(COLD/Posting #4). This 4th episode includes learning about all the tools and foodstuffs supplied to Ewald by Shaman/lover Nanra-Naw (how else could he survive?)!
It's the first days of surviving away from the cabin and Nanra: See COLD book for full synopsis: <https://www.amazon.com/dp/B076VBJB62>
Freed from the prison camp, and helped (and loved) for almost two months by a shaman woman, Nanra-Naw, it’s time that Captain Ewalf Loeffler, 21 years old, must face the real challenge––staying alive in the Siberian winter, fending off wolves and possible enemy soldiers. Luckily, she has supplied him with a warm coat, food and tools, everything the future father of her child needs. So the story continues, as he reminisces.
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(COLD/Posting #4)
Our lovemaking had occasionally splashed liquids on us, a cool spot of glistening wetness that could make us laugh and feel privileged to the messiness of love. Now when a wet snowflake made it to my face or arm, snuck in inspite of all my deep coverings, I felt the happy thrill of intimacy, instead of the danger of the freeze. See, she wasn't going away. My memory of when she cooked and stirred the stew in the pot was vivid. I couldn't hear the wooden spoon scraping the bottom of the kettle. Reading my curiosity she had pointed to the extracted spoon and gestured in a proud fashion, for owning such a well-fashioned tool (perhaps her father had carved it). In any case, I had never heard that particular sound – no scraping in that regard. But now, in the forest somewhere, was an apparent song from that occurrence. Where did the scraping originate? The wind? Or just in my mind, cooking up its own stew as I stalked toward my ancestral home.
It would also seem that I heard her clothes shifting, rustles in fabric somewhere against her lovely and soft skin. That thought was more dangerous than anything else I imagined. Why? Because it led me deeper into fantasy when I needed to stay fully in the present. That memory, a sexual one, had formed a new resonance, a love- ghost that was becoming more obsessive with each of my forward steps.
When I finally pushed fantasy aside, almost instantly it was supplanted by the more responsible and greater notion of my upcoming fatherhood. It was clear that my German ancestry would have doomed our unborn child. And, as she knew, it could have gotten her tied to a stake and burned alive if we’d been discovered. The peasants nearby weren't mean people, she had communicated, just settled in their ways. If a tribal person, especially one of the shamans, violated the age-old tenant of 'staying with one's own people,' then they could expect some very harsh measures. They would simply be exercising their fear of the unknown – a powerful force. They would use drastic measures to thwart the unraveling of their culture. Purification by fire was their preferred method. She relayed all this to me with hand signals, by pointing to images in an old magazine, and using her body language in wild configurations.
A sound suddenly jumped through my thoughts. Something like a low growl. Certainly an animal sound of some sort. I felt instant fear, same as what I’d felt when first noticing the pack of wolves before reaching the cabin. I grabbed Nanra’s pistol out of the pack. There were still six bullets. After I’d been shown the bullets in the cartridge, she made it clear that I might want to save the sixth shot for myself. I had nodded. Better that, than to watch oneself be devoured. So really, five shots. And each would have to be deadly accurate, to bring down animals in a full-speed sprint.
As I listened hard – no new sounds now – I wondered just how many wolves I might expect in a pack? Four would be good, for that would give me one miss. And who could be so perfect as to land five perfect shots against moving targets? What about five speeding critters? Well, good luck to me. Six? A big decision...maybe trading my good death for a horrible one? Seven? Unlucky seven it would have to be!
Clomp, clomp, clomp, clomp, clomp, clomp, clomp, clomp. I suddenly was walking heavily with more distinct purpose. More determination. But to where?
The sky turned darker, wetter, trying to douse me with a cold and freezing rain that would tear the memories away. But I fought back with memories. Her skin – I could feel it. Her warmth – reassuring. And the hot food. I remembered her happy look toward me as she upended a floorboard and grabbed hold of what looked like a misshaped log from the frozen recess beneath the floor. The momentary chill of air that arose from that pit was immediately cut off as she replaced the boards and covered them with a small rug. Using her still-gloved hands she dusted off the frost from the hind leg of an elk, walked the heavy piece to a cabinet imbedded along the wall, opened the plank door and stuck the frozen food inside before closing, Two days hence, she explained in sign- language, we would slice off defrosted parts for our next stew. From what I was able to determine, my love had enough similar logs of meat to last many months without ever venturing outside. Either she, or someone no longer around, had been a very good provider.
As the freezing rain fell I was happy to imagine her reaching warmer summer months without difficulty. And where would I be, that much into the future? Still alive? Would I still be walking? The life-cycle would begin again, with or without me. When animals left the safety of their hibernation she would hunt them. She would take their lives and replenish the freezer- hole.
The first day away from the cabin finally ended, darkness enveloping all the white plains before me. As memories tried to insulate me from the storm I knew that a bone-chilling night was inevitable. The slit-eye protection glasses Nanra had supplied had been essential to keeping out the ever-present glare of whiteness, but now it was time to remove them. Seeing more completely now, I selected a lone bush up against which I could form some shelter for the night. Her gloves, another present, kept my hands warm and dry enough to risk chopping at the roots of the frozen bush. I pulled up some of the snow-covered branches so I could push myself inside as far as possible. Another present from Nanra, my bed roll, had ridden well on my back. It took only seconds to untie it and settle it into the hollow, flap raised for sealing off the cold once I was contained. Finally, Nanra’s thin, but effective insulating board kept the ground freeze off my bottom skin and bones, so I could effectively find sleep and survive.
