Chapter 1 - The Encounter
Setting the bucket of milk on the makeshift table, Clea blew on her hands to warm them up before slipping on her gloves. Inside the barn, it was cold enough to where her breath emerged as vaporous clouds. But it was better than being outside where the temperature was hovering in the twenties.
She went over to the far corner of the building where a few bales of hay had been stacked. Grabbing the pitchfork, she dug out a portion and carried it over to where the cows were penned and dumped it into their trough. After which she checked their water buckets to make sure ice hadn’t formed on the top, preventing the animals from drinking.
Clea sniffed. “Yes, I know I need to clean out your stalls, but right now I don’t feel like it.” She sniffed again and wiped her nose with the back of her glove. She gave the animal a pat on the side. “Enjoy your breakfast, Daisy. I’ll be back this evening to check on you and your sister.” Another pat, and she went to retrieve the bucket before heading to the house.
She was almost at the back door when a familiar figure came running around the corner.
“Mom! Mooom!”
Seeing the alarm on his face, she set the bucket down and prepared herself for the worst.
“Joey? What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”
He stumbled to a stop in front of her, his cheeks glowing red from the cold and exertion. “Mom! There’s a man lying under the big fir tree in the pasture! Mom!” The boy’s eyes widened. “I think he’s dead!”
“Dead? Joey, please tell me you didn’t go near him!”
He tried to shake his head. He was bundled so well against the cold, he could barely move it. “No.”
“Then why do you think he’s dead?”
“Cuz he’s laying like those guys on TV do after they get shot. Like he fell there and can’t get up. Do we need to call Sheriff Lowden?”
Clea checked over her shoulder at the snowed-in road leading up to the house. “No. He’ll never be able to make it up here. Get inside the house and stay there until I get back.” She continued toward the back door with her son in tow.
Inside the kitchen, she set the pail of milk in the sink then went into the living room to fetch the shotgun she kept in the hall closet. Joey watched her with dismay as she strode past him.
“Mom?”
She paused at the back door. “Under the fir tree?” she clarified.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“If I’m not back in twenty minutes, go ahead and call Sheriff Lowden.” Without waiting for his reply, she hurried outside and began trudging toward the back pasture.
The tree in question was the only tree on that ten-acre plot directly behind the house. Years before, her husband had told her his parents had planted that tree in the middle of a field of sweet corn so they could chop it down and use it for a Christmas tree that December.
“Why in the middle of the field?” she’d asked him.
“Because the soil was already tilled,” Eddie explained. “It didn’t take much to dig a hole.”
The tree took root and grew big and strong, and beautiful. So beautiful, Mrs. Hatch had second thoughts and decided not to have it cut down. As a result, the tree served as both landmark and outpost, since the farmhouse could be seen if one climbed to its uppermost branches, as young nine-year-old boys were prone to do.
Clea topped the rise where she could gaze down at the acreage, now sitting fallow until it was time to replant in the spring. This time of year, the ground was hard and frozen under the four inches of snow that had fallen last night. She tried to spot the man in question, but he’d either left or was lying where he was out of sight. The line of footprints left in the powder in front of her were too small to have been made by a full-grown man.
She opened the double-barrel shotgun, fed it two shells of buckshot, and closed it, keeping it ready just in case. Slowly, she advanced, following Joey’s footprints which appeared to take a wide path away from the tree. Apparently her son had started to go to the tree, but when he’d seen the man, had veered off and come straight home to warn her.
She was within a few feet of the big fir when she detected movement. Jerking the rifle up to her shoulder, she carefully sidestepped as she kept one eye peering down the barrel.
The man was on his side, facing away from her. As she stood there, she heard a soft groan coming from him as he rocked forward and back. From what she could see, he was wearing a coat, but it looked the worse for wear. She doubted it was adequate protection from the weather. His head was bare, or looked that way.
She continued to watch him, waiting for him to turn to face her. She wouldn’t dare challenge him with his back to her. There was too great a chance he could pull a gun or knife without her knowledge, then turn to attack her with it.
Eventually, the man rolled over onto his other side, enabling her to see his face. His skin was pale, but with reddish splotches, a sure sign of fever. He coughed, deep and raspy, hacking up phlegm which he spat onto the ground.
