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

by Dani Haviland

  “I’m right here, guys. I can hear you, you know.” I pulled my hands away from them and turned over to look up at the sky. “When are we going to... Oh, shit!” I exclaimed, seeing the trees at my side. The ground had jumped up beside me, right here, right now, and then it was all over.

  Ӂ

  Simon and Leonardo had made many leaps before. They knew how to land, but they had drugged the concerned old lady. She was both ignorant and incapacitated. She didn’t know what she doing when she walked out onto that cloud. She would have had a good chance of survival if she had just received some training, or at least a few quick words telling her to bring her legs down and land feet first, as if jumping off a fence. Instead, the two men had been bickering, and she had landed on her back. If she were alive, it would be a miracle. The rate of descent hadn’t been too fast, but she hadn’t been prepared.

  Ӂ

  Leonardo picked up her hand and let it drop. “She’s dead; let’s go,” he said coldly, and looked around to locate the moon. He didn’t have a compass, and the cloudy night obscured the stars. He needed to get his bearings so they could leave in the right direction immediately.

  Simon knelt down by Dani’s side and put his ear to her chest. Thump thump, thump thump. She was alive, but not breathing. He pushed up and in on her belly, trying to get her diaphragm to move, but still no breath.

  “You need to blow in her mouth if you want her to live. I say just leave her. She wouldn’t survive in this time anyway. She’s not prepared.”

  Simon looked into the face of the sweet, middle-aged lady who had come to his aid when no one would even look at him. She cleaned and bandaged his wounds, fed him, took him where he asked to go, and didn’t ask for anything in return.

  He took a deep breath, pinched her nose, and blew into her mouth. “Ugh.” He shuddered. Close physical contact repulsed him.

  He sat up and waited to see if he needed to repeat the resuscitation procedure. Probably—she still wasn’t breathing. He took in another deep breath, resigned himself to the unsavory task, and bent over her once again.

  Dani gasped in a deep breath and immediately cried, “Ow,” wincing as she exhaled. She squeezed her eyes closed, attempting to shut out the pain, and tried to sit up. She didn’t make it. She had landed on her backpack and couldn’t move.

  “Here, let me get rid of this,” Simon said as he rolled his would-be patron over, took her arms out of the straps, and shoved the bag aside. He settled her carefully onto her back again. “How many fingers do you see?”

  “Huh?” she replied.

  Simon turned her head from side to side and saw blood coming from her ears. He took her hand and squeezed her fingers together: no response of discomfort or pain. He tightened his grip, but her features remained blank. He reached over, grabbed a bit of skin just above her ankle, and pinched it: still no sign of any feeling in her extremities.

  Master Simon made his very first heartfelt decision. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a little blue facet-cut bottle, and uncorked it. “Here, take a sip of this,” he said as he put the jewel-like container to her lips.

  “No!” screamed Leonardo. “That’s mine!”

  The sudden shout caused Simon’s patient to gasp in surprise, causing sixty-year-old Dani Madigan to gulp a very large dose of the rare and valuable medicine. She would never be the same again.

  Simon held the bottle up to the dim moonlight. “I think there’s still some left. If not, we can go back to Florida and get more. The fountain is still there; let’s take more bottles this time. I think Leonardo Junior wanted some, too, did he not?”

  Leonardo was furious. “I did not come all this way for more elixir. That is what you were supposed to do. And no, my son said he wants to live his life without staying young. He is actually embracing his aging, the fool.”

  “He is not a fool! You taught him many basic concepts, but he has progressed far beyond your lessons to develop his own great projects and art works. He will make his mark in history his own way. Leave him be.”

  Leonardo da Vinci the Elder looked over at the still-unconscious female on the ground. She didn’t look as big as she did when he first saw her. It must be the moonlight playing tricks on his eyes. He picked up the old woman’s backpack and threw it into the bushes. “Let’s go. Either she’ll make it or she won’t. You had better hope she doesn’t remember any of this. If anyone does find her, they’ll think she’s mad.”

  Simon bent over the unconscious woman’s body and pinched her wrist. It jerked away from his fingers. He reached into his coat one more time and pulled out a small envelope. He opened it and took out a twist of pollen stem. He pried open his friend’s mouth and stuck it under her tongue. “Remember nothing, my dear, remember nothing.”

