Waiting for Harvey (The Spirits of Maine) (10 page)

My turkey was not handled as skillfully as John’s, but it was good enough.  I retrieved the Dutch oven from under the sink, but the bird would not fit in it.  I searched but found no roasting or baking pans big enough for the fat Tom.  Growing weary, I grabbed the meat cleaver and chopped it in half.  I placed the larger portion in the Dutch oven, salted it and put it in the oven at the side of the woodstove.  The rest of it went into a pan with water on top of the stove.  It might not be delicious, but it would give me needed protein. 

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I lifted my T-shirt, carefully.  I examined the bruises and the swelling on my right side.  With the two rolls of elastic bandaging from the first aid kit, I wrapped my ribs as tightly as I could.  It is certainly not a task for a person to do alone.  I tossed another log into the woodstove and settled on the couch with a blanket.  I let my head rest against the small pillow and closed my eyes.

The delicious aroma of roast turkey woke me hours later.  The pan on top of the stove had nearly boiled dry.  That meat would be closer to jerky than tasty turkey.  I opened the oven door and attempted to lift the pan.  If there was any doubt remaining in my head as to whether or not the ribs were broken, that resolved it.

I took a large serving of the roast turkey and sat again.  It had been an absolutely horrible day.  A horribly exhausting day!  I thought of climbing the narrow staircase to the loft and shook my head.  Still the idea of sleeping downstairs was disquieting.  I heard the occasional howl outside to remind me they hadn’t gone far.  The scent of roast turkey filled the air.  A wild animal would also pick up the scent of my wound and the blood.  I imagined them crashing through the window during the night while I was most vulnerable.  

With the turkey carcass picked clean, I put the bones and scraps in a trash bag.  The meat of it was crammed into the zippered bags.  I made two agonizingly painful trips down to the root cellar.  The trash bag and food bags were all packed in the cooler near the steps.  It would keep it as cold as the average refrigerator, allowing me to eat from it for days.  It would also minimize the odor from the remains until I could safely remove it from the cabin.

I built up the fire in the wood stove again and went in to brush my teeth.  A coyote howled on the other side of the wall.  Another animal shrieked and a couple of coyotes whined and yowled.  The wind was still and their cries were clear and unnerving.  I closed my eyes and reached for my toothbrush.

The lights remained on when I gripped the railing and hugged the wall on the way up the stairs.  I carried John’s shotgun and a handful of shells with me.  If something came in during the night I would have a better chance of defending myself from up in the loft.  Lying flat on the bed was excruciating, so I settled for a semi-reclining position with two pillows propped against my backpack. 

Outside, the woods were alive.  I heard what sounded like a wolf, the scream of a fisher, snow owls, coyotes, and other animals.  Something had stirred them up.  I had been on many camping trips throughout Maine but had never heard so much noise in the night.  The reflection from the moon could be seen from the window in the loft, allowing me to guess at the time.  Hours passed as I lay awake, listening fearfully.

Early in the morning I fell into a deep sleep.  I slept through a series of horrible nightmares.  My brain allowed me to rest at last when it ended the dreams for the night. 

*

In the morning, I woke feeling stiff and achy.  The worst pain was in my arm, my ribs, and my left shoulder.  During the night blood had soaked through the bandage and into the bed sheet that I had draped over it.  The electrical tape had failed completely and it hung in black strips.  I gripped the railing like my life depended on it and walked down the stairs.  The last two logs went into the woodstove and the flames curled around them.  Bringing in more wood would wait for a few hours.

I remembered seeing a roll of duct tape down in the root cellar.  Moving slowly, I retrieved it and grabbed a small bag of turkey too.  Standing at the kitchen sink, I pulled away the used gauze.  I had learned from the salt water experiment and would not repeat it, but the wound needed to be rinsed clean.  I unscrewed the cover to the peroxide bottle and poured it freely over my arm.  The indescribable pain made me forget all of the problems in my world.  I gripped the side of the sink and prayed that I would lose consciousness.

