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Bush Ghost (excerpt)

Chapter One

    As the wind bit through her jacket and the snow stung her eyes to tears, Brighid wondered if she would be missed.  Standing in the open car door for a moment, she looked back to the little white house and its front picture window, hoping for someone, anyone, to meet her eyes with concern, but saw only the silhouettes of her friends having fun without her.  Slowly she turned and fell into the driver's seat, hoping that at any minute someone would call out from the kitchen door wondering where she was sneaking off to, and why she doesn't stay and wait out the storm.  But there was no calling, none but the beckoning howl of the wind on the open country road.  Closing the door, she turned the ignition and pulled out of the drive, not stopping to wipe the windshield or her eyes.
     "Damn heater," she said as she turned the defrost to maximum, flipped on the wipers, and fishtailed onto the highway.  "Shit."  She wiped her eyes one-handed, her other hand steering through fresh drifts over the old two-lane highway.  Where did these come from?, she thought, having driven to the party only a couple of hours earlier.  "Weathermen, pff."  Some moments later she turned the heater down.  The windows were clear of fog now, but her tears would not stop.  She checked the rearview mirror for sign of anyone else, finding no one.
     If there were such a thing as Hell, thought Brighid as she scanned the road and passing countryside, this would be it.  Nothingness.  No barns or houses or cattle or corn could be discerned, only dim apparitions passing alongside the white dusted road, a road leading seemingly nowhere.  There were no people to be seen; there was no day or night, only whiteness. She turned on the radio for company, hearing a grinding as ice trapped the antenna in its hiding place.  Static issued from the speaker, some disembodied voice trying to find its way through to her, coming near then far, ultimately failing.  She turned it off.
     The road was getting worse, or she was concentrating less on driving.  One hand fumbled under her seat, looking for that damned old box of tissues-she was always prepared.  She sniffled, fumbling more urgently for a moment, then, "Screw it."  Who was there to be bothered by her sniffling, anyway?  She needed both hands to keep the wheel pointed straight; the car was sliding more now, even on this straightaway.  The wind's trying to push me, she thought, as its constant howl pierced her car.  I wonder when they'll realize I'm gone, and if they really will care.  My friends.  My friends the overgrown, undisciplined children.  My friends who don't care about me until they need me, who don't want to hear what's eating me inside...ugh.  She wiped her eyes again.  My friends who would let me endure this...this...I don't care anymore.
     The wind struck from one side, then the other, forcing the car to lurch too close to the shoulder of the road.  The howling now was pitched unbearably high, not a whistling but a wailing, the cry of a banshee coming for the dead.  The road ahead began to curve left.  Brighid gripped the wheel and leaned close to the dash, her eyes widened so as not to miss the turn. Many a driver had slipped off the road and been swallowed by the river here, only to be regurgitated come springtime.  She wondered again if anyone would miss her.  The siderail of the old bridge came around the curve; her eyes followed that rail carefully, for she knew there must be snow and who-knows-what covering that old deathtrap, and only by driving alongside the rail would she see her way over it. 
     Carefully she turned onto the bridge, her eyes on the rail and the supports holding it in place as they flitted by, when up ahead she saw one that stood taller than the rest.  She fixed on it, wondering where it had come from, seeing something blowing from it, maybe a flag or sign.  She flicked her bright beams on, regretting it immediately.  For there, standing impossibly on the rail and facing out over the river, with arms outstretched and welcoming the maelstrom, was a terrible figure, its wrappings and long white hair blowing back out over the bridge, its howling one with the wind.  Brighid's eyes were trapped by this force of nature, and in passing she turned to watch it over her shoulder.  The steering wheel turned sickeningly in her hands. As she whipped around to correct it, her hair flew into her eyes and she spun the wheel too far the other way.  She tried to brush her hair back, but went rigid as she sensed the direction of the car's swerve.  It was hitting the rail crosswise, heading off into mid-air and down onto the riverbank, maybe into the river.  Her hands clenched the wheel as the Earth dropped out from beneath her; her whole body seemed to leap into her head as her car flew into the ground, as an airplane flies into a cloud.  Thunder cracked.

