Waiting for Harvey (The Spirits of Maine) (13 page)

Sluggishly, I lifted my shirt and pulled it over my head.  Ugly bruises marred my left side and streaked across my chest.  My eyes moved to my left arm.  It just hung there limply at my side.  The left shoulder appeared to have been lifted away from the arm and everything underneath.  It looked as if it was floating freely just under the surface of the skin.  From the neck down to the fingers, on the left side, it was pale and spotted with plum purple, an angry red, and rosy pink. 

The elbow had been reversed, bending in rather than out.  I examined the hand and fingers closely.  Other than unpleasant coloring, I saw no damage.  Yet, there was no sensation, no feeling at all.  It felt as if I was touching the hand of another person. 

I washed dried blood from my face and mouth, before I brushed my teeth.  My last razor blade had been dulled to the point of uselessness a week earlier.  Light brown stubble covered a third of my face and I rinsed blood away from there too.  My new beard and moustache itched but as it grew I expected that would diminish.  I wanted a shower but didn’t dare try it.  Dressed again I hobbled out of the bathroom.

I found a stale, flavorless granola bar on the back of the kitchen counter.  Eagerly I stripped away the wrapper and devoured it.  Ravenously, I searched through the upper cupboards, desperately seeking anything that would serve as food.  If there had been a baited mouse trap in there, I think I might have stolen the cheese.

The climb down to the root cellar was not an option.  If I was able to make it down the steps without falling, something I didn’t believe was possible, I would not get out again anytime soon.  The scope of my situation overwhelmed me, and I wandered back to the couch.

My inability to bring in wood to heat the cabin or to get food could lead to my demise.  I wondered if there might be any hope of a warm-up soon.  It was winter in northern Maine, and that made it unlikely.  Ironically, in time I would be able to hunt game birds in the clearing.  But there would be long days without food before that might happen.  I wondered how long a person could go without food before they died.  I was sure it would be at least a week, maybe more.  It sounded like a horrible death.

I dozed off and on through the day.  The pain and worry kept me from sleeping well.  When I roused late in the afternoon, my hair was damp.  A fever left me feeling sluggish and weak.  My stomach was growling, reminding me that I needed to eat.  My mouth was cotton dry and my throat was sore.  Miserably, I lingered on the couch.

“Take it back,” the gruff voice demanded, startling me from my thoughts.

“Who?” I croaked out between my dry, cracked lips.

“Take it back,” he repeated, adamantly.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered, hoarsely.

“You cursed me.”

“I never…”

“Damn you!  Those were your words, Erik.”

“It was not meant as a curse.  I was only speaking in anger.”

“Take back your words!”

“Okay.  I take it back.  I didn’t intend to curse you,” I breathed.  My head ached and I felt groggy. 

“You are not well,” he observed.

“No, I’m not,” I agreed and wished him away.  I wanted nothing more than sleep and perhaps some food.

“You will die,” he stated, flatly.

“No,” I disputed, forcing my eyes open.  In the gloomy light, I saw the hazy shadow move above the chair.  “Bring a doctor for me.  Get help for me.”

“I am tied to this place,” he responded, sadly. 

“Was this your plan?  Did you intend to cause my death to keep me here forever?”

“No, I did not.”

“Then help me!” I pleaded.

The dark mist dissipated and I was alone again.  I felt the urge to cry, to just sob uncontrollably, but it would require more energy than I could spare.  I closed my eyes and welcomed sleep again.

The sound of a crying child awakened me.  Gradually, I pulled myself up into a sitting position and listened intently.  Something bumped against the front door and the crying continued.  It sounded like a little girl, not much more than a toddler, and she was in pain.  I held fast to the snowshoe pole and stood, careful to keep my weight from my left leg.

It was heartbreaking, listening to her distressed cries.  I knew it was cold outside and the wind was blowing.  Even if she was bundled well she must be freezing, and there were dangerous predators in the woods.  Forcing myself to move as quickly as possible, I limped toward the door.  I flipped on the lights and blinked several times, trying to see clearly again.  Gripping the door handle, I turned the lock and pulled it open. 

