Guy N Smith Throwback

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come upon it suddenly in the thick hill-fog. She could have drawn back, fled
before the occupants caught sight of her. But she didn't.
She walked slowly, dazedly into the settlement. The snow was falling steadily,
a refreshing wind threatening to whip it into a blizzard. A strange atmosphere
which she sensed immediately, a kind of bustle of activity which had suddenly
come to a stop. Loaded litters, the snow already beginning to cover them with
a white film, a cluster of men who eyed her with a mixture of curiosity and
apathy. We were about to leave but we've changed our minds. Who are you and
what are you doing here?
They were all packed up and ready to go. Where to? Sylvia came to a halt
before the group, eyed them question-ingly, felt she had to say something.
They would not understand, but it didn't matter. Thinking, talking, was
becoming increasingly difficult, her brain fogged and sluggish.
'My name's Sylvia. My husband's dead.' Grief that had been threatening like
thunderheads on the horizon suddenly hit her. Unrestricted sobs. One of them
pointed to the nearest dwelling-place. Go in there, woman, out of the cold.
She walked shakily towards it, paused in the entrance. The interior was dark,
had a sharp unpleasant odour about it. She waited for her vision to adjust to
the gloom, saw through a liquid misty flood, distorted shapes; somebody lay on
a bed in the corner, not moving. A woman was stretched out on some hides by
the wall, and it was quite obvious that she was dead. A fit of uncontrollable
coughing attracted her attention and she turned her head and made out a boy of
perhaps ten years of age squatting beyond the dying embers of the fire. Tiny
rivulets of blood trickled down his chin. He saw her but his expression did
not register surprise, just acceptance.
'You're all ill.' She spoke aloud. 'You need help, a doctor.' Now that was a
silly thing to say because there weren't any doctors left. They were all out
there, any one of these menfolk might have been a doctor once. Before all
this. What was a doctor? She could not really remember; somebody who helped
you, perhaps.
She stood just inside the open doorway, looked back outside. Several more
people were emerging from the other huts bearing litters on which lay prone
bodies wrapped in animal hides, scarcely seeming able to lift the weight of
them. A conference. They were pointing, arguing. Sylvia did not need an
interpreter to understand what they were saying.
We must go even though we are ill and dying. The snow is here, winter is upon
us. If we stay here we shall starve. Go now whilst there is still a little
time left.
A woman appeared from somewhere, came into the hut and with some difficulty
lifted up the sick boy. He began to cry, coughed some more blood. Sylvia made
as if to help but some inhibition checked her. She was a stranger here, an
intruder in-a different way of life; they might resent her interference. She
felt self-conscious.
The child was taken out, room made for him on one of the stretchers alongside
the still form of a red-headed man who might already have been dead. They were
hurrying now, seeming to have to force their limbs into jerky movements.
Sylvia was ignored, perhaps they had forgotten her. Very soon they would all
be gone and she would be left here in this deserted place of death.
Panic, almost running out to them, the snow coming faster now. For God's sake
don't go without me, don't leave me here. Please! I'm one of you now - look at
me!
The litter on to which they had just placed the boy was lowered back on to the
ground, two of them were straining to lift the man off. He was dead, there was
no point in taking him with them. They dragged him free, laid him down in the
snow. You did not bury your dead, you left them for the wild dogs and foxes.
'I want to go with you,' Sylvia cried, clutched at one of them. Til walk, I
promise I won't be a nuisance, but don't leave me behind!' A flash of lucid
speech and then it was gone again and words were meaningless to her.
They looked at one another, grunted. Arguing again. They had no room for
passengers, anybody who went on the trek had a part to play. You must help to
carry the sick, woman. And if you fail then you will be abandoned. Nobody will
help you.
Sylvia took the handles of the stretcher, the boy's mother going in front.
Between them they could manage now that the weight of the adult corpse had
been removed. A slow procession, the men in front, the women bringing up the
rear.
The snow eased off a little and away to her right Sylvia saw and recognised
the outline of the Quinn smallholding, like a miniature toy farm set out on an
uneven white sheet. One brief wave of nostalgia but she pushed it forcibly
away. Jon was nothing to her, never had been, only somebody to fill a gap
while Eric was away. A lump caught in her throat. Poor Eric, this didn't have
to happen to him. But it had. If only she hadn't been one of the unlucky
survivors. But she would not survive long now, none of them would. Eric? Who
was Eric? Her mind slipped again, became a vacuum.
The descent was steep and slippery. Once the woman in front lost her footing
and somehow Sylvia managed to prevent the stretcher from tipping over,
steadied it down on to the snow. The hide blankets slid to one side and she
saw the boy. Oh God, his body shook with the fever, he was delirious, mouthing
meaningless animal noises. His bright eyes saw her, weak arms tried to reach
out for her but they had not the strength; he thought she was his mother.
Sylvia helped the distraught woman wrap him up again and then they had to
hurry to catch up with the others. Once they reached the floor of the narrow
valley their pace was slowed, the snow much deeper here, wading up to their
thighs.
Sylvia wished she could ask them where they were going. There was a definite
purposefulness about their route, an urgency driving them on, keeping them
going when their physical strength was failing. She glanced up at the sky,
judged that it was well into the afternoon, the sun a fiery red ball now that
the clouds had dispersed. Tonight there would be a hard frost.
They paused for a spell and she was handed some strips of dried meat, bit on
it hungrily but had difficulty in chewing it. It had a smoky flavour where it
had been dried over a smouldering fire. Revolting, but she knew she had to eat
it. Then, wearily, they set off again.
She heard the approaching helicopter long before it came into sight over a
strip of woodland in front. The whining, chainsaw-like noise getting louder
and louder, her companions looking at one another in alarm, setting down their
loads. Frightened, wanting to run but not knowing in which direction to flee.
It seemed to kick-start her memory, jerked her back to civilised thinking.
'It's all right, it's a helicopter,' she shouted. They would not have
understood even if they had been able to hear her above the din.
A helicopter! Her brain reeled, a shipwrecked mariner suddenly seeing the
smoke from an approaching steamer on the skyline after months of waiting in
vain. Numbed, fumbling for some garment to wave madly, reflexes stalling. It
might go away, it might not see you. Hurry!
And just as the whirling blades came into sight Sylvia flung herself headlong
into the snow, pressed herself flat. Please God it doesn't see me. I don't [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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