  *5 So, here I was…

  October 31, 1781

  Someone was sweeping an ostrich feather under my nose, or maybe it was just my hair blowing across my face. Either way, the tickle was enough to wake me out of a sound sleep. I tried to brush whatever away, but couldn’t. My body was unresponsive, rigid, and felt heavy, as if made of solid oak. Something was wrong here. Everything was out of focus, moving in slow motion, or not at all. Suddenly, I sneezed the mother of all sneezes. Wham! Now that felt good, and I think it jumpstarted my heart, too.

  Oh, crap; where am I? Lying on my back—somewhere. The high cirrus clouds above me seem to be racing ahead of a winter storm. The smell of moist, moldy leaves nearby is pleasant, but doesn’t help me know where I am. I shut my eyes and inhale deeply, filling my lungs to the top of my shoulders with the cool, heavily oxygenated air. I let it out slowly, and panic…

  “Who am I?”

  I know I’m me, but I can’t remember my name. Shoot, I don’t know what day, or even what month it is—or year! I lift my head and look down at my body. My clothes seem familiar: gray polar fleece sweatpants and a green buffalo-checked flannel shirt with a white cotton undershirt. I’m wearing my favorite jacket, too. Hey, that’s something! I know it’s my favorite and, now that I think about it, I remember I made this myself.

  “Great,” I mumble sarcastically, “all I know about me is that I can sew, and I only know that because of the coat I’m wearing. There has to be more to me than that!”

  Hmph, maybe I fell and hit my head. Right, that would explain waking up flat on my back and without a memory. Evidently, I’m not the type to freak out. My momentary panic has now become rabid curiosity. Who am I?

  I check my pockets for clues. I have a Leatherman multi-tool, a wad of tissues, a couple of brightly colored handkerchiefs, a ballpoint pen without any advertising blurb, and three safety pins. There’s nothing special about any of this. I’m still anonymous. Something doesn’t feel right though. I know something is missing.

  What I’m not missing is a case of cottonmouth. First order of business: find water. Before I can do that, though, I have to figure out how to stand up. I don’t hurt anywhere, but for some reason I have pudding for muscles. After three frustrating attempts at standing, I’m able to get my feet under me. I feel like I just won a wrestling match with myself. Hey, look at that. I’m wearing tan hiking boots. They blend right into the ground, and cool—they’re on the right feet, too!

  Now, where’s my water bottle? That’s what’s missing—my backpack! I had a backpack with at least one water bottle in it. I don’t know what else was in it, or even what it looks like, but I know I had water and a backpack at some point. Yeah, well, wishing for the backpack and water bottle doesn’t make them magically appear. Maybe there’s a creek or stream nearby. If I were an animal looking for water, how would I find it? I’d sniff it out, that’s how. Okay. I can do that.

  Sniff, sniff. Turn ninety degrees. Sniff, sniff. Hey, that’s it! Maybe I’m from the desert and that’s why I can smell water so easily. There, that big oak-looking tree has deep green vegetation underneath it. I’ll bet there’s a spring feeding it.

  I pull away the thick, spongy mass covering the top of the
wet spot with my hands. It’s moist all right, but there isn’t enough water to drink. I paw at it furiously, trying to enlarge the pit, hoping to speed up the water flow. Ergh! Okay, I guess I’ll just have to wait for it to fill. I start laughing hysterically. Yeah, right. What was it that poster said—or was it a tee shirt? ‘God give me patience and I want it NOW!’ Well, Lord, I want a tall glass of water, but I’ll settle for a muddy puddle…and the sooner the better.

  The damp spot appears to be getting wetter. Groundwater they call it. I remember digging a hole for a mailbox post in Fairbanks. I couldn’t dig down even one foot without hitting the water table there. Fairbanks, that’s Alaska! That must be where I’m from. No time to think about that now; I need to figure out how to get a drink.

  I look around and see a few fallen trees, lots of branches and twigs, then finally locate a broken sapling, just the right length to use as a pry bar. After a few jabs and pushes, I’m able to lever several of the bigger rocks out of my little oasis. Then it’s down to my knees for the dirty work. I dredge out as much sand and muck as I can with my hands and create a fair-sized bowl. The water can move in faster now; less restriction or something like that. I guess I should have paid more attention in science class.

