim faced and self-assured, while I only had a pitchfork or maybe a single-shot blunderbuss.

  These woods, densely woven with all sizes and shapes of trees, had to be alluring, calling to the terrified. Even with sparse leaves—I doubt they were fully foliaged in mid-March—they offered quick concealment, the lush forest floor of fallen vegetation and mast hiding any traces of unauthorized or illicit escape routes taken by the frightened.

  The video that I had watched earlier said that there had been three lines of defense, their positions orchestrated by Nathaneal Greene, the slippery American commander who led General Cornwallis across rivers and valleys for weeks, intentionally wearing out the British Lord and his experienced soldiers. General Greene had stayed at least half-a-day ahead of the British until he had them where he wanted them: Guilford Courthouse, the little wide spot in the woods that is now part of Greensboro, North Carolina. His clever tactics forced Cornwallis to come to him and his well-rested American patriots on this chosen turf. Greene was fully aware that the long, early morning march would wear out the British. The miserable rain and chill of the morning was an added irritant to the already weary state of Cornwallis’s troops.

  War is always unpredictable, and usually horrid for at least one side, but on March 15, 1781, the day of the battle, cannons, poor communication, lack of weapons, untrained soldiers, and the deliberate misdirection by Lt. Colonel Henry ‘Lighthorse’ Lee—Robert E. Lee’s father—exacerbated the chaos. At one point, the British fired on their own men in order to break up a skirmish. Yes, the British won the battle, but their troops were so disseminated, they never recovered—Cornwallis wound up surrendering a few months later. America won the Revolutionary War because of the battle at Guilford Courthouse.

  I glanced at the flyer and saw that this was the location of the Third Line, the site of the last siege. Off in the distance, I saw a tall monolith, a monument of some sort, shining white in the sunshine. My legs didn’t hurt—yet—and I still had wind left, so I left the car in the pullout and took the earthen path to investigate.

  Along the way, I snapped a few pictures with my digital camera. One of them was of my smartphone at the bottom of an oak tree, showing the relative size of the palm-sized unit to the mammoth sentinel. Odd, this same tree was probably here 231 years ago.

  That thought invoked the first minor trembler. As I walked across the broad, open field, making sure I stayed on the crushed gravel path—the spirits of the past began to manifest themselves, tickling me with their presence. The sensation was like an air wrinkle, the movement of space created when someone reaches across you for a saltshaker—you’re aware of the person’s proximity, but not touched.

  These feelings were compounding, multiplying, as I strode across the field. There still wasn’t any physical contact, but I was eerily aware of their ‘presence,’ goose bumps rising on my arms, the little hairs poking straight out as if someone had just blown across them.

  I stopped short of my destination and read the details about this site in the flyer. The monument in the distance was in the wrong place. The field where I was standing now was the actual site of the battle, not where the monolith ahead, tall, impressive, and intimidating, had been erected years ago.

  I felt intrusive, as if I were sleeping in someone else’s bed and the sheets had not been changed. It wasn’t that the ghosts cared—they just wanted me to know that this ground was theirs. They had fought for it, bled to death for it, and they’d appreciate my respect.

  Shoot, I not only respected them and their sacrifices, I was thankful for them. I had voted absentee just before I left Alaska. Because of these souls’ heroic—or desperate—acts, I was not only able to select regional representatives, but judges, and the president, too. I also had a very vocal say in what I was willing to pay for taxes. Thanks so much, men—we’re all grateful.

  Ӂ

  It’s a good thing Leah kept a box of tissues in her car. I had already used all the ones in my pockets during the movies and now, outside at the monuments, I had almost resorted to using my sleeves. At first, I was a bit self-conscious about the tears, but I couldn’t stop, so didn’t even try. Those early Americans had so little, but fought for independence with a passion now called radicalism. They weren’t crazy, though. They knew what they wanted: the freedoms so eloquently spelled out in our Bill of Rights.

  We Americans have had our Constitutional rights for so many generations that many U.S.-born citizens seemed to forget—or maybe they never learned—life wasn’t always free. Now that I’m walking these grounds, seeing the exhibits with the actual artifacts that were a part of our predecessors’ lives, I wonder how these men and women found the time and the physical and emotional strength to fight.

  Their quality of life, low by today’s standards, entailed hard work and long hours just to survive. Sometimes that wasn’t enough. Disease, poor hygiene, and lack of proper medical treatment caused many early deaths. Transportation was slow, and goods for sale or trade were limited. If they wanted it, they pretty much had to grow it, trap it, or make it themselves. Most of the colonials wore homespun clothes, lived in homes they built, and worked literally from dawn to dusk to grow the crops and raise or hunt the animals that were their sustenance.