With narrow strips of the duct tape, I closed the gash that was bleeding freely again and a second one that looked like it might.  I applied clean gauze and secured it with more of the duct tape.  I dug through one of my bags for a bottle of multi-vitamins that I rarely remembered to take.  I swallowed two and reached for the Tylenol again.  The pain left me feeling nauseous, and I forced myself to eat more of the turkey.  Propped on the couch I dozed off and on through most of the day.

In the afternoon, I used more of the duct tape to patch up the shredded sleeve of my coat. Mustering all of the courage I could find, I opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch.  Looking out at the clearing, I saw traces of pink snow on the trail that led to the cabin. 

Warily, I walked down the three steps and stood on the ground.  Watching carefully for any hint of ice, I hurried out to the wood pile.  Worried that I might disturb the bandage on my arm and start the bleeding again, I gathered a small load of wood.  What should have been accomplished in one trip took me three.  I pushed myself to go out again and again until I had enough wood inside the cabin, to fuel the wood stove for several days.

As I ventured out for the last load of wood, I heard a creaking sound behind the cabin.  I froze and looked around anxiously.  A moment passed before I realized the sound had come from one of the ancient pine trees.  It had been damaged by the weight of snow and ice, and it leaned precariously.  The dying tree posed no threat to the cabin and I dismissed it.

As my eyes swept back over the snow, I noticed the fresh animal tracks.  My blood ran cold as I peered behind the cabin.  I rushed to the front again and ran to the end of the porch.  Hundreds of tracks circled the cabin.  There were paw prints from the coyotes and a number of other animals, as well.  The tracks eventually broke from the concentric circles and crossed the clearing randomly.

Alarmed, I rushed back into the cabin and bolted the door.  The insignificant blood trail was not enough to set off the frenzy I heard the night before. It didn’t explain the way they had circled the cabin.  I wanted to pile furniture in front of the door and the window that looked out on the porch, but my ribs protested.

I hurried up the stairs to get John’s gun.  The only ammunition was bird shot, but if need be I could scare away a large animal with it.  I thought of the howling and shrieking the previous night.  Looking through the trees, I watched the sky changing color.  The sun was close to setting.  Soon the light would fade, and the dark, inky blue would spread rapidly.  I hated the terror in my heart.  It made me feel like a helpless child.

Slowly, I turned away from the window and reached to switch on the lights.  A shiver ran down my spine as I stared at the toggle switch.  It was still in the up position.  I had flipped them on the night before and had not turned them off again.  Yet the lights were off when I came down in the morning.  As the light in the cabin bled away, I stood with my back to the door, listening intently for the return of the coyotes.

*

The dark spread through the cabin and the woodstove emitted a soft glow.  From someplace deep in the woods, I heard the call of a wolf.  I flipped the switch and bright light flooded the open space.  The light provided comfort and reminded me that I no longer controlled them.  When I needed them most, Harvey could take them away from me.  The thought kept me on edge. 

I prepared for another night in the loft.  I wouldn’t venture down the stairs again until dawn.  He might have control of the lights, but he could not rule over the sun.  In the light of day I felt much safer.  At least I would be able to see what came after me in the daylight.  I desperately needed to believe that.  Clutching John’s shotgun, I gripped the railing and trudged up the stairs. 

Determined to stay awake, I propped myself up on the bed, with my back pressed into the corner.  My stance afforded a view of the clearing through the window in the loft.  Looking through the railing, I was able to see the upper half of the front door and the window at the front of the cabin, as well.  It was a reassuring position. 

The moon dominated the sky, casting a bluish light over the area.  Wispy clouds floated by but didn’t dare cross the moon.  The stars scattered throughout the heavens kept their distance, as well.  As I peered through the window, nothing moved outside.  There were no eyes looking back at me from the tree line.  It was a quiet night in the woods.

My plan to remain awake quickly failed.  I woke in the morning and looked out at the dimly lit sky.  Big snowflakes spun and danced in the air before settling on the ground.  A pair of squirrels played, running up the side of a tall, spindly pine tree then hopping across the tree tops. 