The man was sick.
She aimed at his midsection. “Hold it right there! Don’t move!”
The guy didn’t appear to hear her. Or if he did, he was too weak to respond.
Normally, she would hesitate to get closer, but her motherly instinct was telling her this man needed help. He wasn’t acting. He wasn’t faking it. He was deathly ill.
She slung the shotgun over her shoulder and marched up to him. Gripping his thin coat with both hands, she tugged on it. “Come on. Get up. I’m taking you into the house.”
“No.” He tried to push away her hand but he didn’t have the strength. “Leave me be.”
“If I leave you there, you’ll die of exposure. Now, get up and throw your arm across my back. I can’t drag you by myself.”
A watery cough in lieu of a chuckle answered her. “Madam, I cannot die. Suffer, yes. But not die.”
She didn’t need to look at him to know he had a raging fever. She could feel the heat coming off his body. No wonder he was delirious.
“Damn it! Let me help you! Come on! I’m not leaving you out here when the temperature’s supposed to drop into the single digits tonight!”
She expected him to protest again. Instead, he managed to get his feet under him and got to a wobbly stance before leaning heavily on her. It wasn’t until he was up that she noticed the well-used backpack propped against the trunk of the tree.
“I can’t handle you and your backpack,” she informed him before he had the chance to mention it—if he remembered it, considering his frame of mind. “I’ll send my son to fetch it. Don’t worry. It’ll be safe here.”
He gave another sickly chuckle. “Of that I have no doubt.”
Clea mentally shook her head. The man was definitely missing a spark plug, considering his odd way of speaking. Or maybe he’s a foreigner, she surmised.
It took a lot of effort to get him up the slight slope before the farmhouse came in view. She wasn’t surprised when she saw her son running toward them once he caught sight of them. As soon as he was within earshot, she called out to him.
“Go fetch the backpack sitting against the tree!”
Joey took off to get it as she struggled to get the man to the house. She’d been tempted to ask the boy to help her get the guy inside, but since she didn’t know what kind of sickness this stranger was suffering, she didn’t want to chance her son catching it. Her getting ill was one thing, but in no way would she jeopardize Joey’s health.
They were nearing the back door when the boy caught up with them. “Where do you want me to put it?”
“Put it in your room. That’s where he’s going to stay until the roads clear enough to where I can take him to the hospital.”
Joey wrinkled his nose at her. “My room? Where am I gonna sleep?”
“You’ll sleep in my room with me.” She used that tone of voice he knew meant there was no arguing her decision. “After you drop off the backpack, go wait for me in the living room.”
The child trudged off to hold the door open for his mother before going to leave the man’s backpack in his room.
The stranger groaned softly when they entered the kitchen. The wall of warmth that met and surrounded them felt good, and she almost moaned with him. It also seemed to give the stranger a boost of strength so that she didn’t have to carry him into her son’s bedroom.
She dropped him onto the bed and managed to peel his coat away from him. It was then she discovered he was wearing a knitted cap that blended into the man’s gray-white hair. It was iced over to the point that she had to peel it off his head. His gloves followed. Next, she tackled his boots.
His jeans were soaked, leaving her with no choice but to undo his belt and slide them off. Thankfully, he had on a pair of boxers underneath. Although they also felt wet to the touch, they would quickly dry. His shirt was also dry.
By the time she got that much done, she was too exhausted to do anything more. The man was dirty and unshaven, and looked like he hadn’t bathed in days, but that could wait. Right now he needed rest and to be kept warm. Pushing him onto the mattress, she pulled the comforter and blanket over him and turned to leave when he spoke for the first time since they were in the field.
“Do not be…alarmed…if I…disappear.”
Clea stared at him. “If you what?”
“It’s part of…of my…curse.”
“Your curse? How are you cursed?”
A weak smile curved the corners of his lips. “I am…immortal.”
She continued to stare at him and briefly wondered if she should block the bedroom door in the event he got up in the middle of the night. Right now, however, her thoughts were on trying to keep him alive.
“I’m going to get you a cup of warm tea and some aspirin. Try to get some rest.”
The stranger gave a single nod.
And then vanished from sight.
TO BE CONTINUED
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