Shelter from the Storm

by Molly Wens

  Bryce returned to his task in the kitchen, but kept an ear to the next room. There were the sounds of rustling cloth and squeaking bedsprings to accompany her soft, whimpering murmurs. Just as the soup had begun to simmer, the room next door fell silent. Dark, chilling fear crawled into his belly, freezing his heart and filling his mind with dread.

  He set the soup aside again to walk to the bed, his boots dragging across the stone-tiled floor, fearing the worst. The only sound was the crackle of the burning logs in the fireplace.

  As he neared the bed, he saw something that astounded him. Skoll, the enormous Mastiff who hated people worse than his master, was standing beside the bed, his colossal head on the woman's thighs. The white of her bandaged hand lay in stark and miniature contrast upon the jet-black fur of his powerful neck. When Bryce tried to call Skoll away, the dog simply rolled his eyes upward, looking at the man, but not moving from his post.

  With a bewildered shake of his head, Bryce returned to the kitchen to pour the broth into a bowl for serving. He found a spoon that he would use to ladle the restorative liquid into her mouth and a towel to spread over the blankets to catch any spills. Returning to her side, he lifted her listless body to slide his bent knee and arm under her for support. It was this way, with her head laying upon his chest just beneath his shoulder, that he was able to use his right hand to pour small amounts of the broth past her swollen lips, while his left hand cradled her head. The dog never moved from his vigilant position by her side.

  Bryce was unaccustomed to the responsibility of someone so completely dependent upon him for care. The feeling of protectiveness that was growing toward this unconscious woman was coupled with the fear that his efforts would not be enough to draw her back from the brink of death. The blizzard outside his door howled as its savagery grew. Even if the storm were to dissipate, he would still not be able to carry her out of the wilderness, not in her present condition. She would not last an hour in the frigid temperatures of the early winter in the mountains. All he could do was follow his instincts and training and hope it was enough to sustain her, enough to restore her health.

  The first spoonful of broth dribbled off her lips, landing on the towel beneath her chin. He tried to stay his growing alarm as he spoke to her, urging her to swallow. When, on the third bite, her throat contracted and she had consumed most of the warm broth, he nearly let out a whoop of joyous satisfaction. Her face grimaced in pain as the warm liquid flowed down her esophagus; as if the mere act of swallowing were the most painful she had ever endured. After that, he managed to get most of the broth into her belly. She did not once open her eyes or offer any sign of awareness, but instead, remained unconscious in her fevered delirium, responding to very little.

  The sun had risen; the only indication of it was the brighter cast to the gray, snow-filled world outside the cabin window. Bryce welcomed the gloominess of the stormy day. He was bone-weary, in need of sleep, and the low light would make that easier.

  Taking another quick glance at the woman who slept so quietly under the watchful gaze of Skoll, Bryce turned to clean up the mess he had created. He emptied the ancient copper bathtub, one bucket at a time, and stowed it in the corner near the fireplace. The soiled linens and blankets were draped over an improvised clothesline near the warming flames to dry.

  Finally, he gathered the sodden, filthy rags that had been her clothing. As he plucked them from the floor, it occurred to him that, within the articles of clothing, there might be something that would tell him her identity. What was left of the fragmented shirt, he knew, would contain nothing, so it was immediately tossed upon the fire. He found no pockets in the ragged slacks and threw it to the mercy of the flames as well. The jacket, he discovered, had once had a pocket on either side of the front, but the linings were torn out.

  He smiled at the sleeping form on the bed. She was a resourceful woman, having harvested even the linings of her pockets to cover her exposed flesh, keeping it protected from the elements. He had little doubt that the fabric he had removed from her mangled hands had been that which was missing from her jacket.

  He frowned slightly as he remembered the small packet he had discovered clinging to her damp breast. He had tossed the item aside, more concerned for her immediate needs than what had been wrapped in the raveled cloth. Dropping the ruined jacked in front of the hearth, he returned to the table next to the bed.

