Monsters (16 page)

Bruce grabbed a pitchfork and drove it hard into the lion's paw. The animal roared in agony, pulling its arm back and yanking the pitchfork out of his hand. The pitchfork caught on the door jamb and came loose, falling to the ground.

The lion was infuriated. Turning its head sideways, it tried to squeeze through the doorway, its teeth biting at the air, trying to break into the flimsy building.

Bruce grabbed a wooden lance and thrust it into the lion's mouth, driving up under the soft palate and twisting, snapping off a barb.

The lion roared in pain, pulling back and shaking its head, trying to free the splinter of wood embedded in its mouth.

Bruce cried out in anger, consumed by rage.

He yelled as he charged at the monster with his lance out in front of him. Bruce aimed for the neck but caught the beast under the shoulder, snapping off another barb under its winter coat, and the mountain lion turned and ran, howling as it vaulted through the farmyard.

Bruce charged off after the animal, screaming incoherently at the top of his lungs, but the lion quickly outpaced him, galloping up the hillside and disappearing over the fields.

Bruce dropped the broken lance.

Exhaustion set in as the rush of adrenalin faded. His hands were trembling. An uneasy quiet fell over the farm. He limped back toward the barn.

A lifeless bloodied arm protruded from beneath the fallen woodpile. The rows in the pile had been stacked over eight feet high, now they lay scattered in a crush of thick logs. There had to be roughly a ton of wood pressing down on Jane's body, and the thought of the pain she endured as she died jarred his mind.

Bile came up in the back of his throat and Bruce fought against the urge to vomit. His body ached, but it was more than physical. A sense of loss overwhelmed him, choking him. Bruce couldn't see her face beneath the press of logs. He couldn't face Jane. He couldn't face seeing her broken body mutilated by the weight of hardwood.

Hugo lay to one side, his body twitching. Somehow, the old man was still alive, barely. Bruce knelt down and took his hand. As much as he was steeling himself for the grim task of recovering Jane's body, he couldn't walk past Hugo.

Bruce felt his body tremble, but he couldn't let go of Hugo's hand, he couldn't leave the old man to die alone in his world of cold, bitter darkness. Bruce hadn't left his brother, he would not leave Hugo. He understood the tragedy of death, the futile struggle in those final moments, the panic and the fear. Life was too precious. He would stay with Hugo until the end. He owed the man that much at least.

Hugo was trying to speak. His lips moved but no words came out. His chest heaved, blood seeped from his wounds.

“It's OK, my friend,” Bruce said softly, patting his hand, trying to reassure him. “The monster is gone.”

Hugo squeezed Bruce's trembling hand. His fingers were frail and weak. Although no words were spoken, Bruce knew what the old man wanted to hear.

“She's fine.”

Bruce lied.

A faint smile came to the dying man's lips. With his life fading, he believed Bruce.

“Jane is OK, she is going to be fine. You did it, my friend. You saved her life.”

Bruce felt his mouth run dry. Tears fell from his eyes, running down his cheeks. Looking across at the collapsed woodpile, there was no movement, no sound. Blood pooled in the mud, having run out from beneath the wooden logs. Jane was dead, but he didn't have the heart to tell Hugo his sacrifice had been in vain. Bruce struggled to control his emotions, his chest heaved as he sought to compose himself.

“It's going to be a cold winter,” he said, feeling he owed Hugo more than silence. What could he say to a dying man? What comfort could there be? Words failed him. All he could think to talk about was how life would continue on. Perhaps that would be of some comfort. “Next year I'll raise corn in the southern fields as well as the west. The price has been good for corn. If the winter is long and deep it will keep the locusts from coming with the spring.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

“I'll use the money to bring in some hired-help from the village. We'll fell the woods to the east. Open them up for grazing the following year.”

The old man squeezed his hand, signaling his approval. Hugo's breathing was labored. Looking down at his bloodied body, Bruce felt inadequate. What words could ever make up for the loss of a life? What could ever be more important than the sum total of a man struggling against his own death? And yet Bruce felt he had to keep talking, if not for Hugo's sake then for his own. With the world collapsing around him, he had to draw upon something.

“There's been talk of peace with the northern tribes. They say trade will open up again. There's talk they've taken a city and held back the monsters for two years now. Sounds like there could be change in the wind.”

Hugo's hand twitched and fell limp. His head sank to one side as his body succumbed to the blood loss. Bruce rested his hand on the old man's forehead, feeling his wrinkled skin already cool to touch. Gently, he lay Hugo's arms by his side.

Shaking, Bruce got to his feet. He stood there for a moment in shock. Slowly, he walked toward the woodpile, his mind set with grim determination to recover Jane's body.

Flurries of snow drifted on the breeze. The sweat that had once cooled the furnace of his body now sent a chill through him. There was no rush, though, no sense of urgency, just a sense of duty. He had to give Jane the respect in death she had earned in life. The task of uncovering her body was daunting, but he owed that to her. He owed both Jane and Hugo a proper funeral, either burial in a pit deep enough that no monster would unearth their remains, or on a funeral pyre, one that would burn for days in memorial. Thinking about it, Bruce decided he'd rather cremate their bodies than bury them, but if the winter was long, he would need all the wood he had. Still, their lives must be honored. It was only fitting.

Bruce began pulling the heavy wooden logs away. His muscles ached as he shifted the wood, carefully selecting each log so the pile didn't collapse any further. It took almost ten minutes to work his way down to where Jane's forearm protruded from between two bloodied logs. Gently, he moved her cold hand to one side, noting how she had fallen, with her arm twisted behind her, almost pulled out of its socket.

Her body lay sideways beneath the debris. As he cleared the logs around her head and shoulders he realized several of the larger logs had fallen above her, wedging themselves across the narrow aisle. Bruce felt like he was going to be sick, but he kept clearing the wood.

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 lowlying 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.”