AIR, WATER, FUR and FIRE
by
Participating members of the Northern Scribblers Online Group

       Mark turned the canoe into the wind and headed back to the cabin. The day had changed quickly and the storm rushing across the lake was churning the smooth surface into increasing larger swells. He pulled hard on the paddle but was making no headway so he made the choice to turn for the nearest shore and wait it out. A gust and a wave hit at the same time, flipped the canoe and tossed him into frigid October water. He surfaced, gasping for air and spotted the orange life vest bobbing to his left and the canoe, upside down, off to his right. He chose to swim for the life vest and watched the canoe disappear, pushed farther away by the gale. Suddenly, he was alone on a cold Caribou lake drifting at the mercy of the storm. Was this how it was going to end?

       The life vest slipped on easily over his light summer jacket and tee shirt. Mark berated himself for not donning it earlier. He had been aware that when a storm brewed up on the far off west end of the huge lake, the waves could roll up quickly like a tsunami on the ocean. Calm waters would be transformed into dangerous swells in a matter of minutes. And there was another problem. The life vest was only designed to keep the wearer afloat. Try as he might, Mark was unable to utilise his full strength and ability as a swimmer to overcome the swells and manoeuvre his way to shore. Then looking back, he spotted a nice sized log riding the waves toward him.

       Mark grasped the log and rested against it's rough surface long enough to survey his situation. He knew that he was a strong swimmer but the dark lake water was freezing and he wondered whether he'd be better off ro swim hard for shore without the bulky life jacket or keep it on, ride the swells to the beach and risk hypothermia. The wind was fierce and Mark could see that a bank of ominous storm clouds was racing towards him. His eyes darted between the black sky and the distant shore line. He had to make a decision quickly. He stole another furtive glance at the storm, then wriggled out of the wet life jacket, hung it over a scraggly limb on the log, and with a determined stroke, headed for shore.

       Gasping and shuddering, Mark sloshed through the churning waves and collapsed onto the rocks lining the lake’s shore. The rain was starting now, at first cold sprinkles then a sleeting sheet of frigid water soaking his already wet frame. He was in trouble now, that was sure. He had no idea where he was relative to the cabin,. He felt muddled and confused. He noticed himself growing drowsy, and a jolt of terror sent him lurching to his knees. You can’t sleep when you’re cold and wet; you’ll never wake up--he had been warned about that sort of thing all his life. He dragged himself laboriously to his feet and began to walk, shambling and stumbling, around the shore of the lake, thinking that this way he was bound to come across a house or a road sooner or later. He hoped he had chosen the right direction to reach his own cabin, which was warm and dry.

       Glad to see the end of another tourist season, with tea in hand, Verna Macleod relaxed into her over-stuffed sofa while Boots purred loudly in her lap. The once calm lake had turned on its ear in a matter of a few hours and Verna was more than happy to hunker in for the night. The first storm of the season had sent many of the dawdlers on their way. She looked forward to getting her peaceful lake back to herself and knew that by morning the shore line would be a mess of tangled branches, reeds and debris. The wind and rain eased for a few moments and Verna was sure she heard a sound that was less natural elements and more of human suffering. Although her hearing was going, she wrapped a weathered hand around her good ear, and leaned in the direction of the rocky shore line and the pounding waves.

       When she heard the sound again, she turned to the window. The full moon penetrated the storm just long enough for Verna to see a motionless shape lying on the beach, not 20 yards from her door. A log. She prayed for it to be a log. As the blackness reclaimed the moon, she saw the shape move and knew that comfort and warmth would have to wait. Over the objections of the wise and caring Boots, she turned on her yard light, grabbed her raincoat, and headed out toward the figure now struggling to stand up.

       Verna had long since ceased worrying about the dangers of the world. Someone needed her help, that was all that mattered. Life was simple. She and Boots had enough to live on until her final day. With the Lord's blessing the final day would be put off for a while, she prayed. With a backward glance at Boots she stepped out into the harsh night. Her raincoat was little protection against the cold gusting winds and torrential downpour. Verna bent low trying not to trip over tree roots and downed branches, mindful of the dangers of a broken hip, she carefully covered the distance to the prone figure. In the minutes it took to reach the stranger, Verna's breath was coming in short gasps. With super human strength she managed to get Mark to his feet. He draped a heavy arm about her shoulders and leaned his tall frame heavily against her. The weight of it almost did in her frail body but the old woman dug deep inside herself and found the strength to hold him up. Clinging together, looking much like a couple of drunks staggering home after too many, they weaved and tripped towards the waiting warmth of her little abode.