  My face won’t fit into my slow-filling excavation, but I have two handkerchiefs I can use as sponges. I can slake my thirst with one while the other gets nice and sopping wet. I shake off the pocket fuzz and set them into my sandy, earthen sink. Umm… Sucking on a wet hankie is such a primitive joy: a wonderful, albeit small, blessing.

  I don’t want to leave and to try to find civilization because there’s water here. I’m sure there are other sources, but I’m too scared and insecure to leave this place—wherever ‘this place’ is.

  Then again, I should probably stay put and improvise some sort of shelter. Yeah, right. I have plenty of trees to build with, but no way of getting them down. There are lots of twigs and branches for a fire, but I don’t have matches. Well, at least my legs still work. I can jog in place until someone finds me, or I can think of another way to stay warm, whichever comes first. Where’s a nosy neighbor when you need one?

  *6 Woof

  “Woof, woof.”

  Now there’s a familiar sound. At least a dog barking is better than a wolf snarling or a bear growling. Maybe this means there’s a cabin nearby. A folksy, backwoods log cabin, or even a shack would do, with a friendly sort in residence. Actually, any place where I could warm my frozen fingers and find out how to get to civilization would be fine by me. Maybe I’ll get lucky and score a cup of hot cocoa, too.

  Of course, most of the vacation cabins are abandoned for the winter this late in the fall. I’ll be lucky to find a doghouse to climb into. Well, right now a doghouse sounds pretty good. It looks like it’s going to snow, and all I have is the coat on my back. Yeah, well, the Pollyanna part of me realizes that at least the coat is warm, has a hood, and I’m wearing boots.

  “Woof, woof.” Okay, back to reality, woman. That’s not a warning bark I hear—it’s an animal in distress.

  “Here boy, here boy,” I call out. I have no idea where the dog is, but I can tell he’s in trouble.

  “Woof, woof, whheee?”

  Woof, woof, whine? What the heck? I carefully step over the uneven ground, thick clumps of leaves, and fallen trees as I search for the source of the sound, but still wind up tripping on the bottoms of my pants. For some reason, they keep falling down. Dang, how come they’re so big all of a sudden?

  “Woof?”

  Oh, my God!” There’s a huge dog in that tree, and he’s hanging upside down! At least, I think it’s a dog. Whatever it is, that big four-legged, mud covered, hog-tied critter has a foot-long chunk of wood wedged in his mouth.

  Poor, pathetic animal, he has to be a dog; he’s stopped woofing now that he’s seen me. Those sad, puppy-dog eyes are begging me to help him. I’m not too sure about that, though. He’s surprisingly quiet now, but I know better than to get close to a strange dog, even one who looks gentle. Dogs are still animals, even if they have been domesticated for thousands of years.

  Oh, well, I’ll take a chance. At least with that stick in his mouth, he can’t bite me. I suck down my anxiety and, keeping my eyes low, approach him cautiously, my knuckles extended for him to sniff. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that his lip is back, teeth bared, but he’s not snarling at me. It’s that wooden gag screwing up his mouth, distorting his face. But his eyes, the true character indicators, aren’t hostile.

  “Poor baby, poor baby,” I repeat softly. My soothing voice must be working, at least for one of us. Now I’m more at ease.

  “Okay, baby, here we go.” I reach up and cut the suspension rope with my Leatherman tool, letting him drop into the pile of leaves below. It’s a short fall, but I think he’s been through worse. No, I know he has. I rush to his side. My maternal, or whatever it is with a dog—pet-ernal maybe?—instincts have kicked in. I have no fear of this dark-furred beast.

  The poor, battered canine has been repeatedly thwacked and probably booted, too. There’s a bloody gash across his snout, and his chops are raw where the rough bark scraped. He lifts his weary head and seems to whimper, “Set me loose, please.”

  “Not, yet, baby; just wait a minute,” I reply to his non-verbal request. Logic tells me I need to get the wood out of his mouth now, while he’s still securely bound, or I may never have another chance, or at least a safe one. Okay, time to put on my orthodontist hat.