Sitting in the corner, in the light of day, gripping the butt of the shotgun, I felt foolish.  I put the weapon aside and walked down the stairs.  The lights were still on and I shut them off.  I fed the woodstove and dug through my pile of dirty clothes for the cleanest sweatshirt and jeans of the bunch.  With some laundry soaking in the kitchen sink, I sat at the table. 

Carefully, I peeled off the silver duct tape and the gauze beneath it.  I didn’t disturb the thin strips of duct tape that held the worst of the gashes together.  There was no new bleeding and I didn’t want to cause any.  Studying the pattern of the slashes and tears, it was clear that the lynx sunk its teeth in and tore them free repeatedly.  The angry lesions would leave ugly scars after they had healed.  Still, I saw no sign of infection and I was thankful for that.

Outside the wind stirred the falling snow into a frenzied blizzard.  It wailed mournfully through the trees.  I ate, slept, and did simple chores.  By day, I wished that the hours would pass faster, and at night I wanted only to see the light of morning again.

Days and nights passed slowly as my arm and ribs healed.  I lost all track of my days.  Counting from the day that I arrived, I guessed that Christmas had not yet come, but I couldn’t be sure.  I might have missed it already.  Thinking of the holiday and my family left me in an emotional state that I wasn’t prepared for.   

My heart ached as I recalled holidays past.  I missed my big brother desperately.  I wanted to sit at the old dining room table where we had shared so many meals.  For Christmas, the table that was always covered with the gold table cloth embellished with poinsettias.  Year after year new stains appeared that called up memories.  I was glad that the stains were not removed.

When the next severe storm hit I was feeling better physically.  Yet I was dispirited.  John’s failure to return pecked at my heart.  On the best days, I worried that something tragic had happened to him.  I can’t bring myself to speak of the thoughts that filled my head on my worst days.

As the snow began piling up outside, I filled the wood box inside the cabin.  I tied off the trash bag in the kitchen and crammed it into the second metal trash can outside.  The lids were secured with bungee cords, and the full cans were left under the snow mound beside the shed. 

Worriedly, I climbed down into the root cellar to inventory my dwindling supplies.  I wondered how long I might be able to make do with what I had left and guessed it could last for another month.  When the latest wave of snowstorms broke, I planned to make another expeditionary tour of the roads.  I would return to the work site that I found.  There would likely be more fuel in the generator that I could syphon out.  It would provide enough to get me out to the main road.

The following day the wind shifted and blew warmer temperatures up from the south.  It was just enough to change the falling snow to freezing rain.  Through the afternoon a thick layer of ice built-up on every surface I could see.  When I opened the front door and peered out, the rich scent of pine was heavy in the air.  Branches and bows had begun snapping under the weight of the ice.

I clamped John’s ice cleats onto the bottom of my boots and moved slowly along the trail.  Picking my way carefully over the ice crusted snow, I reached the wood pile safely.  Swinging the big axe sideways, I struck the logs and broke through the layer of ice that encased them.  Worried about what Mother Nature might bring next, I carried in two extra loads. 

With my stomach growling, I grabbed John’s shotgun and walked over the icy path.  Wary of any slight movement, I continued along the animal trail.  I heard the ‘chawchaw’ sound of a pheasant ahead.  I wondered if it was the hunting season for the game bird.  Maybe shooting it out of season would bring the Game Warden.  I would be happy to receive a summons or even to be arrested for it.

The larger pheasant ran for cover, but I was able to get the smaller one.  I felt relieved by the evidence that my shot had killed it.  In the sky above, the thick clouds were growing darker.  With the encounter with the Canadian lynx still fresh in my mind, I remained quiet and moved swiftly back toward the cabin.  I hadn’t heard from Harvey or the coyotes since that horrible night.  I preferred to believe that my silence would keep them away.  Thoughts of my next escape plan would remain my secret.