       Inside, Verna half pushed and half shoved Mark over to a nearby chair where he sank into it. They both sat for a moment, catching their breath then he raised his eyes and told her how much he appreciated her being there to help him. “I was almost done in,” he uttered wearily. She nodded, then briskly marched over to the kettle and moved it to the front of the range. A hot rum toddy would help both of them and Heaven knew that a little alcohol was not harmful on special occasions. She looked at Mark and told him to get into the shower while she found some of her brother’s clothes for him to wear when he was dry. “You’re not going to die of pneumonia on my watch,” she said, briskly gathering mugs, rum, brown sugar and lemon. “I’ll add some wood to the fire so it will be nice and toasty when you are finished. Don’t worry about anything else till you have recovered a bit. There’s plenty of time to make plans later.”

       At Verna’s bidding Mark heaved himself out of the chair and pitched forward onto the floor too faint with shock to remain upright. Head tucked he crawled the few feet to the loo, a small lean-to structure which perched on the back of the cabin like an afterthought. Once inside he folded himself yogi-style and peeled off his sodden garments. A small propane space-heater churned out life-giving heat, and a gas lamp hissed from its hook on the low-hanging ceiling. As Mark struggled to an upright position, his awkward movements knocked over a small table scattering towels, face cloths, rolls of tissue, and various bathroom sundries. Homeostasis began to creep back into his being. He revelled in the shower’s caress; oblivious to the fingers of flame as they explored the floor’s booty.

       Verna stood at the stove, trying to settle her nerves after the unusual turn of events. She slowly stirred the steaming rum concoction and huffed with frustration as Boots insistently wended his way in and out around her ankles. “Mr. Bossy Boots, can’t you see I’m busy here?” As she looked down affectionately, she caught sight of a finger of smoke slithering from beneath the bathroom door. Her heart skipped a beat and when it finally started up again it was thudding in alarm. “Saints alive” she breathed and rapped her knuckles on the heavy wood. No answer. What on earth was she to do? Propriety be dammed. She pushed open the door and gasped in shock.

       The tiny room was thick with swirling dark grey smoke. Verna’s first thought was to the stranger in the shower, but while she could hear the water running she could see nothing. Within seconds of her opening the door the room suddenly erupted in angry red flame. The blast drove her backwards, slamming her against the old wooden table and then her lifeless body crumpled to the floor. Poor ‘ol Boots, who had been by his master’s feet eager to enter the bathroom, found himself thrown across the floor. He now cowered beneath the table licking feverishly at his scorched fur.

       Mark Paused when he heard the knocking on the bathroom door. What was his rescuer's name, Verna? The last thing he wanted was to be the object of some recluse's fantasy with her coming in and asking if 'he was allright' and 'did he need his back scrubbed'. He was grateful and all, but there were limits. Then suddenly he heard it , a sound that he was hoping never to hear again. He was naked and wet in the shower when he heard the blast of air that is displaced by an exchange of energy, and he was naked and wet when he ripped the shower curtain open to see fire and mayhem, causing his memory to slip back to Kabul for a moment. But only for a moment because he saw that unless he moved his sorry butt, hist hostess with the mostess and himself would be toast. Grabbing his boots he manged to slip them on, and in two steps he was beside Verna, his necj vainly searching for a pulse. He stopped breathing as he waited, thankful his patience was rewarded with a pulse, albeit a weak one. Years of experience (thank you Taliban) had taught him how to trust his gut instinct on whether a comrade was going to make it out or not. Surveying the entrance, he thought he saw a chance. Bending over to pick her up, he suddenly yowled in pain. The damn cat had sprung from nowhere and sank four sets of claw into his back, hanging onto Mark like he was his personal scratching post.

       He threw himself against the closest wall in an attempt to remove the cat like a stubborn boil. It hissed and spat but finally let go, taking cover under a smoking table. Mark wiped the sweat out of his burning eyes and bent double to pick up Verna, watching the door as his chance of escape was quickly engulfed by plumes of incessant black smoke. He hauled the unconscious woman onto his shoulders and felt his legs quake in protest. He began precariously stepping over fallen objects, looking steadfastly to the exit. But to the detriment of their success he failed to see the small step ahead or to realize his mistake until a subtle snapping pain radiated through Mark’s leg. His muscles seized and contracted with an electrical pain that sent him crashing to the floor with Verna unconsciously toppled on him.

       The first thing Verna became aware of was the sound of crashing, crackling and a dreadful moaning enveloping her head. Fuzzily, she wondered if she was in the midst of some horrific nightmare or was this her final day ? Her head felt like it was splitting - there was a searing heat and she felt herself choking. As her mind started to clear she became aware of a warm dampness against her face - a hairy dampness that was heaving in time to the moaning. With an amazing force she let out a blood curdling scream.

