Touching the Moon Page 8

  “I know,” he said quietly.

  She faltered. “I am sorry that you are hurt.”

  “Just a scratch, Julie. Don’t fret.”

  Someone had called for the paramedics, and she glanced up as they trundled into Jake’s, their footfalls heavy and hurried. Although Dan had wrapped a steady arm around her waist, she kept her hand on Gray’s shoulder until the ministrations of the emergency personnel forced her to step back completely.

  Gray’s head turned in her direction when she broke contact. There it was again. She swallowed. His eyes had grown very black.

  Concussion, she thought. Definitely a concussion.

  13

  March came in like a lamb. It was calving season.

  The snow had melted, but the locals all warned her that winter was far from over. She found that hard to believe. The flowers were up! The sun was warm! And the skies had been blue and cloudless for the better part of a week.

  In fact, the weather had been so mild that one of the town residents opted to do a little yard work and inadvertently dropped a tree limb onto the main power line running through town causing a wholesale power outage. With an unexpected half-day at the office, Julie drove home to change, don her boots and take to the trails.

  She opted to tackle a new trail and hiked for hours up-mountain enjoying the change in scenery. When she gauged her energy level to be halfway spent, she turned around and headed back down.

  The air was turning colder. She glanced skyward and frowned at the leaden sky. She hadn’t noticed the clouds moving in. But then, she had spent a good bit of time watching where she put her feet on the unfamiliar path.

  She came to a fork in the trail and was surprised by her confusion. Left or right? She couldn’t remember. She went left. The trail dipped and she was encouraged. She was heading down. But, after a short while, the path led upward again.

  She buttoned her coat, wishing that she had brought her hat and gloves. Another fork.

  She went right. Parts of the scenery looked familiar, and the trail spiraled downward but then turned up-mountain once more.

  The first tendrils of fear started to curl into her stomach. She looked at a sun that was well past its zenith, a pale brightness behind thickening clouds. The first snowflake fell from the sky and touched her on the cheek, then another, then another. The woods were unusually quiet.

  She started forward once more, moving quickly in an effort to quell her panic. Just up ahead, she thought, surely there will be another fork. But she hiked for another hour to no avail. There were a few inches of snow on the ground now. She debated retracing her steps and whimpered softly in her confusion.

  She stuffed her hands in her pockets, rotating where she stood, staring out into a wall of white. She was absolutely and completely lost.

  He appeared out of nowhere, a massive, dark, tree-trunk of a man, stepping out of a frenetic swirl of icy snowflakes. Her scream was long and piercing.

  “Julie,” he said frowning. “It’s me, Gray.”

  Her heart skidded in her chest. What were the coincidental odds of running into this man in the middle of the wilderness in a blizzard? Absolutely none. She took a slippery step backward.

  “I need to get back to town,” she said, her voice tight and strained.

  He was silent a minute and she took that opportunity to spin on her heel and head back in the direction from where she had come. He was by her side in an instant.

  “You will never make it.”

  “I will.”

  “This storm will get worse and quickly too. You’ll lose visibility. You’ll wander aimlessly in the woods.” When she didn’t stop, he tugged on her arm and spun her to face him. “You’ll die, Julie.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “I have a hunting cabin not far from here. Come weather out the storm there. This…” he gestured hopelessly, “This is suicide.”

  She stared into his ink black-brown eyes and took another step backwards. He was stalking her. Had to be. Where on earth did he come from?

  “I know that I frighten you,” he said. In fact, he could feel her fear. It was colder than the air around them. “I can’t help the way I look, but I mean you no harm.”

  She wanted to believe him, but her mind couldn’t focus on much. She was cold. She was tired. And now, she was terrified.

  “I helped you when you hurt your ankle, didn’t I?”

  She nodded mutely.

  “I saved you when the ceiling panels fell at Jake’s, didn’t I?”

  She nodded again.

  “Let me help you now,” he said. When she didn’t respond, he continued, “Julie, I know what you see when you look at me, but that’s not who I am.”

  That hurt. Mostly because it was true. He was monstrous in size and mean in appearance. She swallowed hard, staring into his eyes for something reassuring. He held her gaze, willing her to trust. She tried to focus on his face, but her eyes were full of tears.

  “Please, Julie. I can’t leave you here wandering around in a blizzard. I don’t want anything to happen to you. Let me take you someplace safe.”

  Choice. She looked down at her feet. The snow was getting deeper.

  “Please,” he said, and held out a hand. It was massive. She looked up at him, the indecision written on her face.

  He nodded encouragement. “Take my hand, Julie.”

  She reached toward him hesitantly and Gray sighed audibly with relief.

  “Good,” he said, “Good, good. This way.”

  His voice turned her around. The snow fell in thick waves that were carried on a frigid wind. The snowflakes stung and burned, their crystalline edges biting like miniature knives into her unprotected skin. Gray ripped off his gloves and jammed them onto Julie’s naked hands.

  “We need to move faster.”

  She picked up her pace.

  They walked upward for a good while then he took a fork through the forest and emerged into a large clearing. The winds were more intense out in the open and he paused, waiting for the white whirlwinds to pool and eddy in hopes of catching the faint glimpse of the kerosene lamp he had left burning in the window.