There was no child outside.  The crying ended abruptly as I opened the door.  A dead rabbit lay bleeding in the snow on the porch.  It was a fresh kill, the neck had been broken.  Beside it was a pile of prickly, brown pine cones, and frozen cranberries still attached to their stems.  Puzzled, I leaned against the door jam.  Awkwardly, I scooped all of it inside with the snow shovel.

With great difficulty, I managed to get it up onto the kitchen counter.  Crudely, I skinned and gutted the rabbit.  I placed it in a lightweight pan that I was confident I could manage.  With no idea why the pine cones and cranberries had been left, I dropped them into the pan and moved it to the oven beside the wood stove.  I stoked up the fire and returned to the couch.  I was relieved that there would be good food to eat soon.

A few hours later the delicious smell of roasting meat woke me.  I nearly dropped the pan that held the rabbit, trying to pull it out of the oven.  Leaning against the kitchen counter, I plucked strips of meat from it and ate greedily.  Worried that it might not stay in the empty pit of my stomach, I forced myself to eat slower.  I tasted the tart cranberries and smiled.  They were succulent.

The pine cones had opened in the hot oven, and I found tasty seeds inside.  I covered the pan and left it on the floor in the back corner.  It was the coolest spot I could find without tempting fate going down to the root cellar.  After drinking a tall glass of water, my stomach was uncomfortably full.  I detoured into the bathroom and returned to the couch.

In the morning, I woke again.  Surprisingly, I slept through most of the night.  After stoking the fire, I hobbled into the kitchen.  The remaining cranberries, nuts and rabbit meat, made a good breakfast.  For a second, I considered the safety of eating the meat that had not been refrigerated overnight.  My hungry stomach announced that it was safe and welcome. 

“I helped you,” he declared, startling me. 

I looked around the open space but saw no sign of the dark mist.  The air near the front door began to shimmer and to waver as if it was super-heated.  I gripped the edge of the counter and stared in disbelief as an image materialized.  Not a dark mist or a shadow.  A man materialized there.  Goose bumps broke out on the surface of my skin as I looked at the young man who stood confidently watching me.  He had appeared from nowhere dressed in old-fashioned hunting clothes.

“Did you enjoy the rabbit?” he asked and gestured toward the pan on the counter.

“I did,” I mumbled, as I stared in amazement.  In my head, I heard my grandmother admonishing me and advising that staring was rude.  Yet I could not look away.

“I gave you help,” he reminded.

“Th-thank you,” I stammered.

“You won’t die now,” he assured me.

Mesmerized, I watched him as he stepped forward, moving so confidently.  I could smell the damp wool from his pants.  He wore black suspenders with dull brass clasps and a faded light brown shirt.  The weather-beaten brown Kromer hat rested low on his brow, with the ear flaps up and tied at the front.  His eyes were concealed, and I was grateful for that.

“I need a doctor,” I muttered, fearing that he might think me ungrateful.

“There are no doctors in this place,” he replied as if I had asked him to pass the salt at dinner.

“Perhaps I will die then,” I proposed.

“You won’t.”

“I have eaten most of the rabbit.  I need more food.  Tomorrow I will have no more wood for the stove.”

“The forest will provide.  I will see to it.”

“The pain in my leg and ribs is bad.  My head is still pounding.  I need medicine.”

“I will help you.  You are my friend and I will send what you need.”

Feeling that he was only placating me, I sighed heavily.  “Who are you, Harvey?  Why are you here?”

“I am just Harvey.  You spoke my name and I came to you.  You look so like Abel.”

I shuddered and studied him.  He appeared to be a young man, yet his clothing was from another time, the early 1900s perhaps.  An untidy beard covered his jaw and connected with the dark brown moustache.  He scuffed his dirty boots on the rough end of the boot jack, raking away dried mud from the soles.  My rational mind reminded me that it was winter, and there was no mud to be found outside. 

“Forgive me for the mess,” he nodded and smiled as he pushed the boot jack aside.  It was a cold smile with no humor or joy behind it.

