Lilies in the Snow

 

*****

The howling wind was deafening, deadly. I was warm, somehow. It wasn’t possible. I was sure I was dead. No, there definitely was a fire nearby. I felt the warmth. And a blanket? How? The arrow had plunged deep into my upper leg. I had felt the life draining out of me. But now, I felt alive. In terrible pain but, alive. Still, I shivered.

A voice called out to me, “you better hope your father is late tonight. If that tree isn’t cut, he’ll tan you.” It was mother. But that was impossible. Wasn’t it? No, that couldn’t be right. “Yeah, yeah. I know, Momma. It’s too cold!” I heard myself say the words.

“Shh.” The soft, cool, cloth caressed my forehead.

“What...?” I opened my eyes a little. A woman sat near me, her hands in her lap. Her head down. “Who?”

The room was warm because a fire blazed in a hearth nearby. My leg ached, I reached for it. But her hand caught mine. “It is infected. Leave alone for heal. You rest, get better.”

“Where am…?” I tried to lift my head.

“Shh. You are safe here. Secret place.”

“I have to put up the tree, before father….”

The snow crunched under my shabby boots as I struggled to drag the freshly cut fir. It was cold but sweat got into my eyes. I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed on. The pain in my eyes would be nothing compared to the switch on my back if I didn’t get the Christmas tree home in time. “It must be a storm.” I wondered. The snow was getting heavy and difficult to see. I was working hard, sweating, and panting. If I stopped, I would freeze and die. “That might please father.” I laughed. “No, nothing would please that man.” So, maybe it would be all right to stop. Settle under a giant tree and sleep. Forever. No one would miss me, certainly.

“Stay awake. No sleep. Bad thing to sleep with fever.” Her warm voice stirred me.

I pressed on through the deepening snow banks. There would be a fire and Christmas dinner waiting for me. Momma needed me. Father could take out his anger on me, instead of her. Soon I would be older and stronger. Father would not be able to overpower me much longer. Yes, that was a good plan. Drag this monstrosity of a tree home and take the beating. This was my Christmas gift to my mother and newborn sister. Take the beating.

“Do it for them….”

The tree dominated the warm, little cabin. The smell of pine filled the room with the joy of the holiday. We all expected the spell to be broken the moment the tyrant walked through the door. “Might as well eat before it gets cold.” Momma dished up the small bounty knowing this small act of rebellion would result in a thrashing.

“Merry Christmas, Momma.” Father didn’t return that night. It was the best Christmas Day, ever. This allowed for some extended revelry. We knew the joy would be short lived, but we had learned to take these moments as they came. I was even able to unbox the fiddle. It had not been played in a year, but we didn’t care. It was the best music we had ever heard.

It could be any time now.

“Any time now….” I moaned.

It was several days after Christmas before the snow had melted enough to conduct a decent search. I was in no hurry to find my missing father. I placed my hopes in a new year without an abusive father. On January 3^rd, the body was discovered. A mountain lion had feasted for its own Christmas dinner.

“Happy New…”

She placed another blanket on me as I fell into oblivion.

 

*****

I woke after a time, how long I didn’t know, to a woman of oriental persuasion. My experience was limited to the Chinee menfolk only, so I didn’t rightly know how to be with her.

The warm food and drink fueled my body if not my own tastes. She said it was a traditional meal and tea. Something she made for her own family.

“Where are they now?” I ventured.  

“Not here.” That was all she would ever say about them.

My manners prevented me from pressing her further, so I allowed the days to pass without much conversation passing between us. Words, it seemed, were unnecessary. Communication was easy. She was a wonderful caregiver. Her touch was healing, and I was surprised to find my tastes grew to not only appreciate her culinary skills, but to crave her dishes.

But what I didn’t expect was my subtle change in perception of her as a woman. I sometimes found myself simply watching her as she mended a blanket, or tended the fire, and especially when she prepared a meal. A longing began to ache more than my leg. This troubled me.

One particularly cold evening, she noticed my discomfort. Although I had blankets and a warm fire for comfort, I was shivering in my sleep. She carefully but with purpose climbed into bed next to me under the covers. Pressing her body against mine to share warmth, she felt me stir. “Hmm, wha…?”

“Shhhh. You cold. I am warmth.”

Feeling less troubled, me and my nurse kept each other warm as men and women have done since the beginning of existence.

Outside, a blizzard lay fury to the little cabin in the woods. We paid no mind to it whatsoever.

The following morning, I woke, a newly invigorated man, to an empty room. A steaming bowl of porridge was on the table, apparently my breakfast. Hot coffee percolated on the hearth next to a fresh fire. She was not there. “Hello?!” There was no answer. I got out of bed and, with speed that surprised me, I peered out the window. The blizzard had passed. I didn’t see her anywhere, but there were fresh tracks in the snow.

And not just one set, a second set of tracks, but larger in size, crossed the smaller ones. I scanned the edge of the woods. I saw nothing. But, out of the corner of my eye, a shadow.

I quickly limped to the door and began to open it. Just then, it flew open. A blast of cold forced me to close my eyes. “NO!”

“What you doing? You sick, get back in bed.” It was her. She had gone out to get more wood for the fire.

“I feel fine. Great really. I was worried about you.” I considered telling her about the other set of tracks.

“You worry ‘bout me? What for you worry? I strong lady.”

“Yes, I can see that. I just, well, it isn’t right. I should be doing that. You do too much.” I stood a little taller.

“You too much pride.” She smiled at me. “But, maybe next time, you get wood. Make you strong.” This seemed to satisfy her.

“Well, all right then.” Satisfied me, too. But there was something I had been neglecting. “What’s your name? I think it is safe for you to tell me, now.” She blushed when I told her. “I’m Joseph.”

