Over the Darkened Landscape - By Derryl Murphy Page 0,63
why they are ignoring me.
The sled appears heavy, and even in my condition I am soon able to pass them. I step in front of the older man, but he does not acknowledge me, just pushes me to the side like he knows I am there but is unable to see me. Like the Scandinavian did to me.
By now something is tickling the back of my mind, something that I know is there, but I can’t find it, can’t work my way through the fog of intense cold and desperate need. I try two more times to get the man’s attention, once his son’s, getting the same result each attempt. Bewildered by their reactions, I resort to just following, leaning on the back of the sled for support and to make sure I don’t close my eyes for a few seconds and lose track of them.
Soon we are at a small cabin, smoke drifting from a small chimney pipe, warm glow of light shining through a few badly-sealed cracks in the wall. I can still hear the dogs, but none appear to my sight.
Pete opens the door and lays the lamp on the floor, just off to the side. Then he comes back and takes the Scandinavian’s legs, and he and his father heft the man’s body into the cabin and lay it on a bedroll. Addled as my brain may be, I am not willing to let this opportunity go by, and so I step through the door just behind them, watch as Pete steps around me without acknowledging my presence to close it.
Blessed warmth! I pay no more attention to my companions or my surroundings, instead get as close as I can to the cook stove that sits in the center of the single room, painfully peel off each mitt and hold my raw, blistered hands so close that I am almost touching the metal. My shivering attacks with renewed force, and I can hear myself emitting a steady stream of hoarse nonsense syllables; “Buh-buh-buh-fuh-fuh-fuh-vuh-vuh-vuh-kuh-kuh-kuh,” and on, unable to control myself. I feel a desperate need to piss, overload on my kidneys from my surface blood vessels constricting and forcing fluids towards the center of my body in a last-ditch effort to retain my core temperature. But I squint and with an effort hold it back, not wanting to wet myself until I know whether or not I am in the midst of a hypothermic hallucination.
I hear noise, wrenching me back to this strange world I find myself in. Now that they have placed him on the floor, the Scandinavian has miraculously sprung to life, screaming in agony and twisting his body this way and that, shouting unintelligible words to the air, eyes delirious and unseeing.
It is all he can do for the father to hold him down. “Pete,” he yells, “Get me the medicine bag!”
The boy jumps to obey, grabs a caribou-hide bag from beside a small pile of pelts. He delivers it, obviously frightened, and then his father directs him to get a pot and melt some snow. This he does as well, stepping outside for a few seconds and then coming in, once again stepping around me like he knows I’m there but can’t let me in on the secret. The snow quickly melts on the hot stove, and then Pete puts on one of his mitts and carries it over to where the Scandinavian is still thrashing about.
“Swede!” yells the father. Part of me smiles at the obvious name. “You’re hurt bad, Swede, and I don’t know if I can do anythin’ to help. But I gotta try!” He pulls a small red-tinged bottle from the bag, whispers “I’m sorry” and pulls the cap off with his teeth, still manhandling Swede to try to keep him in place. Then he pulls some cotton from the bag, and pours the liquid onto it. Iodine. He dips this cotton into the water, then swabs Swede’s wound with it, rubs it around the edges of the wound first, then replenishes it and daubs it directly onto the man’s leaking brains.
The ensuing screams and howls of protest are worse than I would have guessed possible for a man at death’s door. He jumps and thrashes with renewed vigor, crying and moaning and shouting to God. The father calls for his son to bring whiskey and a bottle is fetched, and with some effort he manages to pour some down Swede’s throat.