Before the darkness filled in, to completely obliterate the view from my bushy home, I gazed out at the surrounding flats for any last signs of animals that might be stalking me. From my vantage point, eyes near the ground, peering out from my supine position, I watched for movement and saw none. No lower legs of wolves churned in my direction, no human legs anywhere in sight. Nothing. What, I wondered, had happened to my campmates? Where had they all gone? Were any alive anymore? If I was holding true to a direct route toward Germany, then wouldn’t I spy at least one individual on the same path? Or see mounds that represented their failure? The question would not be answered on this day.
I cut short my musing and returned to itemizing the survival items Nanra had packed. As I went over the list, I remembered precise moments of receiving each thing. Just before she handed me my coat – she had sewn it specially thick for the extreme conditions – she showed how the gap between its lining and outer surface contained a salve she had brewed up. The packed ointment had uses for any cuts, abrasions, sprains – anything that threatened my health. Patting her face in demonstration, she even recommended using it around eyes if I experienced damaged sight during my journey.
Along with the slotted, glare-resistant snow glasses I’ve already mentioned, she’d provided new footwear, special boots and socks which she had fashioned during our many weeks together. That's when I had realized that she'd known all along that I must leave. Maybe she also knew I would accomplish a pregnancy for her. She was psychic in many different ways. She had knitted the socks from wool almost as soft as cashmere, then had further water-proofed the fibers for comfort and durability. Watching her smear a salve over the socks gave me little faith that she was creating anything I might ever use, but after a first day of traipsing around in the wild I certainly appreciated her efforts. My feet had remained warm, had not sweated or frozen during the first five kilometers or so. And I'd hardly felt the weight of the boots either. They were lighter than any I'd ever had, sturdy yet with a strong heel. She did not divulge where the boots came from, or why they fit me so perfectly. Another ‘Nanra mystery’ that shall probably remain forever unsolved.
As a prisoner of war in Siberia I had seen men beaten, even killed for boots. And now I wore such a treasure. I gave a overdue nod of appreciation as I rested in the only bush for probably fifty kilometers. I made another nod back in the direction where I believed my love and her cabin was located, but realized I could easily be several degrees off. Could she feel the presence of my airy ‘thank yous?’ Perhaps. She had seemed to excel at reading my thoughts quite accurately during our short time together.
I jolted my thoughts backwards again, to a further accounting of her gifts. Beyond the socks and boots, she had also included a complete first- aid kit – needle and thread for closing wounds, bandages to wrap a wound, plus an antiseptic and more of the ointment that already lined my coat. A gust of wind shot through the bush and I wrapped my scarf a bit tighter on my neck. (Oh yes, she had supplied that too, to guard my innards from the frigid Siberian winds).
Next, as I lay there, I reviewed the list of foodstuffs too. There was meat that was dried and pounded flat, and some sweet fruit in a pouch, sugar and berries cooked together in a delicious jam. A loaf of bread she had baked had been sliced longwise down the middle, to better carry against my body as further insulation. And like any other respectable hunter might pack, I had a bunch of those delicious pelmini dumplings she’d cooked, frozen solid for some meal I’d need later. When I had time to suck on them long enough to let them defrost, I’d think of her. And she had included additional medicines, some for infection, some for intoxication. If things got just too brutal, I could finish myself off with an overdose of one root in the pack. She had explained this item with dramatic flourish, her hands wrapped around her own throat to signify the seriousness. All I had to do was bite a chunk off and chew it quickly (she pantomimed this action...). A nice thought under some situations. I could pick my death. That was a certain kind of freedom. Being the soldier that I was, death had rode with me before on numerous occasions. In any case, she had prepared me for just about anything, even things I had scarcely considered. A better wife-person I would probably never know.
Yes, Nanra was wife in every way except that we had had no official ceremony, not to mention the fact that I had been banished to save us. Suddenly, my mind jogged again. I became concerned with another ‘Nanra’ thought. When would village men come snooping around? When would members of her tribe notice our baby for the first time? And would they notice anything German about him? Could a Russian sniff out the difference in cheekbone structure under all that baby fat? Or what if the hair was a giveaway? Russian hair versus German hair? German eyes?
As night fell and darkness made the kilometers of snow ahead disappear by gradation, I became tired of running my worry-list of dangers. Settling into my shelter and setting a fire ablaze, I shifted to sexual thoughts, letting the idea of my physical relationship take precedence. Her and me wrapped tightly as one. Yes, that had been a good idea – to think of her now. I was suddenly back in the cottage, back in soft bed, pressed against a youthful body to which my soul had pledged fidelity. The heat from my reminisces lulled me to sleep against the cold.
4.
The first rays of the new day were the absolute best present I had ever received in my entire life. At least that's how it felt on that particular morning. I had mentally made love to my wife, fallen asleep and dreamed about drinking tea, eating stew, imagining the future. I had tricked myself so thoroughly that when I awoke I had had one of those moments of being suspended between dream and reality. What was I doing in a bush, lying on the ground in the middle of nowhere? If you were looking for a landmark you would have been sorely disappointed. There was only flat white ground and sun, two points of reference from which to try and understand my existence. I felt stiff, more immobile than I had since leaving the prison camp. And the cold hurt.
(To be continues…)
What an amazing, life-saving woman! Angelic!