*          *          *

    Snow.  It was drifting slowly down from a grey opening at the end of a long, dark tunnel, collecting on her eyelashes.  Water was flowing around from somewhere, on some other part of her.  It did not occur to her to look for it or to move.  There was no time, no urgency.  A noise, from somewhere up at the end of the tunnel, and a rumbling response from the darkness around her.  The end of the tunnel was square, and now a face appeared in it, far away yet impossibly close.  Its long white hair swirled around it, or was that snow?  There were eyes in the snow, purposeful, unstoppable eyes, determined to do what?  Now it moved back, still in sight,and she noticed a kind of quicksilver lattice-work, a shiny spider web separating her from the face.  Its eyes widened like those of a prowling tiger; the web then shattered into countless crystals and came falling down over her, ever so slowly, down and down into forgetfulness.

*          *          *

    Footprints in the snow.  Upside-down footprints, being made as she watched, while her own wet hair dangled before her, almost touching the snow.  Her hands were here, too, bouncing against the backs of somebody's legs.  Maybe the legs that were making the footprints.  Where were her legs?  She moved them, only to be restrained by somebody's arms.  Now there was a different motion, and the tops of porch steps came into view, moving down and away, and finally a stop over a welcome mat.  Brighid opened and closed her hands in front of her face.  There was a tinkle of glass breaking somewhere, the turning of a door on its hinges, a sound of air escaping, and she was being carried inside a house, over a man's shoulder.  A carpet floor whirled around as the door was shut, and she was carried into a dimly lit room.  The man stooped low and gently flipped her back onto a sofa, then stood before her. 
     Brighid felt no need to upright herself on the couch, or to see the man's face.  His jacket was quite all right to look at.  It was a long grey affair, perhaps military surplus, with some pockets and straps.  The man knelt, bringing his face into view.  He was dark, unseasonably so, for his was a freckled face burnt by the sun, with blue irises so pale as to nearly blend with the whites of his eyes.  His eyes searched hers for a moment, then looked to her neck where he put his cold, wet hands, probing carefully around the base of her skull and top of her shoulders.  Withdrawing his hands, he stood up to scan the room, walking around behind the sofa.  Without the man in the way, Brighid could see a dark and empty fireplace gaping at her.  Some fading white daylight came into the room, but there was no electric light.  A slight chattering made itself heard; reaching her hand to her cheek she realized it was her own teeth.  With that she shivered from her shoulders on down, and felt her clothes.  Cold and soaked through.  She turned to look the couch over, hoping for something to wrap herself with but there was only a white sheet covering it.  There's no heat in here, she realized, when she heard the man walking back into the room.  He hurried to the fireplace, throwing in some logs and huddling over the pile to start a fire.  When the fire took hold he stepped over to Brighid again, took a pile of things down from his shoulder, and tossed them on the couch next to her.  There were clothes, and blankets.  He knelt again, looking her in the eye, seeming to plead this time, but for what she didn't know.  She was content to observe.  His hair hung around his face and down his chest, and though it was wet it was nearly colorless.  His hand moved to her cheek to get her attention, but Brighid could find nothing to say. 
     Resigned, the man stood and took both her hands, pulling her to her feet.  He slid his hands over her shoulders to pull her coat off and in doing so, his chest came inches from Brighid's face--he was nearly two feet taller than she.  Underneath the folds of his long coat, Brighid saw a thick, black turtleneck sweater; it smelled faintly of wet wool.  The man glanced back at the fire, dropping her coat where it would dry.  Taking her hands again, he held them high over her head, making sure she held them in place.  She then felt his hands around her waist, pulling up her blouse and undershirt carefully, slowing down when he reached her face and gently bringing the collar up and over.  Tossing the articles aside, he didn't waste a moment to glance at Brighid's body.  She half-expected him to fondle her ivory skin, ogle her heavy breasts spilling over her too-small bra, or pinch the extra around her waist.  Instead, he scooped up a dry sweatshirt from the pile.  Rolling it up, he brought her arms back down and carefully put the sweatshirt on over her head; Brighid automatically put her arms up and through.  She then found herself being helped to put on somebody's baggy old sweatpants. The stranger's manner was befitting of a doctor or nurse, with only a cursory glance from those tired blue eyes.  He then tore the sheet from the couch, took a blanket and wrapped Brighid, and gently pushed her back down onto the couch. Turning to the fire, he stood silent, reaching his hands out to warm them.  All the logs had caught fire now, rustling and popping, and flickering their orange light into the room, making heat for its two visitors. 
