The Moose Jaw (19 page)

Finally I decided they’d probably raped her
, then knocked her in the head and tossed her into the Moose Jaw.  Now, they were just following up, doing their due diligence, checking to see if her body washed up anywhere.  It was obvious, since they were still searching, they hadn’t found anything yet.  They were probably beginning to get worried that, maybe, she had survived.  They couldn’t let that happen, so they were ranging farther afield.  Then again, I could be completely wrong.  There might have been two or three people in the raft.  It didn’t make sense that Red would have been out here alone.  There must have been others with her. The McCaslins could be looking for any or all of them.  In the end, it really didn’t matter.  If they came back looking for anything at all, I was going to have to stop them.  Larry worried me.  The only way to stop him would be to kill him.  I didn’t want to do that but, like the bears, if I had to, I would.

I stayed awake until midnight.  I updated my journal by candlelight and kept the fire low in the stove.  Everything about the night seemed normal; even the wolves sang their sad song to the moon.  I decided we were safe, at least for the night.  Before I crawled into my sleeping bag, I took the candle over and had one last look at her.  She looked a lot better than when I’d found her yesterday evening.  And, in her vulnerability, she was simply young and beautiful and angelic.  It was hard to imagine the mentality that would rape and kill such a delicate creature.

I said, “Red, I think I know what they did to you.  But you’re safe here.  I won’t let them hurt you again.”

It didn’t matter that she couldn’t hear or respond.  I meant it.  Then I snuffed the candle and called it a night.

I dropped off to sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.  The ordeals of the day had taken their toll.  My exhaustion combined with the intoxicating smell of a woman in the cabin produced the most remarkable dreams.  Images of giant bears and moose and men, twisted and evil beyond recognition, cavorted across a surreal landscape of ice fields and broken tundra and mist filled woods, foam dripping from their fangs as they howled and bayed like a pack of hounds on the scent.  A lone female, tall and sleek and naked, led them on a chase like a fox before the pack, her long white legs flashing through the high grasses and the dark woods, her red hair streaming out behind her in the savage winds of her wake.  She plunged through thicket and briar, stream and bog, leaving her small, delicate tracks stark and luminous in the black mud and the soft earth and the wet sands she crossed.  The pack pursued her relentlessly, ever closing the gap, slathering and steaming and stamping their monstrous footprints in the landscape she had, only moments before, traversed.  They were closing on her, slashing at her willowy, retreating form with glistening fangs and claws.

I started awake, panting and sweating, shaking with fear and dread.  The monsters had been so real, I could feel them there in the darkness of the cabin. 

I lay there, listening to the pounding of my heart in the silence until my trembling subsided and my mind convinced my ancient, atavistic soul that it had been, indeed, only a dream.  I was still very hot and my mouth dry as tinder.  I rolled out of the sleeping bag, went to the sink, and gulped a few handfuls of water.  Then I went to the bed, satisfied myself that Red was alright, and returned to my bedroll.  My mind now at ease, I fell to sleep quickly and didn’t wake until first light.

The next day passed quietly.   I gave Red a sponge bath in the morning, and then spooned a little broth into her.  At noon, I gave her more broth, and held her and talked to her quietly afterward.  I doubted she could hear me but it was pleasant holding her, and it was nice to have someone to talk to.

All day, while I tended Big Red, I kept a sharp lookout for the McCaslins.  They never showed.  I was grateful for that, but when I’d done my morning scouting up and down the bar I found the big three toed grizzly’s tracks near the drying rack.  He probably smelled where the caribou meat had been laying; it had only been a week since I moved it.  I was surprised he hadn’t damaged the rack.  Apparently he was just checking it out.  I wished he would move on.  Roy had said he’d been up at their place three weeks ago.  Now he was hanging around here.  Maybe he was making his way downstream, one mile per week.  If that were the case, I’d just have to get through the next few days. 

That evening I gave Red a good working over with the goose grease.  I know, I know.  But it seemed to be doing her some good too.  Her scratches and cuts were healing nicely, and her skin had taken on the luster of wet ivory in the candlelight.  I found myself talking to her again, as I kneaded the oils into her flesh.  I told her she was not hurt badly, and that she was safe, and that if she’d just wake up, everything would be O.K.  I also told her she had beautiful hair and silky skin, and I wished I could keep her.  I guess I just liked the sound of my own voice.  After the grease rub, I managed to get a full bowl of broth into her.  That was definitely doing her some good.  Her color looked much better than it had in the morning.

