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This isn’t happening. This is not happening. This can’t be happening.
Abe was trying to make sense of the intrusion into the narrative. He was trying to make a narrative of the intrusion.
That is not coming toward us.
Brown it was, golden, and the smell of wild preceded it. It was a brown hump then stretched out, like a jaguar, only huge, and brown, and golden, with the smell of wild in advance of it. Golden brown reached with two enormous paws, first in the open, then in a copse of spruce trees, then at hand, with its smell of wild. It was growling, roaring, huffing, and deadly. Abe was screaming.
Blake was shouting from the ground, “Shoot it! Shoot it! You idiots! Shoot it!”
Brown it was, shimmering, driven by flailing claws atop Blake, who was coherent. Abe pulled the trigger of his pistol and it fired, but in his panic he hadn’t bothered to point it at the bear. Umezawa was likewise paralyzed in that moment, captured by eternity forever.
“Ume!” Abe managed to squeal. He pointed the pistol in the general direction of the bear and he pulled the trigger again. He saw something flinch within the shimmering brown of wild fury. It stank. Umezawa likewise aimed his pistol, which was a revolver, much larger than Abe’s pea-shooter, and it roared to life, overcoming the roar of the bear. Umezawa had managed to hit the bear in the head, and it peeled itself off Blake, all the wild departing in a pool of blood, staggered toward Abe with a moan, then collapsed, dead, huffing one last time.
“A grizzly bear,” said Blake, gasping for breath. “In February. In Idaho. This isn’t happening.” He passed out.
Abe gaped, catching sight of Blake’s hands, which were falling away from his gut, where he had been pressing. Bright red was soaking ripped outerwear.
“We have to get him back!”
Two wooden poles suddenly appeared, clanking together at the edge of the copse, where they had been standing when the bear decided to charge them before they were aware of its presence.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Abe shouted. He and Umezawa tore off their shell layers and quickly fashioned them with the poles into a litter. With a silent count to three, they heaved their fallen leader onto the litter, picked it up, with more grunts coming from Umezawa, whose muscles had never, ever been challenged, and then they ran. They ran like soldiers under fire in battle. They sprinted with adrenaline-fueled frenzy, and when they were within a hundred yards of the bower entrance, they began to shout. Jason and James Thurgerson were outside, gathering wood.
“Open the door! Dear God, open the door!”
This is just like when Nami was attacked by the mabeast-wolf in the third arc of Season 5. I sure hope Blake’s insides aren’t hanging out like Nami’s were, because all the doctors failed, and they had to call a wizard, and the first wizard didn’t have access to enough mana and Nami was starting to fade into the nether-realm before Joseph the arch-wizard was able to close the realm portal and discharge the mabeast toxins which were preventing the doctors from doing their best and…
“Open the door! For the love of all that’s good and wonderful, open the door!” Jason was first to the entryway, and he caused it to open, even though Abe had the power to command the door to open. He’d forgotten. “Lars! Lars!” With that, Umezawa and Abe deposited their friend upon the bower floor.
“Shot? Was he shot?” Lars demanded. “Friendly fire? Was it one of you? Did a sniper fetch him?”
“Bear!” said Abe. Lars stared, unbelieving.
“Oh, Jesus.” He looked at Blake, moved the shredded clothing to one side, blanched, and said, “We need a table. Abe, we need a table.”
“What?”
“A table! Tell the trees we need a table!”
“Yeah. Yeah! A table, please, for the love of the Great Elm, a table, please!”
James Thurgerson charged into the bower, closing the entryway behind him, just in time to see roots and vines contort and twist into a fair table. He stood, marveling.
“Jason,” Lars said, barking commands. “Fire! Big fire! And water. Boiling water! This is bad. This is real bad.” To Blake he said, “It’s okay, buddy. Nothing but a scratch, okay? We’ll have you out and running off bad guys lickety-split. Just you hold tight.” To no one in particular, he said, “Knives. I need knives. Sano? I need a nurse. And I don’t mean it because you’re a girl, but I need someone older to handle these commands, see what I mean? And your touch: it’ll be good for him, and that is because you’re a girl.”
Abe burst into tears, crying out, “He’s dead, I just know it!”