  Picking up the little item, he turned it over in his palm until he found the end of the cloth where it had been tucked into the layers. He pulled it out, unwrapping first one, and then a second long strip of dirty white cotton. Getting to the core, a small square-shaped object fell into his hand. He held it up to the lamp in the gloom of the dreary afternoon. Turning the small article, a slow, reflective smile stretched the beard that shielded his face, the white patches of hair on his left cheek and jaw dancing in the flame of the lamp.

  Held in his fingers was a single matchbook with several of the sulfur-tipped sticks gone. The covering was slightly damp but most of the remaining matches were still in good condition. The woman had, despite being weak and injured, had the presence of mind to keep her one weapon against the cold fury of nature safe and dry. He felt hope for her begin to rise; she was a survivor, and despite her frail appearance, might just be strong enough to recover.

  He threw more wood on the fire and pulled the recliner across the irregular floor, positioning it beside the bed. He would sleep in the chair, he decided, next to her in case she began thrashing about on the bed once again. He would keep her safe, make her comfortable and help her get through this ordeal; she had more than earned the right to live.

  Watching his human, Skoll refused to be moved, keeping vigil next to the bed. By this time he had one large forepaw on the bedcovers, his head still resting under the swathed hand of the helpless woman. She seemed content with the dog's presence, calm under his touch. It was an enigma to the man; he had never seen the dog behave this way. It was as if Skoll could sense the courageous spirit that she would have to have within her, that will for life giving her a rare quality that bespoke her worth as a person.

  Bryce sank slowly into the comfort of his chair and propped his elbows on his knees. He watched the sleeping woman, so pale and vulnerable. He hoped with every fiber of his being that she survived, even knowing the expression on her face when she would finally have a chance to look at him. For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to have her look at him without the usual abhorrence most people gave him. He pondered what it would be to have her smile at him, accept him, touch him.

  The thought brought back the feeling of loathing for the species of animal to which he was unfortunate enough to belong. He dug his knuckles into his gritty eyes, wondering why she had to be dropped into his hands. He had moved out here to be alone, so that he would no longer have to see the grimace of revulsion that so readily exhibited itself on the faces of those who saw him.

  This cabin, so far removed from civilization, was his escape from the accusing stares and whispering voices that hissed their condemnation behind his back. He had managed, after the years spent here, to find some peace within himself and learn to live with the past. The minute she opened her eyes it would start all over again. He would have to endure from her the fear, the disgust, the compulsion to run away from his presence that he knew too well.

  His thoughts continued to trouble him as he rested his head against the back of the chair. He closed his eyes and drifted through a semi-conscious world of darkness, listening to the accusation of the voices from the past. He heard the screams of a woman and saw her crushed body. Her eyes, full of pain and fright, looked at him with absolute trust. Her bloodied lips smiled timorously as he held her lifeless, paralyzed hand.

  Bryce was jarred from his dozing state, the shadows of his dreaming visions dissolving in the confusion of waking. A deep gloomy anger darkened his mood as he looked around, trying to remember something.

  Then he saw her, the woman on the bed.
She was sitting up, clutching the quilt to her flannel-clad breast, her eyes open and staring. She was whimpering in horror, murmuring words that were unintelligible. The dog beside the bed was echoing her voice with soft and cajoling whines of his own.

  With a weary sigh he stood, moving away and removing himself from her sight. As he moved he realized that her vision was not following him, but rather, had stayed fixed upon some unseen point in the distance. Cautiously moving closer, he waved a hand in front of her eyes only to see that she took no notice of him or his actions. With some small relief, he saw that the horror in her expression was not directed at him.

  The woman was still delirious, trapped in the nightmarish world of demons and specters. He had pity for her and all that which she had fought through to survive this long. With one long stride, he moved closer to the bed and reached out a hand to touch her arm.

  With a rasping screech, the woman recoiled in terror, flinching at his touch. Before he could see her move, she had flown from the bed to fling herself into a corner of the room, the flannel shirt riding up her slim legs as she slid her back down the junction of the rough-hewn walls. Her hands, held out in front of her, fended off the unseen incubus of her nightmares, as her ragged voice shrieked, “NO! Let—me—go!"