     With the heat to warm her cheeks, Brighid's teeth stopped chattering.  Had she been shivering all this time?  She looked up at the back of this stranger's head; as she watched, his head bowed and shoulders began to droop.  Finally, he looked back to the opposite corner of the couch, dropped down to sit on the floor, and leaned back against the armrest with his arms on his knees and his head sagging.  His heavy-lidded eyes stared into the fire, reflecting its light as though it were his own, inner fire, burning brightly but with tired lids snuffing it out. A strand of wet hair fell from behind his ear to obscure his face.  Wet hair.  Brighid sat up with a start.  Unwinding herself from the blanket, she reached over to touch the stranger.  He was still wearing his coat, and it was wet.  She carefully brushed his hair back behind his ear, watching his weary eyes for a reaction, finding none.  The man seemed like a big cat, his eyes slowly closing and opening, staring forward but seeing nothing, drifting off to sleep.  Slowly her hand found its way down the front of his coat to the sweater underneath, finding moisture there, too. 
     Standing quietly, Brighid surveyed her surroundings.  A living room full of sheet-covered furniture, the front door and stairway off at one end, an entrance to a kitchen at the other.  The orange glow of the fire reflected off the windows now, as there was no longer any light from outside, only snowflakes fleeing the darkness and bouncing off the glass.  Down next to the stranger were her wet clothes, a flashlight, and matches.  Taking the flashlight carefully so as not to bother him, she wound her way through the room to the kitchen, walking upon its cold hardwood floor and realizing that she was now barefoot.  There was a hallway leading to some more rooms to one side, the first of which looked like a guest bedroom; a dresser in a corner sat with two of its drawers open.  The source of these clothes, she thought, pulling up her too-loose sweatpants and reaching into the middle drawer to pull out some more dry sweats.
     Back in the living room the big cat was still, his eyes now closed and his head leaning forward on his arms.  She placed the clothes on the couch, and put her hand underneath his arm.  "Wake up," she whispered, "I can't let you sit there all wet."  His head moved ever so slightly, sighing in protest.  She pulled firmly on his arm, "Up now."  His coat rustled as he shifted inside it, slowly stretching his head back in a great yawn, eyes tightly shut.  His arms and legs unwound as though from a hundred years' slumber, twitching and stretching.  Gradually, he found his way to standing, Brighid's hand still on his arm.  "Let's get you changed into something dry."
     A half-hearted snort came in protest, but his eyes were only half-open and averted slightly from hers.  Brighid reached up and took his coat by its collar, moving back around him to slide it down his arms.  For a coat so thin it seemed awfully heavy, she thought, dropping it on the floor.  Probably just water-logged.  Moving back around him she began taking up his damp seaman's sweater, before he stopped her with a grunt.  He reached down and began pulling it up himself, only making it halfway before she had to help him finish.  He bent over slightly, and as she pulled the sweater from him she found tattoos, one on each shoulder blade.  One was of black and white teardrops encircling each other, a yin and yang.  The other depicted two fish following each other in an endless circle.  Pisces, she thought.  Slowly he stood straight again, his eyes somnambulant.  Before she could toss the sweater aside, she gazed at the skinny savage whom she had uncovered, for underneath his great heavy clothing he was thin, scarred, and as burnt as his face.  There were curly colorless hairs scattered over his leather-like chest; underneath were muscles like she had only seen in pictures--thin, wiry, and uneven, the sinews of hardship.  From his right forearm glared the eyes of a mountain lion, painted from elbow to wrist in exquisite detail, crouched and ready to charge.  She heard another snort. 
     Be modest now, she thought, looking away to grab a dry sweatshirt, then carefully bringing it down over his head, helping his arms through.  His jeans were easier to replace, his height being less a factor.  This time she didn't let her eyes wander, noticing only that his legs were as thin and worn as the rest of him, with faint white hair but without the illustrations.  What might be underneath his boxers she tried not to think about; after all, a little decency was called for.  That done, Brighid threw a blanket over his shoulders and eased him back onto the couch, wrapping him and brushing the hair from his face as he lay half-curled in the corner.  What to do now?, she thought, and felt the chill of the deserted house biting her toes.  She grabbed her blanket and dropped next to her rescuer, covering herself and trying not to stare at him, but failing.  As she watched his fire-glowing eyes slowly opening and closing, she thought, Will you ever wake up, or go to sleep, or will you always be somewhere in-between?  With that his eyes closed, his neck and shoulders relaxed, and he began to breathe long and sighing.  Brighid then watched as the fire's tiny embers drifted up the chimney, glowing as brightly as fireflies in darkness, until her eyes too grew heavy.  She slid close to the big cat to rest her head on his shoulder.

