ran a palm over her sleepy face. He was still there.
And so she sat up and attempted to fathom the presence of this human, here in the
wilderness. An agonizing mix of panic and gratitude filled her. Safe or not safe? She
could not tell.
He was smallish, tidy, with a huge old-fashioned moustache, shirt sleeves
rolled to his elbows even in the cold, and suspenders to keep his pants up. His hair had
the same healthy oil you saw on Indian women, and it shone in places. A deep pink
suffused his cheeks â like a child who has been running.
âYou all by yourself?â he said. He had affected the tone of
one speaking to an idiot. She did not move or speak. He approached her and she scrabbled
away from him, but he kept coming. It wasnât until he touched her that a true clap
of terror ran through her. This was real, it was happening, and she could not know where
it would lead. He tried to raise her, butshe was so weak her knees
would not support her. The widow sank down heavily, her head spinning. Her hand was
shaking in his. The man was looking up the mountain as if judging the grade. Then he
assessed her belongings, which lay strewn all around her, a rude human debris. He seized
her arm.
âAlly-oop!â he bellowed and threw her screaming over his
shoulder.
THE FIRST NIGHT , she lay alone, febrile and tossing in
his tent, while he sat outside by a fire and guarded her. At least thatâs what he
told her, patting his pistol â that he would guard her against
âintruders.â Her head nodded and she panted shallowly with fatigue, but
looking about the dark forest she wondered what intruders . . . what people? His camp
was sparse, like the camp of a man on a short hunting trip, but everything was worn and
rotting, many years old. A pair of snowshoes hung from one tree; from another, a shaving
mirror. On a fallen log lay a hat so formless and marbled from sweat and rain that it
might have been a large riverstone. He told her his name was William Moreland and that
he had been living in the mountains for nine years. He didnât explain why.
He had fed her and washed her face with snow that he melted in a pot. The
hot water and fusty washcloth made her skin tingle. He was extraordinarily gentle with
her. She closed her eyes and tried not to weep. He explained that heâd thrown away
her fiddleheads, for they were poison in great quantities; and the deer meat sheâd
been eating might be all right, but on the other hand it might kill her, depending on
the animal and how sick it was. How else but from a sick animal could this skinny girl
have got meat? He didnât know about the wolves.
âDid ya eat any raw?â he said loudly into her ragged, vacant
face. But she could only watch his mouth moving. Sickness, fear, shock. She was on the
edge of consciousness, at the horizon of it, a penumbra where the light sputters.
On the second night she woke to find him there in the tent with her, lying
as formal as a mummy, his hands across his belly and his eyes open. All the blankets
were laid over her. When she shifted to see his face more closely, he shot up and
scrambled from the tent as if swarmed by bees. The widow lay listening to the wind in
the trees and her benefactorâs feet pacing the cold ground. They were at a high
altitude, the air thin, few birds, the gurgle of mountain streams encased in ice. It was
summer, but his camp was dusted with snow in the morning. It melted with the sun, but
slowly built up in the shadows, dry frozen waves that crumbled like meringue under his
boots. She spent most of her time inside the tent, staring out at him. She was awake
now, and keenly aware of her position. Her grandmother would have thrilled to such a
vivid disaster, like something from an oriental tale. She would have called it
peril
. And yet, the old woman would probably have condoned Johnâs
marital
And so she sat up and attempted to fathom the presence of this human, here in the
wilderness. An agonizing mix of panic and gratitude filled her. Safe or not safe? She
could not tell.
He was smallish, tidy, with a huge old-fashioned moustache, shirt sleeves
rolled to his elbows even in the cold, and suspenders to keep his pants up. His hair had
the same healthy oil you saw on Indian women, and it shone in places. A deep pink
suffused his cheeks â like a child who has been running.
âYou all by yourself?â he said. He had affected the tone of
one speaking to an idiot. She did not move or speak. He approached her and she scrabbled
away from him, but he kept coming. It wasnât until he touched her that a true clap
of terror ran through her. This was real, it was happening, and she could not know where
it would lead. He tried to raise her, butshe was so weak her knees
would not support her. The widow sank down heavily, her head spinning. Her hand was
shaking in his. The man was looking up the mountain as if judging the grade. Then he
assessed her belongings, which lay strewn all around her, a rude human debris. He seized
her arm.
âAlly-oop!â he bellowed and threw her screaming over his
shoulder.
THE FIRST NIGHT , she lay alone, febrile and tossing in
his tent, while he sat outside by a fire and guarded her. At least thatâs what he
told her, patting his pistol â that he would guard her against
âintruders.â Her head nodded and she panted shallowly with fatigue, but
looking about the dark forest she wondered what intruders . . . what people? His camp
was sparse, like the camp of a man on a short hunting trip, but everything was worn and
rotting, many years old. A pair of snowshoes hung from one tree; from another, a shaving
mirror. On a fallen log lay a hat so formless and marbled from sweat and rain that it
might have been a large riverstone. He told her his name was William Moreland and that
he had been living in the mountains for nine years. He didnât explain why.
He had fed her and washed her face with snow that he melted in a pot. The
hot water and fusty washcloth made her skin tingle. He was extraordinarily gentle with
her. She closed her eyes and tried not to weep. He explained that heâd thrown away
her fiddleheads, for they were poison in great quantities; and the deer meat sheâd
been eating might be all right, but on the other hand it might kill her, depending on
the animal and how sick it was. How else but from a sick animal could this skinny girl
have got meat? He didnât know about the wolves.
âDid ya eat any raw?â he said loudly into her ragged, vacant
face. But she could only watch his mouth moving. Sickness, fear, shock. She was on the
edge of consciousness, at the horizon of it, a penumbra where the light sputters.
On the second night she woke to find him there in the tent with her, lying
as formal as a mummy, his hands across his belly and his eyes open. All the blankets
were laid over her. When she shifted to see his face more closely, he shot up and
scrambled from the tent as if swarmed by bees. The widow lay listening to the wind in
the trees and her benefactorâs feet pacing the cold ground. They were at a high
altitude, the air thin, few birds, the gurgle of mountain streams encased in ice. It was
summer, but his camp was dusted with snow in the morning. It melted with the sun, but
slowly built up in the shadows, dry frozen waves that crumbled like meringue under his
boots. She spent most of her time inside the tent, staring out at him. She was awake
now, and keenly aware of her position. Her grandmother would have thrilled to such a
vivid disaster, like something from an oriental tale. She would have called it
peril
. And yet, the old woman would probably have condoned Johnâs
marital
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