“My name, Lili. Now, you eat.”

It was my job to get wood from then on.

 

*****

As Winter began to turn to Spring, I started to venture outdoors to strengthen my healing leg. As an experienced bounty hunter, my tracking skills were sharp. I told Lili I was hunting for food, but, truthfully, I was tracking whoever made those tracks in the snow.

My father used to describe the wilderness with a sense of awe. “Stay out of Montana if you can’t handle the cold.” I could handle the cold but didn’t appreciate the season. Snow was too bothersome. Hunting was difficult, game was scarce. But the spring brought plenty and very little competition as long as you had no designs in mining ventures. That was a game in which I had no interest.

The mines provided a means of financial support for a bounty hunter. Crime was abundant. I made a decent living provided my prey didn’t fight back. My last bounty wasn’t interested in being captured quietly. The Indian was good with a bow and arrow.

My leg started to throb again. I limped deeper into a grove. A set of tracks was leading me. “Where are you?” I followed the tracks into the forest. They went on for a long while and I was beginning to tire. My instincts told me this wasn’t a wise course. Turning around to go back the way I came; I realized my mistake.

The dark and cold started to settle in. The pain in my leg sharpened. I couldn’t feel my toes. Too cold, damn fool! With no choice but to walk on, my mind started to wander. My vision began to blur around the edges. I tried to shake it off, “Stay strong!” If I didn’t make it out and back to the cabin, I most certainly would die.

My foot started to drag. I stopped. Rest. Yes. Only for a moment. Just to catch my breath, get my bearings. I found a bare patch at the base of a large tree. Sitting with my back against it, I looked up. There was just enough of a clearing that I could see the moon. Keep the moon in one position and walk a straight line. Yes. But first a little rest. I shut my eyes. Only for a moment.

I would be back in the warm cabin soon. She would have food on the table. And that tea. Warm. Safe. Tomorrow I would try again, and this time not venture so deep. Maybe bring back a fresh deer.

The sound startled me awake. I opened my eyes slowly. The forest looked different. The snow was deep now. But, how? The sky was clear… I tried to stand. The pain in my leg said no. I heard the sound again. Whatever it was, it was closer. I reached for my rifle. It was gone. Trying not to panic, I searched around for a rock or a large branch. A short, sharp stick was the best I could do. “Who’s there!”

“You didn’t get that tree back in time, son! You ruined Christmas! Now, you know what happens!”

“No!” Mother was in trouble now. Because I was too slow and stupid. My father would beat her senseless and it was all my fault. “NO! Leave her alone!” I tried to stand.

“What are you gonna do, Son? Stop me?”

Looking around the dark forest, I could see no one. “That’s the last time you hurt her.” Where was that bastard? “Come out and face me!” Fresh footprints in the snow led me out of the forest. Smoke from a fireplace had me on a new path; back to the cabin where my mother would be in danger, unless I could get there in time to put a stop to my father’s abuse.

I heard a scream. I quickened my pace. My breath was fierce and fast. “MOTHER!” The cabin was just up ahead. I could see the smoke from the chimney. My heart pounded like it would fly out of my chest. “Not today, Old man.” The door couldn’t hold me back. My mother was in trouble. It crashed open with my full weight.

There in the center of the room, my father’s back to me, arm raised over his head as he prepared to beat my mother. Enraged, I lunged for him. But just as I wrapped my arms around him, I found nothing but thin, cold air. I collapsed to the floor, confused, my leg pounding with every beat of my angry heart. I heard another sound behind me. I turned over on the floor to face the open door. A shadow of a figure stood in the doorway. I pulled my hunting knife out of my boot. An Indian entered, bow raised, an arrow nocked. My bounty had found me and was going to finish the job he started days before. I tried to stand to face my enemy, but my head was swimming. The room was swirling. The Indian said something I didn’t understand and was about to let his arrow fly, when he stopped, dropped his bow, and collapsed in a heap. I could just see the outline of a small figure standing over the body. It was Lili. She had killed the Indian.

I passed out.

*****

I didn’t know how long I had been unconscious. But that didn’t matter much. I was cold, the floor of the cabin was scattered with debris and a dead Indian. Able to stand, I went to the man and checked to be sure he was truly dead. He was. But Lili? Where was she?

The empty cabin had not seen an inhabitant in years. But how was that possible? This was where I had been nursed back to health. The fireplace was cold and bare, a table stood in a corner. There was some paper on it. A wanted poster. “WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE. Big Jim Thunderhead. For the deaths of Five Chinee during a mining dispute in Butte. The Chan Brothers of Camp Bison.” The poster was three years old.

Big Jim was now dead in the doorway of the cabin. I went back over to the dead man and stopped suddenly. The Indian had died from a stab wound alright, but it was my hunting knife in his chest, not in his back as I thought I had witnessed. I was certain Lili had saved me with her own killing stroke. But my eyes now told a different story. But it was a story that made no sense. She was here. I arrived here sick from a leg injury. She had nursed me back to health. Hadn’t she?

My horse, Zeus, was dutifully waiting outside the cabin. “Where have you been?” I retrieved some supplies from the saddle bags and wrapped my bounty for delivery. My leg only bothered me a little. I was about to depart when my eyes caught something above the doorway outside the cabin. It was a name plate, carved with care. ‘Chan. Martin and Lili. 1865.’

As I rode out, dead bounty draped over my saddle, I took one last look around the abandoned property. It had once been a paradise on the edge of a great forest. A family of immigrant miners killed because they were lucky. I supposed that wasn’t very lucky. I spotted a small patch of petite, yellow flowers growing out of a small, snow-covered mound near a large fir. “Huh. Lilies." 

"So beautiful.”

 

The End