“He’s not dead, Abe, just badly hurt, and what we need now is positi—”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
“No, not Blake, the spruce tree that tried to help us!”
“What?”
Abe continued wailing with grief. Between sobs he said, “A younger spruce reached out at the last second and wrapped itself around the bear, but it just tore right out of the ground and snapped at the roots.”
A swaying commenced within the bower, and it grew darker.
“I’m so sorry, trees. He gave himself for Blake—for us. Can we save Blake for him? For his sacrifice?”
Sano re-entered from her private bower with some white clothing she was tearing and preparing into bandages. She gasped and pointed at Abe, saying, “You’ve been wounded!”
The earlier moment which was captured in the timeless realm began to line itself into a narrative: The little spruce reached out and was torn out just as the bear swiped at Abe. That torque of the tree, even though it was in vain, was just enough to turn the energy of the bear from Abe to Blake, but only just so. Three deep gouges were seeping blood.
Even though a narrative was forming, it was out of order.
Now the bear had just made itself known on the other side of that copse of spruce trees. They heard it growl, and they froze, none of them, not even Blake, knowing quite what to do. Blake raised his rifle, trying to capture the bear in his sights, but the trees obscured his vision.
The narrative slowed into a painful replay.
The bear, in full sprint, coiled itself, pulling its hind legs close to its front legs, then uncoiled, swiping. At that moment, when the bear was in full coil—that was the moment when the small spruce tree whipped itself around the torso of the bear, but, as Abe was now remembering, the sheer wild power of the bear was far too much for the supple tree, and it was obliterated. The power to command the trees, he here learned, was inextricably linked with the empathetic realm of the woods.
Now the narrative sped up again and fell all over itself: the swipe which nicked Abe but tore Blake; the explosion of a rifle round which utterly missed; Umezawa taking aim; three men crying out in terror: not quite sorted yet.
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Sano handed a strip of cloth to Abe. “Clean your wound with this, and then rinse it with hot water. Do we have any antiseptic?”
“No. Yes. Maybe,” Lars said. “Ume, go check to see what we have. Anything with a cross on it, okay?”
Umezawa began to rummage through various piles of gear in search of antiseptic.
“Not my whiskey,” Lars said. “Save that for anesthesia.”
“He’s unconscious,” Jason said from his crouch over the growing fire. He had a pot filled with snow.
“Anesthesia for me,” said Lars. “This is going to leave a mark. Let me know when you’ve got—look, use some of our water bottles. We’ll make drinking water later. Very clever, though; I appreciate the effort. Here, get that started and help me hoist him on this table.”
Jason replaced the snow with several bottles of drinking water. He and James Thurgerson lifted Blake up while Sano and Lars held Blake’s midsection steady.
“We have small-injury kits all over the place,” said Umezawa. “Some sterile wipes, but nothing close to antiseptic.”
“Give me the wipes, as many as you can,” said Lars. Umezawa handed Lars a fistful of packets. “Anything resembling needle and thread in there?”
“No,” said Umezawa. “Popsicle sticks, though.”
“Fishing gear. Look for a fishing kit in my gear or in Lars’s gear. Fish hooks and monofilament line.”
“Monofilament?”
“STRING!” said Lars. “Sorry, Ume: monofilament is what you call fishing line, okay? Just look for stuff I can sew with.” Lars took a deep breath to steady himself. “Here, Sano, take a second and open a bunch of these. Let’s lay these out for easy access. Jesus! How are we going to clean him up?”
Don’t throw up. Oh, Stoic, don’t throw up. Not now. Be brave.
Abe watched Lars continue to take breaths while Sano opened packets of sterile wipes. Lars shook his hands, as if shaking water off them, scrubbed them down with a few wipes, mumbled some encouraging nondescript vocables to himself, then, grasping a long-bladed knife, he slit open the shredded layers of Blake’s clothing.
When the air hit Blake’s exposed flesh, several things happened at once: Blake awakened, uttering a weak cry. The party, excepting Lars, drew back, all of them emitting a groan of their own. A portion of Blake’s intestines pushed through a gash in his torso. Sano wiped her brow. Lars started to cry, then breathed again. “Sano, get those tears out of my eyes.” She obliged.
With his eyes closed, Blake said, very slowly, and very quietly, “Harvest. Harvest the bear.”
