The sun slipped below the hills and the cold wind stung his face but Bruce was beyond caring. His broken heart hurt more than any physical pain. He couldn't rest until they both lay safely in the barn.
In the morning, he'd light a bonfire. The thought of a raging fire, defiant against the bitter cold, seemed more dignified, more ceremonious than a burial, a celebration of life rather than a capitulation to death. Besides, the ground would be frozen within a few feet of the surface. It would take days for Bruce to dig a hole deep enough for the two of them. His body was shattered and the thought of so much exertion caused his heart to sink further.
After clearing the logs away from Jane's hips, Bruce gently repositioned her, moving her with care.
Jane groaned.
Bruce faltered, almost collapsing at the sound of her whimper. He staggered, overwhelmed with emotion.
Several of the larger logs had been upended in the avalanche, digging into the soft ground around Jane, forming a crude triangle across her upper torso. They must have borne the brunt of the collapse, he thought, shielding her from the worst of the weight. Another log supported the remaining low-lying portion of the wood pile, forming a shallow bridge over part of her legs.
Jane moaned. Her head rolled slightly to one side.
With a surge of newfound energy, Bruce threw the remaining logs onto the grass, pulling her bloodied, battered and bruised body out from beneath the woodpile. He lay his jacket over her, tears streaming from his eyes as he brushed her matted hair gently to one side.
“Oh, Jane. Jane,” he sobbed, repeating her name over and over.
Bruce carried Jane to the cabin. Her body felt frail, fragile, as though the slightest bump would cause more damage than all the wooden logs.
He laid her on Hugo's bed, dragging it over near the fireplace. The fire had gone out, but the glowing coals still radiated warmth.
A sense of feeling returned to his cold hands, and they stung from hundreds of tiny cuts and cracks in his skin, but that didn't matter.
Bruce ran his fingers gently over her arms and legs, checking for broken bones. Skin had been peeled off her leg, revealing her bloody shin. Her right hand had been crushed, with several small broken bones protruding out of her torn skin, but she'd escaped without any major bones being smashed. A large welt had formed on her head. Bruising marred her body, turning her pale features yellow and black.
Being six months pregnant, her stomach protruded noticeably. A large dark purple bruise had formed on one side of her belly, and Bruce worried about their unborn baby, but Jane was alive. For now, that was all that mattered. He made a splint for her hand and wrist, and bandaged her arm.
Bruce stoked the fire, stirring the flames as he added more wood. He heated some water and began gently washing Jane's wounds, cleaning dirt out of the cuts and grazes. Slowly, Jane regained consciousness.
Once he was confident she was going to survive, he left her briefly. Taking a blanket, he went outside and wrapped Hugo's cold, stiff body. He moved the body, placing it in the back of the barn. The cattle stirred as he entered, wary of any movement, but he paid them no attention.
When he returned to the cabin, Jane was awake. She tried to speak, but her mouth was dry. Bruce got her some water and helped her sip from a cup. He took crushed willow bark and boiled it, skimming the scum from the surface and mixing it with a little honey and some dried tart cherries to form a natural painkiller.
Jane chewed on the soaked cherries.
“Where is Hugo?” she whispered, wincing as she looked around.
“I'm sorry,” Bruce replied. “Hugo didn't make it.”
Bruce told her all that had transpired, how he thought she was dead, about his battle with the wild cat and Hugo's bravery.
Jane cried.
Bruce sat, slowly pulling off his bloodied boots. His feet and ankles had been rubbed raw. He soaked them in salt water, grimacing from the pain, but knowing he needed to keep the possibility of infection at bay.
Jane fell asleep listening to the crackle of the fire, but Bruce couldn't sleep. The wind howled around the cabin, causing the roof to creak, setting his nerves on edge as he wondered about the mountain lion, worrying it would return in the dark. They would be safe in the cabin, but the barn was listing and could fall if the big cat tried to get in after the cattle. If the lion went for the chickens the coop would fare better, at least he hoped so. Eventually, his weary body won the argument and Bruce fell asleep in a chair in front of the fireplace.