  They were approaching a full white-out. He sniffed the air carefully, trying to pick up the scent of his cabin. He had left a fire burning in the hearth and he tried to ferret out the smell of smoke, but the winds were shifting so quickly that the information was fleeting.

  He tugged her into a hobbling jog while trying to get a bead on his cabin as visibility dwindled to next to nothing. They stopped for breath. Then he took a step, unexpectedly stumbling over his front porch.

  Bent at the waist, he felt for the stairs. They were already buried in snow. They crawled up the four risers, moving like zombies. When he found the door handle, he pulled them both inside, tumbling out of the blinding white of the storm and into the light.

  “Get out of your wet clothes,” he said. He raced to a scarred cedar chest and pulled out an old pair of sweats. “Change into these.”

  He helped her out of her parka, gloves and shoes. “I won’t look,” he said, turning back to the fireplace, adding logs and stoking the embers. “Hurry.”

  Her fingers were numb and uncooperative and she fumbled miserably while removing her sodden clothing. Once dressed, she stumbled toward the fire.

  “Rub your hands and stomp your feet,” he insisted. “I need to change too.” Back again he went to the cedar chest, rummaging deep within its confines. He grabbed a thick flannel shirt and another pair of sweats.

  The hunting cabin was a one-room affair. Bed, kitchen, table and chairs. Hearth. Over in one corner of the kitchen was a hand-pump, for water, she assumed. No electricity. The two-burner stove top was high-quality camping gear and ran on propane. Kerosene lamps. Candles. Rustic.

  He joined her by the fire.

  “My hands and feet sting,” she said.

  “Frost-bite,” he said, stating the obvious. “Let me look.” He examined her, relief washing over
his face when he saw that her skin was red and not blue or black. “You’ll sting for a while, but you won’t lose a digit or an appendage.”

  She knew that too, but it didn’t stop the discomfort. Her hands and ears burned as if she’d been doused in boiling water.

  “I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “I’m very sorry… for my fear.”

  “Me too,” he replied, moving to the shelves in the kitchen to select a can of soup. He prepared it while she warmed. When it was hot, he gestured for her to sit.

  “This will warm you up from the inside,” he said, adding a shot of sherry into each bowl. “Take the edge off.”

  They devoured the meal in silence, their spoons scraping loudly against the cheap dime-store china.

  “You can take the bed and the quilt. I’ll take the buffalo pelt and sleep on the floor.”

  It was hardly an equitable deal after all they had been through, but she was both too ashamed and too relieved to comment. She got into bed stiffly and did not move one inch once she pulled the covers up to her chin. Despite his words, despite his deeds, she did not let down her guard. She listened hard. She listened to his breathing and his movements as he settled down for the night. She listened for something stealthy, something furtive. H fear was as cold and numbing as the winter storm had been. Once more, her being turned to ice.

  Morning was a welcome thing, but her arms and legs refused to bend with ease. At first she thought she was dead and that rigor mortis had settled in, but no, the stress and strain of the forced march through the snow and the tense state of her nerves had put her muscles into lock-down. Every movement brought a wave of agony as she sat herself up in bed.

  Gray silently set a steaming cup of coffee by her bed. She preferred cream and sugar, but this black, bitter brew was the perfect complement to her dark self-recriminations.

  “I owe you an apology,” she said

  “Apology accepted.”

  “What can I do to make this right?”

  “Trust me a little.”

  She looked out the window. Day had dawned and it was still snowing. All she could see was a wall of white.

  “I think we have to prepare for a prolonged stay,” he said after breakfast. He had found a box of blueberry Pop Tarts. They were a little old and crumbly, but they ate them gratefully. “The storm is far from tapering. If anything, it’s only getting stronger. I’ll need to move some wood from the woodpile and stack it under the protection of the front porch overhang. Get it out of the weather.”

  “How can I help?”

  “How good are you with a shovel?”

  She shrugged.

  “You clear off the front porch and I’ll stack the wood.” He looked out the window and frowned. “I’m going to tie ropes to both of our waists that will orient us to the front of the cabin. We’ll work until we chill, come in to warm, then go back out again.”

  And so they did, all day long. They had soup for lunch and soup for dinner. And that was a good thing. Julie was too tired to chew. When darkness descended, she fell into bed and slept like a rock. Gray, on the other hand, lay sleepless. His aching muscles screamed all the louder for lying on the hard, unforgiving floorboards, and as the fireplace burned down to embers, a cold draft stole across the cabin to chill him.

  Despite his discomfort, he was not displeased with his day. He turned to watch Julie’s sleeping form. Let it snow, he chanted silently. Let it snow. Let it snow.

  Julie awoke to the smell of coffee.

  “Gray,” she said, snapping awake and surveying a window of white. He walked over to her with a mug and placed it on the small table near the bed. “Please,” she said, gesturing for him to sit. His weight sagged the mattress and her body slid slightly in his direction. “What are we going to do today?”

  “The hard work is done. You can rest. On my end, on days like this, I carve little symbolic beads that the women of my tribe string into necklaces. I thought I might make a few today. You could watch.”