That night, as I sat smoking my pipe by the fireside, I began to worry about her bodily functions.  She hadn’t eaten much since I’d found her.  Hadn’t had much water either – but still.  I wasn’t equipped with diapers or rubber sheets, or any of that.  It was just that, well, sooner or later, if she lived, I couldn’t keep stuffing food into her without it coming out.  While I was thinking of it, I took a bucket over and set it next to the bed.

“Oh, please, Red,” I said to her earnestly, “wake up soon.”

The next morning I broke routine.  As soon as I had the coffee perking and the bacon frying on the cook stove, I got out my razor and shaved.  My hair had gotten pretty shaggy over the summer also, but there wasn’t anything I could do about that.  I hadn’t thought about how scruffy I looked until I had a look at the McCaslins.  That prompted me to take a close look at my reflection in the creek.  It was pretty scary.  If she woke up and saw me like that it would probably shock her back into a coma.  I decided to pay a bit more attention to my appearance, just in case she came around.

When I’d finished my own primping and preening, I took the comb over and went after her hair again.  I must have combed and picked snarls and twigs for over an hour, talking quietly to her all the time.  By the time I’d done it was gleaming.  Such a lovely color.  I’ve often wondered why we call them redheads.  It’s really not red at all.  Strawberry blond is nearer the mark, but it still doesn’t capture the true color.  Copper is close, but too harsh.  To me, her hair was more like the autumn pelt of a red fox vixen – rich and lustrous and, well, red.  Images of the nightmare flashed across my mind, but I shook my head and continued combing.   I got so engrossed with the grooming that I burned the coffee and the bacon.  That didn’t trouble me, I had plenty of both, and the smoke left a pleasant, if somewhat acrid, smell about the cabin.

When I’d finished her hair I broke out the goose grease.  Getting low.  I’d have to pot a couple more geese to replenish the supply.  I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled away the blanket.  I admired her for a moment, and then set about the usual anointing ritual.  First, I worked on her toes, one little piggy at a time, then her feet, then up each leg to quite high on the inside of the thigh.  It was tempting, but I never went that high.  Then I’d stop and go over her hips for a while, rolling her slightly so I could get plenty of grease worked into each cheek.  Wouldn’t want them to dry out now would we.  Then I’d lay her flat again, and begin on her belly, working slowly up from there.  I was somewhat startled when, in mid breast greasing, I realized her eyes were open, and they were looking into mine.  My hands froze on her breasts.  Our eyes locked.  Hers were a startling shade of green.  Time stopped.  I felt like the proverbial boy, caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

I quickly removed my hands from her jars.  It’s hard to imagine, but I’m sure I blushed. 

She smiled gently at me.  “I really don’t mind,” she said languidly.  “I like it.  But I’m very hungry.  Do you have any more of that soup?”

Her voice was soft and cultured
, but her speech was a little slurred.

I hurried to the stove, dipped out a bowl of broth, took it back to the bedside and offered it to her.  My hands were shaking, and the spoon rattled in the bowl.  She didn’t notice.  She was trying to sit up but couldn’t.

“Can you help?” she asked.  “I know you’ve been holding me and feeding me for…” she paused and looked mildly puzzled, “for some time.  You’ve been so kind, I hate to impose.  But I can’t quite manage….” She trailed off again.

I was mortified.  Although unconscious she had, obviously, been aware of what was happening to her.  I was, to say the least, shamefaced.  Nevertheless, I quickly got an arm behind her shoulders, and helped her sit up.  Then I spooned broth into her mouth slowly and rejoiced that she was back among the living.  The soup was hot so I had to let each spoonful cool a bit before putting it into her mouth.  She took each mouthful greedily and her eyes never left the spoon as it dipped, cooled, and then approached her lips.  She was so intent upon her eating that she didn’t talk at all.  The silent activity gave me a bit of time to regain my composure. 

When the bowl was empty she asked if she could have more.  I advised that she’d better not take too much too fast.  She said she understood, and I lay her head back on the pillow.

“Thank you,” she said.

I started to cover her with the blanket, but she shook her head.

“Too warm.  Besides,” she gave me a knowing smile, “since we’ve been so intimate, I don’t see much point in being shy.”