“It… it’s not snow,” I whispered and snapped my mouth shut.  I deeply regretted voicing my observation.  If my legs could be trusted, I would have run. 

“No, it isn’t,” he agreed and his unsettling smile grew wider.

The room chilled noticeably.  “I need to sit,” I declared as my words left my mouth in a cloud of vapor. 

“My apologies,” he swept an arm toward the couch.  “My manners have rusted.  I cannot aid you, but I assure you I will not hinder you.”

His response was slightly comforting.  I gripped the snowshoe pole and worked my way back to the sitting area.  As I turned slowly to sit, I looked toward the door.  There was no one and nothing there.  I can’t say which was more unnerving, his sudden materialization or the vanishing.  I preferred the living who entered and exited naturally. 

My fever broke, I can’t say when.  I was growing accustomed to the pain in my ribs, back and leg.  It was persistent, yet I was able to sleep through it for hours at a time.  With great care, I had learned to avoid the things that caused the sharp, stabbing pains.  The headaches continued, but I attributed them to my tension as I tried desperately to prevent bumping my left leg or moving wrong.

Hanging limply at my left side, my arm remained sensationless.  The parts of the arm and hand still refused to move.  Repeatedly, I tapped on my left hand, arm, and elbow with my right fingers, hoping that I might suddenly feel it again.  I couldn’t endure any more trials.  I assured myself that it was temporary.  It just needed time to heal, and it would be functional again.

Late in the afternoon, I heard the little girl crying again.  I was sure there was no child outside the door still I struggled up from the couch in response to the heartbreaking sound.  Long minutes passed and the cries became high-pitched screams.  I couldn’t imagine anything more heartrending than a wailing child.  

I opened the door and looked out at the porch.  In the dim light of dusk, I saw the wolf standing by the porch railing.  I stood motionless, afraid that it might attack if I moved.  I had read stories about how wild animals can smell fear.  There was nothing I could do to prevent that.  There was a great deal of fear for him to smell.

Soundlessly, he trotted through the open doorway, brushing against my right leg as he went.  I marveled at the size of the beast.  His muscle definition was discernable even with the thick coat of fur.  I stood awe-struck, with the door standing wide open.  Filled with trepidation, I could only watch.

The wolf darted up the stairs to the loft.  It tugged at the thick quilt that hung over the side of the bed and dragged it down to the bottom of the steps.  There it was left in a pile as the massive creature moved toward me again.  It walked passed again as if I were invisible.  Stunned, I saw it leap from the top step of the porch out onto the path and quickly vanish through the darkening trees.

A great pile of freshly cut pine boughs had been piled outside the door.  I leaned against the door frame and used the pole to draw them into the cabin.  The fragrance was intoxicating.  Eventually, I moved the fire wood, thick pine branches, two game birds, and the other goods from the porch into the cabin and closed the door.

Drained, I returned to the couch again.  I looked over the odd assortment that had been provided.  I had no idea what I might do with most of it.  Sleep was calling again, but I knew the quails needed to be cleaned and plucked before they began to spoil.  Without some effort, there would be no food to eat.  They would need to be a priority over sleep. 

When I had finished preparing the birds, I shoved the pan into the oven.  I put more wood into the woodstove and welcomed the warmth that rose from it.  As I turned toward the couch again, I saw him.  Harvey sat in the chair closest to the door.  His legs were crossed and his fingers were steepled with his index fingers resting against his chin.  He looked as if he was quite comfortable.  If I didn’t already know that he was not a living being, I would not have guessed.

“I helped you,” he announced and gave a slight nod in my direction.

“Thank you,” I replied.  I felt less jarred by his sudden appearance than I had before.  Not that I was comfortable with the idea, but I was becoming accustomed to it.

“There are cranberries and rose hips.  The larger red ones are the rose hips.  Cut into them and remove the hairy seeds before you eat them,” he explained.  “The thin stems are of cat tails and pussy willows.  They are found in the sodden areas closer to the St. John and Penobscot Rivers.  The bark from them will give you sustenance.  Peel the inner bark from the pine and birch and it will nourish you as well.”