Waiting for Harvey (The Spirits of Maine) (9 page)

I shook my head and turned away from the window.  It was late morning and my stomach was grumbling.  I craved a big breakfast with eggs, bacon, fried potatoes, pancakes, a tall glass of orange juice and a cup of freshly brewed, gourmet coffee.  My mouth watered as I lifted the trap door in the kitchen floor and plodded down the steps to the root cellar.

Among the various containers the only protein sources left were the protein drinks and energy bars I found in the house trailer.  When the weather cleared again there would be another opportunity to go out and search for the main road again.  I needed to remain healthy and strong.  I had seen wild turkeys and other game birds outside.  John’s shotgun was up in the loft with a box of bird shot.  I hadn’t hunted in years, but I remembered the basics. 

Standing at the window again, I ate pasta with tomato sauce from a can.  I left the empty can in the sink and gathered my outdoor gear.  Dressed for the weather, I grabbed the snow shoes from the wall and stepped outside.  I snapped my boots into the snowshoes and pulled the balaclava up over my mouth and nose. 

It felt good to be out of the cabin.  I needed to get more fresh air and exercise.  With the shotgun slung over my shoulder, I gripped the poles for balance and moved forward on the snowshoes.  The squeak of the snow sounded with each step, drowning out the shushing of the falling snow.  I smiled in spite of myself and followed the game trail through the trees.

Trudging along the path, I stopped occasionally to study the tracks left by animals.  Birds bounced around on the pine boughs, shaking snow loose.  I marveled at their resilience.  In the bitter cold of December, with only their feathers to keep them warm, they chattered happily.  The gray sky and falling snow didn’t bother them.  I needed to learn to emulate the birds. 

Almost a mile from the cabin I heard the squelching of a wild turkey.  I stopped to listen and felt sure that there were at least six turkeys together.  Standing frozen in place, I watched as the first female came into view.  Moving as slowly as I could, I removed my right glove and slipped the shotgun off my shoulder.  Three more birds strutted behind her as I took in a series of shallow breaths.

I leveled the shot gun and aimed for the Tom turkey in the middle of their small group.  He bobbed his head, moving awkwardly as his feet broke through the crusty surface of the snow.  He paused and I feared that he saw or sensed me there, waiting behind the dense pine boughs.  I inhaled deeply and held my breath then fired.  I saw him fall in the snow.  The females turned and retreated out of site, gobbling and squealing in panic.

Feeling a mix of pride and bewilderment I stared at it.  I shouldered the shotgun again and walked forward.  I grasped the feet and lifted it.  There was no blood, no sign of any wound, it was just dead.  I shivered at the unnatural feel of it and turned back toward the cabin.  There would be roast turkey for supper.  A dish of baked yams and pumpkin pie would be nice too, but that would have to wait until I was rescued or found my way out of the woods again.

Shuffling over the fresh snow, I thought of Christmas.  I was pretty sure it was only a week away.  The thought of being with family and friends for the holiday was comforting.  I was even willing to fly out to California for a few days with Dad.  I hadn’t seen him in two years and I did miss him. 

Cheerfully, I paraded through the trees, humming Christmas carols.  I sang the few parts I remembered the words to.  Startled, birds flew up and a few small animals scurried away.  I didn’t mind, I had my turkey.  Soon I would be back in the cabin where it was warm and they would go on with their business.

“I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on me!”  I shouted out.  “Please have snow and mistletoe, and presents on the tree!  Oh hell, I’ll bring the presents!” I called out and laughed.

I heard the first whispers in the highest branches of the trees as the wind swirled around them.  Curiously, I stopped to listen.  I couldn’t make out the words, but I already knew what it was saying.  The idea that it could reach out to me beyond the cabin was frightening.  I stood still, afraid to go back to the cabin and terrified not to.

The whispers grew louder, steadily repeating the threatening words.  It came from someplace in front of me, yet I could hear it behind me, as well.  Like a child’s song, the recurring phrase overlapped those already spoken.  As if a number of people spoke in succession.  The idea tortured my mind.

“Stop!” I shouted, fighting the panic.  “I won’t go!  I won’t!”