  I try to be gentle, but that’s both futile and exasperating. I need to be aggressive. “I have to get this out first, then I’ll untie you. Please be patient with me; I’m new at this.”

  The stick still won’t budge, even when I get my back and butt into it, pulling on it with all my weight. It’s crammed all the way back between his molars, wedged in so he can’t push it out with his tongue. Even though he’s not threatening me, I’m cautious around his canines; they’re huge! Whoever did this dirty deed probably drew back a bloody stump, or at least I hope he did. I’m certain the person—or persons—who did this got hurt in the process. It had to be ‘persons’ though; I can’t image even two big men overcoming this huge beast. I sure hope the dog drew first blood, and lots of it!

  “Poor baby, poor baby,” I repeat soothingly as I try to figure out a new tactic. I can almost swear he winces when I say ‘baby.’ I look down at his belly. Okay, now I see: he’s a male. He’s also a trusting one by the way he’s patiently waiting for me to figure out how to get this done.

  “Sorry, fella. Let’s try this. I know it’s going to be painful, but please, pretty please, don’t bite me. I have to open your mouth extra wide, and it’s gonna hurt.”

  I come at the short chunk of tree trunk from the back of his head, stick my thumbs in his mouth, and hyper-extend his tight jaw. “There we go,” I grunt as I push the wood out with my fingers.

  It’s gone now, but his mouth still won’t close. It’s going to be a while before his jaw muscles return to normal. I don’t think he could bite me now, even if he wanted to.

  Finally, time to free him from his crude bindings. “Okay, big boy, let’s get you out of this convoluted torture chamber.”

  I could swear he glared at me when I called him big boy. “Okay, bear with me; I’ll let you tell me your name when your mouth gets back to working order. Now, you see this: it’s my Leatherman.” I flip the tool open like the guys do and open up the pliers. “The inside of this is for cutting wire. It works great on rope, too.”

  I approach him cautiously, and with just a couple of snips, cut through the crudely twisted sisal. He collapses into a heap at my feet with an audible groan. I check him for broken bones or other wounds, but can’t find anything obvious. He’s dirty, but seems to be intact; at least he has all his pieces, and I can’t feel any breaks. I know he’s grateful to be free, but he’s still stunned and can’t—or won’t—move yet.

  He looks like a chocolate-brown Malamute under the mud and f
ilth, and appears to have a tan, raccoon-like mask. I brush away some of the debris from his coat. He definitely likes the attention I’m giving him and snuggles into me. I’m starting to like this big guy and feel comfortable with him. I hum a random nonsense tune and massage his ears, taking care to avoid the raw spots. He rubs his face against my legs, showing his appreciation, and then struggles to stand up. He makes it, but is still wobbly.

  I’m sure he’s thirsty, so I try to lead him to my water hole. He walks off in the other direction instead, pauses, takes another step, looks back at me with those big coffee-colored eyes, and moves forward again. He only has to do this twice before I realize he wants me to follow him. I’ve heard ‘you can’t teach an old dog new tricks,’ but evidently this feral dog can teach a lost woman how to obey and follow.

  About thirty yards from where I found him is a free running stream. We both drink our fill. I’m content and feel as if I’ve found a new friend. “Well, dear,” I tell him, avoiding the nicknames ‘boy’ and ‘baby,’ “I sure hope you can help me find my way back to...?”

  I’m shocked back into my new reality. I don’t know where I am, much less where I was going or what I was doing before I woke up at the bottom of that cliff. I face him and smile at his loyalty. “Hi, glad to make your acquaintance. My name is….”

  I waver in shock, my head suddenly too heavy for my neck. I still don’t know who I am!

  My knees unlock one at a time and I collapse awkwardly onto my bottom. My arms reach out to grasp the ground behind me, instinct kicking in to avoid a complete head-cracking faint. My mind shuts down momentarily to avoid overload, and then reboots. I’m awake, mostly alert, and have no choice but to park my body and emotions here—in the middle of I don’t know where.

  What happened? And why?

  I gradually drift back into reality. Poor dog, I must be scaring him. He bumps into my shoulder as if to say, “It’s going to be okay.”