When he awoke, the sun was high in the sky. Light streamed in through the thin gaps in the shutters. Outside, snow blanketed the ground. Winter was setting in. There was much to do. Bruce had to fetch the horse that had fled. He had to repair the breach in the spikes. He had to shore up the barn. Jane told him it was too much, too soon, and Bruce agreed to rest.
It took a couple of days before Jane could walk without help, so Bruce tended to the farm animals. He built a bonfire for Hugo, lighting it at dusk so the flames would lick at the night sky. As the funeral pyre burned, he and Jane talked fondly of Hugo, trying to replace their sadness and loss with a sense of thankfulness for his life.
“How long was he with us?” Jane asked, watching as the flames leaped up at the sky, sending glowing embers floating high on the breeze. “At least six months?”
“Yeah, although it seems more like six years,” Bruce said, joking.
“Will you be serious,” Jane replied, a scowl on her face.
Bruce smiled.
“Hugo would have laughed.”
“Yes,” she admitted, her good hand supporting her pregnant belly. “I guess he would have.”
She leaned against Bruce, snuggling with him as the warmth of the fire radiated outward. The crackle of burning logs filled the air. Smoke drifted lazily away.
“I feel like we should tell someone. His family ought to know. For all that happened between him and his son, he ought to know how his father died. How courageous he was, giving his life for me.”
Bruce didn't reply. He nodded, but a knot formed in his throat and he couldn't speak. As it was, he was fighting back the tears knowing just how close he'd come to losing her as well. It could have been both Jane and Hugo on that funeral pyre, and that realization terrified him.
She squeezed his hand. Feeling the warmth of her fingers in his palm, he turned to her, saying, “I'll send word.”
Jane reached up and wiped the tears from his eyes.
Sparks drifted up into the night, seemingly joining the stars above. There was no moon, and the light of the fire caused shadows to dance around them.
“Do you know how big they are?” asked Jane, staring up at the stars.
Bruce was silent. He knew exactly what she was doing, and he knew Hugo would have approved. Rather than hearing a somber, deathly tome, the old man would have been happy to know they went on to talk about the wonders of nature around them.
“The stars look like points of light, little more than specks of sand, diamonds glowing in the sky.”
She ran her hand up the inside of his arm as her voice carried softly in the cold night air.
“And yet they are bigger than anything we could imagine. Far, far bigger than Earth itself. Our sun is roughly a million times the size of Earth, and yet the sun is small as far as stars go.”
Jane pointed at the grain silo, off in the distance behind the barn, its dark silhouette blotting the horizon.
“Take a cup full of grain, and that's all our little old Earth amounts to when compared with the sun.”
“And there are bigger stars?” asked Bruce. “How could they be bigger? They all look the same size to me. Are the brighter ones bigger?”
“The brighter ones are probably just closer, not bigger,” Jane replied, staring up at the sky. “If the biggest star was the size of our grain silo, then our sun would be the size of a handful of grain, and the entire Earth would be no bigger than the tiniest speck of dust.”
“And yet here we
are,” Bruce replied, “thinking they're so small.”
“All this,” she said, “everything we see around us, is just a speck amidst a sea of monstrous stars.”
Bruce hugged Jane, pulling her in against the cold. They stood there silently for a while, watching the wooden logs slowly collapsing in on themselves. They left the pyre to burn through the night.
Chapter 06: Birth
Snow flurries swept across the countryside, burying the land.
Bruce finished working on the barn and repaired the breach by the forest before the deep snows arrived.
Jane was worried.
Whereas once the baby within her womb had been quite boisterous, moving and kicking, now the babe lay still. As much as this alarmed Bruce, there were so many other things he had to care for that he lost himself in his duty to the farm. Jane, though, grew depressed. She was sullen and moody. Her zest for life faded.