  I wonder if I would have been able to handle their lifestyle. Now if I’m hungry, I usually take one of three options: nuke something in the microwave, jump in the car and go to a restaurant, or make a sandwich with store bought bread and peanut butter and bananas. Just about anything a person could want or need now is available at your front door in twenty-four hours with internet orders and next day shipping. I’m ashamed to say I’m spoiled, having everything so accessible. I get upset when I can’t find the right style of shoes or my favorite sprouted grain bread. How would I feel if I had to plant, harvest, mill, mix, knead, and bake my bread in an oven that I had to chop wood to heat? Yes, I can sew a pair of pants, but I don’t have to weave the cloth, and I have a wide choice of patterns, sharp shears, and an electric sewing machine, all of which reduce production time considerably. Well, I wouldn’t want to give up any of this now, but after being so vividly reminded of the labor intensive lives these early Americans had, I think I’ll be a little more grateful for the electricity to nuke that potato and the vast choices I have for a comfortable pair of shoes for my old lady tender feet. I don’t know how our forefathers managed to win, but I’m glad they did.

  After I reloaded my stash of tissues, I returned to my tour of the park where I learned that the confrontation here at Guilford Courthouse was one of the bloodiest battles fought in the war, but was also pivotal in winning it. I walked and I cried, amazed then grateful, and then overwhelmed again. It almost felt like my old menopausal mood swings, but without the anxiety. I guess what I had was a case of passionate patriotism. I suppose if I was going to be infected with something that made my nose run and eyes tear, it might as well be this.

  Maybe I was just
being overly sensitive. Either that or the souls of those who gave their lives for freedom were reaching out to anyone who was susceptible. Yup, that’s me—a soft touch for a ghost.

  I walked back to the parking lot, head bowed down to hide my red, bleary eyes, and saw garbage on the ground. Why were we trashing this country? Was it too much trouble to stuff that powerbar wrapper in your pocket, dude? I mean really, do you know how long it takes plastic, even a thin candy wrapper, to decompose? Well, I don’t know either, but I’m sure it’s a long time. Take it home and put it in the trash so it can rot in a landfill with all its cousins.

  I looked around and saw others were staring at me. Maybe I’d been speaking out loud. “Trash,” I said boldly as I crumpled the wrapper and placed it in the garbage receptacle. “Trash can.” I lifted my head and walked proudly back to Leah’s little car. I shouldn’t be embarrassed about being patriotic and environmentally responsible, so I wasn’t.

  I knew I was emotionally distressed, but I was probably suffering from low blood sugar, too. The oatmeal and coffee had long ago metabolized, and I was running on empty, both nutritionally and emotionally. I don’t know if I have the personal fortitude to continue this Revolutionary War trek through central North Carolina or not. I hadn’t expected to be this patriotic. Before I make a decision to cut short my expedition though, I should eat. The first restaurant offering real food—not boxed or bagged fare—would get me as a customer. I didn’t know what I wanted to eat, but did know I wanted to finish the meal with cherry pie.

  “And that has nothing to do with you, George,” I said as I looked up to the sky.

  *2 Master Simon

  I was able to stop my leaky face and pull myself together once I was out of the park, away from all those spirits in the woods. I was about two miles out when I saw a man lying flat on his back near the side of the road, one hand on his forehead. I could tell something wasn’t right. Okay, I was feeling brave. I looked behind me, didn’t see any cars or trucks coming, so made a quick U-turn, pulling to a stop about five yards away from him.

  After what seemed like forever, I located the car’s flashers and turned them on. Then, just to be on the safe side, I stuffed Leah’s keys deep into the left pocket of my sweat pants. I doubted that this was a setup with someone faking an injury in order to steal the car, but I was still leery. I took my itty-bitty cell phone out of the cup holder and put it into my other pocket. I could call 911 if something did go sour; the phone’s security system and GPS could locate me wherever I was. I paused and grabbed my water bottle—I guess I didn’t want to approach the stranger empty handed—and got out of the car.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  The man pulled his hand away from his forehead. “Pardon me?” he replied in a European accent. I couldn’t place it as French or English, but it certainly wasn’t American.

  I inched nearer and squatted down next to him. He looked at me in awe, as if I had two heads and was sprouting a third. “I said, are you okay?”

  I could see he wasn’t, though. By the looks of his disheveled clothes, bruised cheek, the cut above his left eyebrow, and his blank stare, he was the victim of an assault. He pulled his hand away from his face, turned it over, and examined it—it was bleeding, too.

  “Here, let me see,” I said and checked out the cut and bruised palm. Apparently, he had tried to deflect the blows, but by the look of his face, he wasn’t too effective. There weren’t any calluses on his hands either—he wasn’t a laborer. The lace on the edge of his cuff looked handmade and his cloak and shoes made him look as if he were in the wrong century. If he wasn’t an actor or guide at one of the nearby museums, he was a nut.

  “Can you walk?” The man looked a little loopy, but managed to nod his head. “Okay, on three.” I reached for his good right hand. “One, two, three,” I said, but he didn’t budge.

  “You’re supposed to try to stand up when I say three,” I explained, trying to hide my exasperation.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t understand,” he replied, and leaned forward in anticipation.

  “One, two, three, go.” This time he cooperated and got to his feet.

  He was quite short and sturdily built, but not fat. He was still a bit unsteady, but standing by himself. The phrase ‘dazed and confused’ came to my mind when I looked at him. He probably shouldn’t be left alone, especially near traffic. “Hey, let’s go to a restaurant and get something to eat. They’ll have a restroom there where I can clean your wounds. I have a first aid kit and Band-Aids in the car. Are you game?”