  The terror in her voice, more than anything else, jolted him into action. Crossing the room in quick, cautious steps, he crouched down beside her, careful to keep most of his face turned from her toward the shadows of the corner. She did not seem to see him; her eyes—a shade more green than hazel—were glazed and overly bright.

  His hand shook as he slowly reached for her, brushing a curl of silken hair from her face. She blanched, shrinking from his touch against the wall, her diminutive body becoming even smaller as she curled herself into a protective ball. He reached out again, both his hands taking her grappling body into his arms. The woman struggled with enough ferocity to knock him off balance and send them both toppling to the cold, flat stones of the floor.

  She continued to fight, screeching without words, as she struggled against someone or something that only she could see. Bryce was on his back, trying to keep her fevered body from the cold floor as he wrapped his legs around her flailing limbs. He clasped both of her dainty wrists in one huge grasp while his other hand pressed her head against his chest and stroked her hair. His concern for the crazed woman was evident in the soothing tones he used to calm her as her body contorted.

  Every muscle of the fragile body in his arms flexed and knotted under her skin. She twisted and arched against him, pushing her head into his chest. Her shrieking voice rang out in fright at the unseen foe that tormented her addled mind. She was a difficult handful to hold onto, but he did, trying to sooth her unknown terrors, and his own, with the sound of his voice.

  When she finally sagged against his long frame, exhausted and panting, he laid his head against the hard floor and drew a stabilizing breath. He held her gently, stroking a callused hand over the soft flannel that barely covered her slim back, and pulling the shirttail down to conceal her naked thighs.

  The searing heat of her illness burned at her flesh as the flames of a fire. Her fever was rising again, causing his brow to furrow with concern. With careful movements while unwrapping his legs from about her scorching body, he drew her limbs up to his middle so that he could slip an arm under them. He rose from the cold hardness of the stone-inlaid floor carrying her with him, clasping her lightly against his chest.

  Skoll whimpered and danced about Bryce's legs as the man carried the unconscious woman back to the bed. He tenderly placed her fevered body upon the mattress, stripping back the covers and tossing them over the end of the bed. Without stopping to think, he stalked into the kitchen to get fresh water from the hand pump at the sink. Adding the still-warm water from the kettle on the hearth, he tested the temperature to find it tepid. He needed to cool her, but if the water was too cold, she might go into shock.

  With one free hand, he cleared the table near the bed and set the pan of lukewarm water on its worn surface. As he turned to her, his fingers only hesitated for a moment before he unbuttoned the huge shirt that seemed to drown her slender form, and threw both sides open to reveal her ravaged flesh. Her muscles shuddered and twitched in delirium as her voice called out in a series of soft moans and whimpers.

  The bruises that marred her pale skin had darkened since he had cleaned her body and dressed her wounds. The ones on her ribs, and left breast looked the most painful and swollen. He pulled two small pieces of sackcloth from the pile he had placed next to the pan of water and wet them, applying the cooling compresses to the vicious-looking injuries.

  Dipping in another small cloth and ringing the excess water back into the pan, he surveyed her body. So much of it was damaged that it would be nearly impossible to sponge her down without irritating at least some of the wounds. With a sigh, he set about the task, scrupulously avoiding the worst injuries that had been bandaged. For the better part of an hour, he continued to swab the burning skin of her face, torso and legs, finally removing the shirt from her arms to gain access there.

  Running cool fingers over her skin, he could feel that her temperature was lower, could see it in the softened expression on her face. She was sleeping soundly now, her fever and delirium abated. After managing to get a few spoonfuls of cool water down her throat, he settled back into his chair, his watchful eyes never leaving her delicate form.

  He searched his memories of the medical training he had taken while a young sailor so many years ago. Questions of whether he was giving the right treatment or had missed something important clouded his mind and threatened his confidence. As he watched, seeing the peaceful slumber that now enveloped her, he had to believe that he was doing everything right, but still there was that nagging doubt.