“Sure thing, buddy,” said Lars. “Just as soon as we get you all patched up.” Lars paused again, not moving. Sano dabbed his forehead and eyes with a strip of cloth. He whispered hoarsely, “We have to get you on your feet again.”
Blake passed out.
“Found it!” Umezawa said, and he came over to Lars with fish hooks and monofilament. He touched Blake’s forehead with his fingertips. Blake’s body relaxed.
“Boiling,” said Jason.
Umezawa was standing in the way, gazing at Blake in wonder. Sano pushed him gently aside, making room for the pot of water.
Using two sticks, she put the strips of cloth in the water, lifted them out, and, letting them cool slightly, Lars took them in his hands, wringing them out. He took one and started cleaning the wound, working from the outside of the gouges toward the wounds themselves.
“What am I going to do with these guts?” Lars said.
“Push them back in,” said Sano, with a shrug. “What else is there to do?”
“Infection,” said Lars. “I’m doing surgery here. I’m just a SHTF prepper ham radio hobbyist following instinct and what I seen on TV.”
No one had an answer.
“I have to wash them, but I have to be careful with the temperature of those strips. And I don’t even know if they’ll go back in.” He started to cry again. “Dammit,” he said. Sano wiped his tears again. “You’re a fine woman, Sano. And don’t be afraid to holler at me if you see me doing something too completely wrong. What’s your medical TV like in Japan? I mean…”
With every kind of gentleness he could muster, he slowly wiped the exposed intestines until he felt satisfied. With a shrug, he started to push the intestines back into Blake’s body cavity.
“Yep,” Lars said without emotion. “That’s what I was afraid of: pressure. I don’t know if gas has built up inside him or what. Or if that’s just what happens when the viscera gets sliced like that.” He thought for a moment. “All right. Here’s what we’re gonna do. Ume, I’m going to push these in, and you sew behind me.”
“Behind you?”
“Yeah, follow my fingers. Use a fishhook and monofilament to sew the thing closed. Make an ‘X.’ You know what I mean? That nylon monofilament is strong as all get-out, and it’s just the thing we need to keep the muscle from breaking everything open. At least that’s what I hope. Funny he hasn’t woke up. None of this can feel good. He’s breathing and all that, nice and even-like.”
Umezawa washed his hands in near-boiling water, prepared a fishhook with the monofilament, and, after a quick hesitation, he plunged the hook into Blake’s flesh. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. Sano was quick to dab them. Blake continued breathing steadily, and he did not flinch or awaken.
Umezawa finished his first tiny ‘X,’ Sano cut the monofilament, and Umezawa continued, with a little more confidence. Time stood still while the party watched the team of Lars, Umezawa, and Sano.
“I’m thirsty,” said Umezawa. Abe gave him a drink from his bottle of water.
After an eternity, Umezawa said, “All done.” He and Lars stepped back from Blake. Sano ministered to Blake a little further, tidying the wounds from blood, and then finding spare clothing as blankets.
“Well, we shall see,” said Lars. The party stood in perfect stillness. The bower did not sway. There was no sound from outside nor inside.
Jason finally broke the silence. “We should harvest that bear. Does anybody know how?”
Lars said, “I do, but I’m beat, see? First and foremost is to gut that bear like it tried to gut ol’ Blake here. Keep its heart and liver. You know how to gut it? Start at the sternum and cut to its anus. Got it so far? When you get about that far, you’ll figure out what to do from there. When you got it emptied, the two of you can tie its paws to one of these poles, and you can tote it back here, and we’ll handle it together. As for me, I’m laying out.”
It was only midday, but Abe felt exhaustion wash over him. “I need to lie down for just a few minutes,” he said. He saw Lars already readying himself to lie down. Sano and Umezawa continued to tend to Blake.
He heard a distinct “thop” sound. It was Lars opening his bottle of whiskey. He watched as Lars stared at his hands, which were shaking. Just as Lars raised the bottle to his lips, Abe fell asleep. It was a dark sleep.
It was dark when he awoke, dark and quite warm. A glow was coming from the narrow end of the bower, where Jason was sitting, tending the fire. Lars was sitting next to him, watching Blake. Blake was still on the table, under a light covering of clothing, and in the dark orange light of the fire, he was gently snoring.
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