  She nodded and he looked up at her hair. It was a mass of morning tangles. She followed his eyes.

  “I should wash it.”

  “If you intend to wash it, you should do it early, so that it can dry completely before evening falls. It gets drafty in here at night.”

  “I know.”

  She didn’t want to admit that she was cold at night. The quilt was no match for the winter chill. Then she thought of him on the floor and wondered if he was warm enough in the buffalo robe, but she didn’t ask.

  They ate the rest of the Pop Tarts for breakfast, and he gave her soap, towel and a bowl of hot water for washing.

  “I’m going to step outside for a little bit,” he said, graciously giving her some privacy. He bundled up and walked out into the storm. “There’s more water warming in the kettle over the fire.”

  She made short order of her toilet then she re-filled the kettle with water and swung it over the open flame in case Gray wanted to wash up too.

  Then she took stock of the pantry. The odds and ends stored there didn’t bode for inspiring meals, but at least they wouldn’t go hungry.

  She fixed lunch and did the dishes. It helped to keep busy. She peeked over her shoulder at him as he set out little bits of bone and some small knives. He was completely focused on the task. She smiled inwardly and joined him at the table. He glanced up at her, pleased that she sat close to him.

  He set out a row of small carved animals in front of her. As she watched, his big fingers deftly handled the objects he had fashioned.

  “Every creature is admired for certain traits,” he said by way of explanation. “Take the wolf.”

  She picked up the first bone carving.

  “The wolf is a teacher. He shares knowledge and leads people through the forest, the forest being allegorical for whatever difficulties surround the wearer at the moment. You have a wolf.”

  She nodded.

  “A good thing to have, Ms. Hastings.”

  “Yes,” she murmured, lost in thought. “He is wonderful. We’ve got a good friendship going.”

  “Ah,” he said. “This brings me to the porcupine.” She looked down and picked up the next figure. “Porcupine speaks to the importance of faith and trust in our lives, the innate belief that people are good and that all things will turn out as they should.”

  She looked up at him, listening hard to his words, but he studied the table. “The deer,” he continued, gesturing to the next piece, “represents the power and strength found in gentleness.”

  Julie swallowed. She knew he was communicating to her on more than one level. She, too, looked down now. She couldn’t meet his eyes.

  “The butterfly, as you can imagine, symbolizes transformation.” He pointed to the next piece of bone. “But more importantly, it represents the ability to know or change your mind. It’s a special kind of consciousness, like when you choose something cognitively and with purpose. This type of choice represents a tough decision because it usually requires leaving the past to embrace a very new and different future. From what you’ve told me, from what I understand, you embodied the butterfly, Julie, when you moved to South Dakota.”

  She didn’t comment. Instead, she ran her hands across the tiny off-white carvings, picking up a few to examine them more closely. The work was intricate and Gray was a skilled carver.

  “What is that?” she asked, pointing to an ear of corn that bore a face midst its kernels.

  “This is a corn maiden,” he said reverently. He passed the figure to her. “She cares and provides for her people by giving of herself. She gifts them her flesh and this sustains them.”

  Her eyes scanned the table. “It’s the only figure that is a plant. All the rest are animals.”

  “Very observant,” he said, beaming. “The corn maiden is very special. But let’s keep to the animal kingdom for now. Certain animals, in addition to their inherent meanings, symbolize the four cardinal directions. There is even an animal for above and below. And colors
are significant. They are linked with those six points too.”

  “How so?”

  “Due north is symbolized by a yellow mountain lion. Northeast is depicted by a white mountain lion.”

  “Ah! Mountain lion is north.”

  “Correct.”

  “And the color confirms the cardinal direction or pulls the compass needle off of the mark.”

  “Very good.”

  “I’m from the south east, so I’d be a white something.”

  “A white badger. The badger is the symbol for south.”

  “Got it,” she enthused. “This is fascinating. What is your favorite animal, Gray?” she asked, glancing down at the tiny figurines.

  “I am a wolf man myself,” he said softly.

  “Yes. That fits you.” She rubbed the round face midst the corn kernels. “I like the corn maiden.”

  He sat back in his chair and looked at her.

  “Is that wrong?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Do you think there is another symbol that would suit me better?”

  He shook his head. “No, I think the corn maiden is perfect for you.”

  For dinner, they ate the leftovers from lunch. When they lost light, they turned in for the evening. Gray banked the fire and locked the door.

  “Have you heard of Iktomi?” he asked, settling into his buffalo robe.

  “The Sioux trickster?” she said, climbing into bed.

  “I’m impressed.”

  She rolled to the edge of the mattress and looked down at him. “I went to the library and got a few books after our visit to Finch.”

  They were both quiet a moment out of respect. “Do you know the legend of the dream catcher?”

  She shook her head in the darkness.

  “Iktomi is a trickster, but he is also a great teacher. If he were a fetish, what would he be?”

  “A wolf,” she answered with confidence.

  “Very good. He is an Indian that can take wolf form. He can also take the form of a spider. The wolf is a pathfinder. The spider weaves the paths.”