  “Game?” he asked, obviously confused. “Oh, yes, I am game,” he answered with a weak facial tic. “And thank you for your assistance.”

  “Sure; my name’s Dani Madigan. What’s yours?”

  “My name is Master, er,” he stuttered, then quickly recovered and finished with, “Please, just call me Simon.”

  “Okay, Simon.” I fished the keys out of my pocket and clicked the button to unlock the doors. Simon was standing on the left side of the car, waiting for me. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to drive. Come over to this side.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. European automobiles, they’re different, you know,” he explained as I opened the passenger door for him.

  Hmm, so he isn’t from around here.

  He climbed in gingerly, obviously in pain. I noticed he was staring forward, his right hand cradling his left—he was probably in shock, too.

  “Here, let me help you.” I reached across his chest for the seatbelt and he flinched. “State law, you know. Click it or ticket and all that.” I acted as if nothing had happened and fastened the seatbelt. The last thing I wanted was for some strange man—or any man for that matter—to think that I’d made a pass at him.

  It was a very short trip. Four blocks away, I found The Duck Inn, a quaint little café that looked like a decent place for real food and fast first aid. The parking lot was nearly empty, too—only an old Dodge pickup in the back—so an odd couple like us, the male member in period costume and hairstyle, probably wouldn’t attract too many stares.

  I grabbed my backpack from the backseat, got out, and went around and opened the door for Simon.

  “Thank you, madam. I’m sorry to be such an inconvenience,” he said, his bottom lip twitching in an attempt at a smile.

  “No worries; I don’t like to eat alone anyway. After you, sir,” I said brightly, and opened the glass door with the hand-scribbled ‘Open’ sign taped to it.

  The first thing I saw as we walked in was a little dessert carousel containing two cherry pies, a chocolate cake, and a couple of white-topped pastries. The little devil on my left shoulder suggested we have lemon meringue pie for dinner and cherry pie for dessert, but I didn’t listen to him. I resisted the urge to tell my demon to shush. I didn’t want Simon to think I was a nut within the first ten minutes of meeting me—that should take at least an hour or two.

  We walked past the counter and, sure enough, there was only one other patron, seated by the far window. The waitress—Frankie according to her nametag—walked over with two menus in hand. “Sit anywhere you like,” she said in her light southern accent, pointing to the six tables. I chose the one in back, conveniently located near the restrooms. She handed me two ragged edged laminated menus and smiled. “The special of the day is pot roast and homemade rolls. Would you like to start with something to drink?”

  “A glass of water and a glass of milk, too, please. Oh, and go ahead and get me the stew. That sounds yummy.” I looked around and saw Simon was already heading toward the restrooms. “Make that two stews and add a cup of hot tea,” and gave her back the menus.

  The waitress attended to her other customer, a dark-haired, good-looking, and well-dressed man in his mid to late twenties. “Would you like some more, sir?” she asked with a flirtatious grin.

  “Oh, no, no, thank you. Two bowls are enough for me. I want to save room for some of that cherry pie, but don’t bring it to me just yet. I’d like to sit h
ere and study this map for a bit longer, if you don’t mind.”

  “No problem, sir, just let me know when you’re ready for dessert,” Frankie said in a sultry tone with a shoulder twitch that suggested that pie wasn’t the only sweet dish she had in mind. It wasn’t any of my business, and he didn’t seem too receptive either way. His nose was already stuck back in the parchment-colored map.

  Okay, Dani, pay attention to your own situation; head back to the restrooms and check on your new acquaintance.

  Simon was leaving the men’s room just as I got there. “Wait, come in here with me,” I said as I pulled him by his elbow toward the ladies room. “I want to clean up those owies.”

  Simon was shocked, either at my touch or by my words, or maybe both, and took a step back. “The cuts, I want to wash the cuts with soap and water before an infection gets started. I have antibiotic cream and Band-Aids in here,” I said and lifted up my backpack. “Come on, I’ll prop the door open if it makes you feel better.”

  I nudged the tall, stainless steel, swinging-door-topped garbage can toward the doorjamb. “Come over here by the mirror, the light’s better here.”

  I turned on the hot water, grabbed the washcloth out of my bag, and worked up a good lather with the restroom’s liquid soap. I wiped and washed and scrubbed his hands and face, then rinsed and rinsed again. I urged him over to the hand dryer and pushed the big button.

  “Oh, my stars!” he exclaimed when it roared into action.

  I giggled, but managed to say with a straight face, “Yeah, I hate them, too, but I think in this case, it’s better than a hand towel. Here, let me put this goop on you.” I opened the little foil packet of triple antibiotic and squeezed it onto the abrasions on his hand and the cut above his eyebrow. “Here, hold still. I’m going to put a couple of Band-Aids over these to keep the acky-pucky in and the dirt and fuzz out.”

  I managed to put the yellow happy-face bandages on his hand and forehead without laughing. He brought his hand up to inspect the smiley faces that decorated his dressing. “That’s it!” I exclaimed just a little too loudly.