*          *          *

    The fire was low now, but she was warm, snuggled in with her rescuer.  Brighid blinked some wakefulness into her eyes, but didn't need them.  Beneath her cheek was warmth, and a heartbeat.  Closing her eyes to feel it, she couldn't imagine doing anything else, but there was some tiny nagging reason for being awake.  She opened her eyes and shifted her head back carefully, gaining a view of the stray she had taken in.  (Or has he taken me in?)  His eyes were flitting to and fro beneath their lids, guiding him on some unknown journey.  The skin had wrinkled prematurely around his eyes and forehead; the remainder covered his thin face smoothly, but was mottled with marks of the sun.   There was a small stubble on his chin, nearly white, as were his brows and the rest of his hair.  It flowed around his face and down his chest, mingling with Brighid's own red, the two appearing as white-streaked black in the dim firelight.  She glanced over at the fire.  There were two more logs sitting out that she could throw on.  Reluctantly she yawned and extricated herself, hoping not to stir the sleeper.  They each were still wrapped in their own blankets, but she laid hers over him as she stood up.
     Damn, she thought as she picked up a log.  There's no way to do this quietly.  One, then two logs she dropped onto the fire, hearing a stirring behind her.  Their wet clothes weren't quite close enough to the fireplace to dry, so she spread them out a little closer.  She turned to see him yawning, then settling back and quietly watching her, his pale eyes meeting hers.  She stepped back over to the couch, their eyes never parting, and sat.
     "You had me worried."  His voice broke a little, sounding hoarse from disuse.  "You've got a concussion...couldn't get you to talk."
     Their eyes lingered in each other's, then Brighid moved close again and pulled her blanket around herself, resting her side against his.  "I feel a little better now," she said, "and not so...passive."  She looked down at nothing, paused, then started, "Oh, sh--!" She caught herself.  "I should call somebody."
     "The phone's turned off," he said, "and I couldn't see any houses nearby."  Then, before Brighid could worry, he said, "When the sun comes up we'll find some help.  This must be a summer home."
     Brighid wiggled her toes idly under her blanket, watching them as she split them apart and rubbed them together.  Turning to face her strange rescuer, she began, "Thank y--" 
     "Shhh," he whispered. "No need."  His eyes were droopy again.
     Brighid took his hand and squeezed it in hers, moving closer to snuggle as she had before in her sleep, resting her head in the crook of his neck.  Questions could wait until morning; for now, his overpowering need for sleep seemed contagious.  Sleep would wash away the questions, the doubt, the fears.  In sleep there was security.

*          *          *

    Daylight shone on the white walls of the living room and the black stone mantel of the fireplace.  She rubbed the squintiness from her eyes, then yawned and stretched uncontrollably, extending the length of the couch.  She sat up, too quickly, and dizzily looked around, for she was alone on the couch with two blankets.  It hurt to look at the window; there was no snow falling, only bright sunlight.  She got up, looked down for the pile of clothes, finding only her own, now dry, though the fire had burned itself out.  There was a faint mechanical rumbling coming from the bowels of the house; she walked over to the kitchen and found a vent along the bottom of the wall, feeling the warm, burnt air coming from a heater that likely hadn't been used for months or years.  He turned the heater on, she thought, but who was "he," anyway?  "Hello," she called out. 
     In the room where they had found dry clothing, she looked in the dresser.  There were the old sweats she had dressed him in, back in their drawer, folded but slightly mussed.  I haven't just imagined him, she thought, as she made her way to the back door.  "Hellooo?"  Where is he?  Snow drifted up to the back door; he hadn't opened it.  She went from room to room, to each one more urgently than the last, finding nothing but white sheets and dust.  Finally she hurried to the front door, whipping it open and nearly blinding herself.  Holding her hand over her eyes she could see the end of the bridge several hundred yards to her left. The highway came within a hundred feet of the house, continuing past and through the forest off to her right.  As her eyes grew used to the sun, she looked down to the snow, and there they were.
     Footprints.  Not those that brought her here, for those were filled in, but fresh footprints leading out to the highway, disappearing with it into the forest.

End Chapter One

All contents, except where otherwise noted, are copyright Andrew Lee Hunn.