       Mark glanced over at Verna but she did not respond. She was curled up in a fetal position on the other side of the nest they were in. Mark lay there with his eyes closed and gently reached over to his thigh and pinched it just to check if what he was seeing, smelling and hearing was real. Ouch, yes it was real! When the creature slung his naked body over his shoulder it was all Mark could do just to hang on and not fall to the ground though he really thought he should try to slip off just to not be taken away by the creature. The other one grabbed Verna and they were both running along through the dense rain forest with the sight of a blazing building in their rear view. At some point Mark had lost consciousness and then woke up in a very comfortable bed which was rounded like a nest. The nest was built of a lot of dried grass and leaves covered with furs. Both Mark and Verna had been covered with furs as well. He felt warm and comfortable and if it hadn’t been for the very thick and penetrating smell he might have just given in to the comfort of their bizarre new location. He looked over at the four creatures seeming to be having a low muttering discussion at the other side of the cave. There were two creatures that seemed to be older which he deduced from the grey streaks in their fur pelts and two younger creatures whose dark fur vibrated with youthful energy. Mark guessed that the older two likely were the parents of the younger two creatures. They all had features looking like he imagined ancient man once had but they were covered completely with fur and were about seven feet tall. The older female was a little shorter by about four inches than the three males. Presently the older two seemed to be chastising the younger creatures and the younger two were feeling badly about their actions. Mark glanced over at Verna in time to see her stretch out and gasp. She remained in a position looking at Mark and when he looked into her eyes he realized she was no longer there. Her eyes had become wide open and lifeless.

       Mark grabbed her wrist, feeling for a pulse. Strong and vital, it was a good omen. Just shock, then. Verna felt the warmth of his hand, the reality of her situation. She could see the creatures visually, but her mind would not accept it. Sasquatch? Not myth but fact? Impossible! Mark relaxed when he saw Verna had recovered, and was staring intently into his face, questioning her sanity. He smirked and signalled to one of the younger pair that Verna needed a drink. During Mark’s reconnaissance years, sign language had become second nature to him, a universal means of communicating, whether to man or perhaps, as in this case, to beast. Astounded for a moment, it finally nodded and ran to get a rudimentary vessel, and offered it to Verna. She carefully took the cup and downed the contents, preferring not to look inside. Afterwards, she looked at the youngster, smiled and reaching out, grasped its hairy hand in a gesture of friendship. Verna now realized that the Sasquatch had probably saved their lives.

       Mark slowly rose out of the nest to his knees, aware of the intense pain in his left leg. The way he had fallen, twisting sharply on the way down under Verna's bulk and feeling the pop just behind his ankle let him know he had torn his Achilles tendon. He did not try to stand. Still naked save for the boots he was wearing, he began to crawl to the nearest wall a few meters away. He was warm enough now that being fully exposed did not deter him, and modesty was beside the point at this juncture. He held firmly to one thought: home. The fire burning in the center of the cave cast plenty of light for what Mark knew he had to do. Grabbing a hand-sized sharp rock he encountered on his way to the wall, he began to draw a detailed map on the sandstone wall of the piece of lakeshore coastline where his cabin was located. The Sasquatch watched him intently, rumbling comments in their language in low tones to each other as Mark drew. Fashioning a rudimentary approximation of his cabin just back of a fractal curve of shoreline, he turned to them, touched its outline and then his breastbone, repeating the gesture to ensure he got his point across. He then indicated himself and Verna, pointed straight at the Sasquatch youth, standing slightly to one side of their parents, and then back at the cabin drawing. The creatures looked at each other silently, the elders offering an affirming gesture to their offspring. They slowly moved toward the humans, preparing to re-hoist them onto their furry backs. But before they reached them Verna put up her hand and barked "Wait!" Taking the stone from Mark's hand, she walked to the wall and quickly drew a picture of a burning house with a cat next to it, pointed at the whiskered figure and turned to her hursuit accomplices, her pleading eyes glistening with tears.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *
Mark and Verna reclined on the sofa, mugs of tea perched on their laps, staring silently out his living room window at the rain as it hammered down. Three days had passed since their adventure. Mark's left leg was straight out and slightly elevated, supported by his ottoman and a couple of pillows, encased in a gray medical boot. He'd sighed heavily when the doctor informed him he would be wearing it for the next six months while his surgically repaired tissue healed, ending thoughts of the cross country skiing he'd been looking forward to this winter. Verna's reddened face would peel as though from a bad sunburn, her doctor said, but there would likely be no permanent burn damage except for some possible scarring on her right forearm. When questioned by the police the next day, they easily delivered a well-rehearsed story of how Verna had been able to phone Parker, her neighbor just down the road, from the cell still in her pocket, who had then taken them over to Mark's place first before phoning the hospital. Without having overtly spoken about it, Mark and Verna aligned implicitly in desiring to deflect any attention from their true saviors. Parker shocked Verna by revealing that he knew all about the Sasquatch in the area and was only too happy to conspire in protecting the creatures' safety and privacy. Without looking, Mark reached his right hand out across the expanse of unoccupied sofa toward Verna, who took it and squeezed. A moment later, a blaze of fur shot up from the floor and onto Mark's belly, digging in twenty claws simultaneously. Yelping and swearing, Mark batted the cat away reflexively with one sweep of his meaty left arm. "Now now, Boots," Verna cooed. "You're just jealous."