The clamor continued, growing louder and more melodious.  Anxiously, I hurried along the path again.  I shuffled along as fast as the snowshoes would allow.  I turned to follow a narrow path to the right of the trail.  Stumbling over sticks and other debris, I dodged small trees and rushed forward.  Clumsily, I tripped and fell, striking my elbow against a large boulder, but I didn’t drop the turkey.  Behind me, the hiss of the whispers continued as it chased me deeper into the forest.

At last, the sound faded and died away.  I stopped, hugging a birch tree and gasping for air.  My head and heart pounded in unison.  My lungs ached and I pulled down the balaclava as I drew in great gulps of the frigid air.  The wind brushed my cheek, and I spun in a circle, convinced that it was an unseen hand.

Long minutes passed as I waited for the whispering to begin taunting me again.  Reluctantly, I stepped away from the birch and found my way back to the path.  I hoped that it would lead me back to the animal trail, and feared that would take me to the cabin.  I couldn’t go there again, yet I would die alone in the woods if I didn’t.

Less than ten feet ahead something shook the boughs of a fat spruce.  I stopped again and watched the snow falling around it.  It angered me that he took such pleasure in torturing me.  I was powerless as it toyed with me.  Frustrated I decided if I couldn’t escape it then I would confront it.

“Stop!” I demanded.  “You have no right to terrorize me.”

I dropped my turkey and scooped up a handful of snow.  I packed it tightly into a firm snowball.  Rocking back on my left foot, I hurled the snowball into the understory.  The thing stopped moving and I felt some satisfaction in striking back against it.  I couldn’t hurt it, but I would show it that I was not a scared kid.

Another gust of wind pushed at me, and I quickly bent to gather snow for another snowball.  I packed it as hard as I could.  Boldly, I drew my arm back and pitched a fastball into the trees. 

A gray blur flew from the snow covered boughs.  The air was filled with snow and time nearly stopped.  I fell back on the path, landing flat on my back.  The air flooded out of my lungs when I hit the ground.   My eyes flew open when I felt teeth tearing into my arm through the sleeve of my coat.  The animal shredded the fabric and tore at the flesh beneath it.   

Screaming shamelessly, I pushed at the thing, fighting to free my arm from its mouth.  I saw the pointed ears and some part of my brain advised me that it was a Canadian lynx that had attacked me.  The big cat was reacting to my aggressive moves, but I couldn’t muster a charitable understanding for it.  I wanted to kill it.  I wished the thing dead as the fight continued.

Seconds passed like hours as I lay there, kicking and flailing at it.  I had never felt so helpless.  Suddenly, the assault ended.  With bloodied fur, the animal pranced back toward the trees.  It hesitated and looked back at me, assessing any threat I might pose to it.  Lying on the path, holding my ruined arm, and rocking from side to side, I was clearly no threat to anything.  I swear the lynx nodded to me with satisfaction, before it strutted away.

I pulled myself up into a sitting position, cradling my arm.  The shredded sleeve of my coat and the sweatshirt underneath were wet with my blood.  Holding my arm tight at my side, I managed to stand.  I looked down at the pink stain, where my blood was soaking into the snow.  My ribs and arm were competing for my most extreme pain source.  Moving slowly, I started the long trek back to the cabin, with my turkey in hand.

Periodically, I stopped to lean against a tree and rest briefly.  Glancing back along the path, I saw an intermittent trail of blood drops.  Only droplets on the snow, but it would be enough for a predator to follow easily.  I pushed myself to move faster.  I desperately wanted to see the cabin at that moment.  Before leaving for my walk, I had banked the stove.  At least it would be a warm oasis, if only I could get there.

Walking as fast as I dared with the snowshoes, I heard the unmistakable, yipping howl of a coyote.  My heart raced, and I forced myself to move faster still.  The coyote called out again and was answered by another member of his pack to my right through the woods.  Two more howled behind and to the left.  I hurried faster still, falling when I tripped over the snowshoes.  The adrenaline dulled the pain as I traveled swiftly over the snow covered path.

I slipped on an icy patch and I fell again.  Praying for sweet death and screaming in pain, I nearly passed out.  Another round of howls shook me out of the tumult and quickly I was up on my feet again.  With the bone-chilling yips and howls echoing around me, I pressed on. 