  He wanted, once again, to get her to a hospital, to get her real medical treatment, but the storm outside the walls of the cabin warned him not to even try. The blizzard raged on, dashing snow and ice against the one window that was not shuttered against its fury. He no longer believed that there was a god in heaven but he said a silent, fervent prayer anyway.

  He was unsure of when his troubled thoughts had drifted away to be swallowed by the blissful void of restorative sleep, but he was suddenly awake, jolted by some unknown force to alertness. There was the soft, throaty whimpering of the giant dog that told him something was amiss. as he climbed out of the darkness of sleep.

  Snapping his head up, his eyes open, he saw the woman staring at him from her position on the bed. Her face held no expression as her hazel green eyes gazed at him from under the fan of those incredibly long, dark lashes. She was sitting in the center of the huge bed, with her legs folded under her, a pillow clutched to her body to hide her nakedness.

  Though her eyes were still glassy and too bright from fever, he could tell that she was looking directly at his face, watching and studying him. Time stood still as he waited for her to scream, to turn away in disgust, but she merely watched his eyes. Skoll broke the spell as he nudged Bryce's leg and let out another low whimper.

  The eyes of the woman turned to the dog, again with no reaction. Bryce cleared his throat nervously, bringing her unwanted attention back to his face. “It's okay,” he said his voice crackling in the tension of the room as he turned away. “You've been ill. How do you feel?"

  The woman glanced about the room as if searching for something, before lowering her eyes to her hands clutched about the pillow against her chest. Bryce was on his feet in an instant, snatching the blankets off the floor at the end of the bed. He kept his face averted to hide his left side and offer deference for her modesty. After shaking out the bedding, he offered it blindly to her, feeling it shift from his grasp as she accepted the offering.

  Without glancing at her, he strode across the room to remove another of his large shirts from the bureau and tossed the garment on the bed next to her, as he made his way to the kitchen. Once out of sight of the woman, he ran a sha
king hand over his shaggy head, berating himself for allowing one single pair of olive-colored eyes to unnerve his mind. He drew a halting breath and forced himself into action, shoving sticks of wood into the old wood stove, stoking the flames to life. There was some tea around, he knew, and she would need its restorative qualities, as well as other nourishment. Bryce opened another can of soup, chicken noodle this time, and put a kettle on to boil.

  When he thought he had given her enough time to dress, he returned cautiously to the front room. She had only moved slightly from her former position, having pulled herself into a tight ball and leaning against the headboard with the sheet and blanket clutched to her front. The plaid of the flannel shirt he had tossed to her was still lying, untouched, on top of the blankets as she watched the large dog. Skoll was standing next to the bed, his large jowls resting on the surface of the bedding.

  "Skoll,” he commanded too harshly. “Out.” Bryce lunged for the door, in a hurry to ease what he perceived as her discomfort in the presence of the huge animal.

  "I like him,” she said in a soft, raspy whisper, bringing Bryce to a halt.

  He turned to face the full force of her steady gaze. Feeling uncomfortable under such close scrutiny, he turned his face away, wishing he were anywhere but under her watchful eyes. “He ... uh ... his name is Skoll. Most people are usually afraid of him,” he stated blandly.

  He could feel her eyes as if they had a physical touch all their own. The tangible sensation of her heavy gaze was almost more than he could bear. With a voice too gruff from the dread that was threatening to choke him, he spoke again. “Is there something wrong with the shirt?"

  Her answering voice was weaker this time, more timid, more fatigued. “I'm sorry. I can't seem to muster the strength” her words trailed off to a gentle sigh.

  Bryce felt like an idiot. Of course, she was too weak to retrieve the garment and put it on; she could barely speak. With a sideways glance, he could see the pallid cast to her face and the dark hollows under her tired eyes. He sidestepped, bending to snatch the shirt from the foot of the bed and then carried it to her side, shaking it out and holding it for her.