Seeing her lying there, naked to the waist, had been quite pleasant before.  Now, with her eyes open, it was somewhat discomfiting.  I hurriedly took the bowl to the table in an effort to cover my embarrassment.

She said, from the bed, “Now, if you’d be so kind, would you tell me where I am and what day it is and who you are?”

I told her it was Wednesday, Sept. 5th, and I was Gus O’Neill
, and she was in my cabin on the Moose Jaw, three miles below Deadman Creek.  She looked around the inside of the cabin as she took all this in.  Then her eyes came back to me.

“Deadman Creek?”

“That’s right,” I told her.  “The Deadman is the next creek upstream.  We’re on the Moose Jaw.  I found you on the bank just up around the bend on Sunday night.  You were half drowned and very nearly frozen.  I pumped a little water out of you and carried you here, and have been trying to keep you alive ever since.  Looks like I’m a better nurse than I thought.”

“Yes.  You are.  Thank you,” she said absently.  Her mind seemed to be somewhere else.

I went to the bed and sat down on the edge.  She didn’t object, but pulled the blanket up to cover her breasts.  Not a defensive gesture, just reflex.

“Now,” I said, “you know who I am, what is your name?”

“Morgan.”  She seemed to search her memory for a minute, then smiled.  “But you can keep calling me Red if you like.”

So, she knew that too.  At least she didn’t seem upset.

“Is Morgan your first name or last?”

She looked puzzled for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders.  “I guess it will have to be both for the time being.”

Partial amnesia, I thought.  But then, perhaps that was just as well.  Maybe she couldn’t remember the details of her ordeal.  That would account for her relaxed acceptance of our “intimacy”.  Recently raped women tend to be a little skittish around strange men, especially when they wake up naked and find a strange man fondling their breasts.

“Well, Morgan,” I said, “it appears that you’ve been through a rough time.  Do you remember what happened?”

“Rough time?” she said.  “Well, yes, I guess I must have if you found me on the river bank.  But, I’m a little confused.  I’ve never heard of the Moose Jaw, or Deadman Creek for that matter.  Where, exactly, am I?”

It was clear she had either lost, or blocked out, the memory of her session with the McCaslins.  ‘Just as well,’ I thought.  ‘At least for now.’

So, I told her she was about a hundred and fifty miles northwest of Fairbanks, on Moose Jaw Creek, which ran north and east from here, and dumped into the Yukon, two hundred miles further downstream.

“Fairbanks…” she gasped and stared into my eyes, “Alaska?”

“Yes,” I said, “Alaska.”

She fainted.  At least, I hoped that was all it was.  Perhaps the mention of Alaska had been the key that unlocked her memory.  If so, remembering had been too much for her.  If not, just the fact of her being in Alaska had pushed her over the edge.  Either way, I guess I’d have to wait for her to regain consciousness before I’d know.

***

Morgan didn’t come around again until evening.
  I was beginning to get concerned that she may never recover, but apparently the smell of dinner cooking brought her back to the surface.  I held her and fed her two bowls of broth.  When it was gone she thanked me and then pushed her face into my shoulder and began to cry softly.  I set aside the empty bowl and held her in my arms, rocking her gently and stroking the top of her head.

“There, there,” I kept saying over and over.  “There, there.”

What an inane thing to say.  Nonetheless, it seemed to help.  After a few minutes she stopped sobbing.  I kept holding her anyway.

I don’t know how long we sat like that, but when a long time had passed she said, “It seems like I’ve been in a black hole forever.  I can’t remember anything except your voice and your hands.  I’ve lost so many days.  I live in Seattle.  I know that.  I work for a law firm.  I shouldn’t be in Alaska.”

And then she began to cry again.  So I just kept holding her close and saying “There, there”.  Nurse Gus.

Eventually I realized she’d dropped off to sleep.  I eased her head down on the pillow and covered her with the blankets.  It was getting a little chilly, so I went to the stove and added more wood to the fire.  I hoped tomorrow Morgan would wake and remember what had happened to her.  We’d just have to wait and see.  I poured myself two fingers of whiskey, and slumped into the rocking chair.  I remembered the first words she’d spoken.  She had said she didn’t mind my rubbing goose grease into her breasts.  She’d said she liked it.  I knew I was a cad for locking in on this particular part of our conversation.  Nevertheless, first thing tomorrow I was going goose hunting.  I snuffed out the candle and turned in, as happy and contented as I’d been in a long, long time.