I saw the rising tendrils of smoke above the cabin.  Pushing myself faster, I crossed the clearing and bounded up the steps.  Behind me, I heard something running over the snow.  Terrified, I couldn’t look back.  I hit the door with my left shoulder, turning the knob at the same time.  I fell in as it opened, landing on the floor on my left side.  My feet kicked wildly, trying to get the door closed behind me.  As it slammed shut, I heard something thump against it, and hot tears burned on my face.  The scratching from the other side of the door told me how close I had come to meeting the coyotes.

Minutes passed before I could force myself to move again.  The howling continued outside and I heard them circling the cabin.  I feared that they might break in through the window on the front porch, only a few feet above the floor of the porch.  I reasoned that they couldn’t jump through the tempered, double-pane windows that John had installed.  Desperately, I needed to believe that it was true.

Slowly, painfully, I managed to sit up again.  I grabbed the nearest chair and used it to get up off the floor.  Taking shallow breaths, I moved toward the bathroom.  Gingerly, I took off my coat.  Tattered fabric from the ruined right sleeve was left in the bite wounds.  I felt a wave of nausea as I worked to remove the scraps.  Using the tweezers started fresh bleeding.  Blood dripped into the sink, swirling down the drain with the warm water.  I draped a wash cloth over my arm and went into the shower.

I stayed in the shower until the water ran cold.  Slowly I dried off the best I could using only my left hand.  With the towel wrapped around my arm, I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and T-shirt.  I grabbed the first aid kit and sat at the table.  Examining my arm closely increased the feeling of nausea.  The bleeding slowed but did not stop.   I needed stitches and for that I needed a doctor.  At the least I could clean it well. 

As a child, when I had a sore throat my Mom prepared a strong saltwater solution to be gargled.  She said it would flush out the bacteria and cure the ailment.  Following that theory, I filled a clean container with warm water and poured in a good amount of salt. I stirred it well and waited for the salt to dissolve.

Holding my arm over the kitchen sink, I poured the salt water over the open wounds.  I squeezed my eyes shut and screamed like a teenage girl at her first concert.  A stream of obscenities that would have made a biker blush flowed from my lips.  I prayed that the saltwater I had already used had done the job, because I couldn’t do it again.  

When the burning sensation subsided I returned to the table and waited for my skin to dry.  I squeezed out most of the contents of the tube of anti-bacterial cream, to coat forearm.  Using first aid tape, I attempted to close the deepest gash and stop the bleeding.  Between the blood and ointment the tape quickly peeled away.  I searched through the cupboards and drawers, beginning to worry about the amount of blood loss.  Under the sink, I found a roll of black electrical tape.

Awkwardly I held the wound closed.  Biting my lip and mumbling expletives, I wrapped the shiny black tape around my arm, as tight as I dared.  After applying a layer of gauze from my wrist to my elbow, I taped it in place and waited.  The bleeding slowed and eventually stopped, leaving an ugly red stain on the gauze. 

My attention turned to the sharp pain in my left side.  Breathing deeply was excruciatingly painful.  I feared I had broken a rib or two.  I wasn’t gasping for air so felt sure I hadn’t punctured a lung.  If the ribs were broken, I could only guess at how to treat them.  Most of my medical knowledge came from books, movies, and television shows. 

I recalled a show with a stuntman who injured himself frequently.  The man who treated him wrapped his ribs tightly with a wide bandage.  The stuntman had complained as his friend wrapped it around his chest, but he seemed to appreciate the result when it was done.  My worry was that it was a stupid TV show with no basis in truth.  Still I was willing to try it.

After swallowing four Tylenol tablets, I carried the dead turkey into the kitchen.  After all I had endured to get it; I would not let it go to waste.  I dropped it into the old sink and began the plucking, gutting, and cleaning.  I was eternally grateful that I had watched John with fascination when he brought home a turkey he shot.  At the time, I was amazed by my big brother, but never dreamed I would need to recall what I had seen in such a bad situation. 

As I worked to prepare the turkey, something about it bothered me.  I couldn’t say what it was, but I knew there was a problem.  A nagging feeling began in the back of my head and traveled forward.  Suddenly it hit me.  There was no wound.  My shot missed the target, yet it fell over dead.  I exhaled slowly, considering the power that allowed Harvey to end the turkey’s life that way.  It was another horrifying realization.