After a few weeks it was clear she would never regain the use of her right hand. The logs had crushed the same arm she'd injured in the village and she'd lost all feeling below her wrist.
Jane told Bruce there were moments, in the early morning, where she'd get the sensation of pins and needles in her hand and she'd think she was getting better, but her hand remained lame.
Bruce could see how dejected she had become. He offered to make a run to the village and from there on to the library to retrieve some of her favorite books, hoping these would lift her spirits. But it was wishful thinking, and they both knew it. Winter had already set in. Jane showed her thankfulness for his attention by being tender and considerate, but he could see she was putting up a front.
The drifts arrived, but not before Bruce had reinforced the barn and stacked hay bales four wide and six high in a line between the cabin, the barn and the chicken coop.
Once the snow mounted up outside and became hard-packed with the plummeting temperatures, Bruce began removing the hay bales, taking them back into the barn and revealing a snow tunnel between the buildings. He used wooden cross-members to shore up the tunnel every ten feet and poked holes for ventilation.
Snow buried the cabin but melted away around the chimney. Bruce dug narrow culverts on an angle away from the windows, leading up to the surface to ensure adequate airflow and natural light reached them in the cabin.
Winter was unusually cruel and cold, making it impossible to venture beyond the farm, but the snow drifts provided a degree of thermal insulation, keeping the temperatures in the barn around freezing while the outside world plummeted to lows Bruce had never seen before.
On those rare occasions when he braved the surface, he found it hurt to breathe. The air was so cold the wind would burn any exposed skin. But they had plenty of supplies and could make it through the worst of the storms.
Jane's belly continued to swell as the baby grew within her. She said it was a good sign, that if the unborn child had been killed in the crush her body would have rejected it as a stillborn babe by now, and yet the child failed to move.
When her waters broke, Bruce was ready. Jane had schooled him in what to expect, making sure he was well drilled in each of the particulars.
Bruce had seen his older sister give birth, so he knew what to expect, and Jane had acted as midwife for several of the villagers. Ideally, it would have been better to give birth in the village, where there were more women to help, but winter prevented any travel.
Jane fortified herself. Bruce was impressed by her focus and deliberation as the contractions set in. Her labor was long, reaching through the night into the next day.
As dusk fell on the second day, they braced for another long night. Bruce had towels and water handy, along with a knife he could sterilize in the fire to cut the umbilical cord.
As her contractions increased in intensity, Jane squatted, using gravity to assist the birth. She was sweating, breathing in short pulses. Bruce knelt before her as she held onto the arms of two chairs he'd placed on either side of her. She was magnificent, he thought, but he couldn't tell her so. She was in no mood for small talk.
Between contractions she sat back on the edge of a chair, her legs spread apart, and Bruce could see the baby's head crowning.
Jane cried in agony as her contractions increased in intensity.
“Oh, Bruce. It feels like I'm burning up inside,” she cried.
“Hang in there,” Bruce replied, feeling woefully inadequate. “You're almost there. I can see the baby.”
Jane panted as she knelt between the chairs, taking up a crouched position. The baby's head came out and she groaned, fighting the urge to push. She had told Bruce what to do at this point. He had to check to make sure the umbilical cord wasn't wrapped around the baby's neck, strangling the child.
Bruce ran his fingers around the baby's throat as Jane pursed her lips and took short, sharp breaths, fighting against the natural urge to push the baby out.
“All clear,” he said. “You're good.”
That was all Jane needed to hear. With one last push, the baby flopped out into Bruce's waiting hands. His face lit up with a smile. Jane was too relieved to care in that moment. Her head tilted backwards as she breathed deeply. With a warm, damp rag, Bruce wiped away the thick mucus and fluid from around the baby's eyes, nose, and mouth.
The baby didn't breathe.
Jane looked at Bruce with sadness in her eyes. She feared the worst, he could see that, but he kept a brave face. He turned the baby over, resting its chest in the palm of his hand, his thumb and forefinger supporting the baby's small head.
“Come on,” he said, his hand rubbing the child's back, gently patting him, willing him to breathe. Him, he thought, surprising himself with the realization that they'd had a son. The baby spluttered and cried, breathing for the first time.
Jane had tears in her eyes. The look on her face was one of exhaustion and relief. She held out her hands and Bruce handed her the baby, kissing her on the forehead. He clamped and cut the umbilical cord.
“Oh, he's so beautiful,” Jane said, peering at the baby in her arms.
“He certainly is,” Bruce replied, giving Jane a cloth as she sat down on a stool by the fireplace.
Bruce cleaned up as Jane gave the baby the opportunity to suckle.
“So is he a Julian or a James?” he asked, bringing up the names they'd agreed upon over the last couple of days. Bruce wanted to call the baby James, after his father.
“Neither,” Jane said, glowing with a smile.
“Well?” asked Bruce. “Don't keep me in suspense.”
“I don't know what suits him yet,” Jane replied softly. “But I'll think of something.”
“Oh, you will, will you?” Bruce said, coming around beside her and resting his hand gently on her shoulder.
Jane grimaced, leaning forward. She had told Bruce beforehand that the contractions to pass the afterbirth were less severe than those of birth, but they looked even more painful to him. Over the next half an hour, she continued to struggle with what looked like stomach cramps.
When the placenta came out, Bruce placed it in a bucket. Jane had him turn it over so she could see the underside. She used a knife to examine the placenta. To his untrained eye, it looked like a large liver or kidney, although it was clearly more complex than either of those organs.
Jane's stomach cramps continued, and she put the baby down in the small crib she'd made for him, keeping him by the warmth of the fire.
“This is not good,” she said.
“What?” asked Bruce, not understanding her concern.
Jane doubled over in pain. A thin trickle of blood ran down one leg.
“What is it?” he asked as she reached out to hold his arm, steadying herself.
“I think the placenta may have torn away part of my uterus.”
Bruce wasn’t familiar with the term uterus. He’d seen the afterbirth of farm animals and had heard his mother use the word uterus on a couple of occasions. He knew it related to reproduction, but Jane’s harsh use
of the word caused a chill to run through him. He knelt down with her as she rested on the blankets spread out by the fire.
“Oh,” she cried, grabbing at her stomach. “Oh, no.”
Blood ran freely.
Bruce was flustered, he didn't know what to do. He grabbed a couple of towels and a blanket, using them to mop up the blood.
The color drained out of Jane's face and she sat slumped up against the chair, her legs apart, blood running out on the floor.
“You're the best thing that ever happened in my life,” she began softly, running her fingers through his hair as he padded towels against her, trying to stem the flow of blood. Wiping his hands, he reached up and felt her forehead, even though she was in front of the fireplace, she felt cold and clammy.
“Tell me what to do?” he pleaded, a quiver in his voice.
“Oh, my dear, sweet Bruce,” Jane began. She was unusually calm. Her eyelids were half closed as she spoke. “There's nothing you can do. Take good care of our son. Teach him to read.”
“No,” Bruce said, holding her bloodied hand to his lips and kissing the back of her hand. “Please, don't leave us. Don't leave me.”
“I don't want to,” Jane said softly, her voice barely audible. “Oh, how I don't want to.”
Her eyes looked glazed. Her movements slowed. There was a lethargy to her motion, as though she were floating in water.
“There must be something I can do,” Bruce cried, looking around, his mind racing through the possibilities. “There must be some way I can fix this, something I can do to help.”
“My dear, there is nothing that can be done. This is one monster from which you cannot save me.”
“Oh, Jane. Don't say that. You're going to be OK. Please tell me you're going to be OK.”
Jane's head dropped. She forced herself up, struggling to stay conscious.
“Promise me you will teach our baby boy to read.”
“I promise,” Bruce said, shaking.
Jane slumped to one side, unable to hold herself up.
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