I have the best intentions to distract myself with positive self-talk, but the doom and gloom feeling is lingering like the smell of cow dung in a milking shed. Not even the forest road can provide a diversion with its large moss encrusted trees, bushes, and giant ferns. Quite the opposite.
Sometimes nature irritates me no end. Today is one of those days. I would’ve used a swearword, but Sky doesn’t like us to swear. It’s not ladylike she says. I should get a get-out- of-jail card for that one because I’m only eighteen and becoming a lady does not appeal to me just yet.
Every now and then the sun breaks through the canopy and hits my windscreen like a laser beam. I can’t see anything and have to slow down, not that I’m racing on this forest road. Ahead of me is the wooden one-way bridge that spans over Flatbush Creek, a remnant from the gold rush days of the Nineteenth Century. It still has some rotting poles sticking up along the side, evidence that the bridge once had a safety railing. You want to line up right because the bridge is narrow and, although the bank down to the creek is only one yard high, with all the boulders and the water gushing down from the mountains, this old van would be a write-off.
I let out a sigh of relief when the bridge is behind me. From here on, it’s gravel road until I get to State Highway Six. At the next sharp corner, the sun is in my eyes again. I get a brief glimpse of a pickup truck and slam on the brakes. Crashed down the bank is Scottie’s truck. It would have ended up in the stream if an old weathered tree hadn’t stopped its journey. Drifts of smoke and steam are rising from its dented hood. I turn off the engine and jump out. My heart races like a herd of wild horses chasing the wind on a highland plane. I land twice on my backside as I rush down the bank, holding on to bushels of fern, sliding and stumbling over moss-covered boulders and slippery clay.
Lodged with its nose in the tree, Scottie’s truck dangles precariously on two wheels, the other two still turning in the air as if someone has forgotten to tell them that driving is over for today. I have to stretch and stand on my toes to open the door to the driver’s seat. Scottie’s lifeless body is hunched over the wheel and blood is oozing from a large cut on his forehead. I—usually never shy of a comment or a smart come back—stare at him, my mind blank like a freshly cleaned whiteboard.
The Tribe is stirring inside and getting agitated. All I can think is trigger alert. I have no idea what to do. If only I’d paid attention when Elise patched up the animals in Horace’s clinic or Ama put a band-aid on a kid’s knee. I need them now. Here. This minute. But none of them comes to help me.
“Scottie, can you hear me?” I’m too afraid to shake him, but I have to do something. The smoke coming from the hood frightens me and there is blood all over his face, the windshield, and the steering wheel. Anything is better than doing nothing. I hope. Please, please, let him be okay.
But he doesn’t respond. It looks so gruesome with blood everywhere. I remember Ama saying that a head wound bleeds a lot more than any other. At this point, it’s not much help. Will someone please tell me what to do?
Afraid that the truck could explode at any moment as I’ve seen in the movies, I try to pull him out. It’s a blessing that he didn’t wear a safety belt. Although, if he had, he would have probably walked away from this accident with only a few bruises. I reach under his arms and pull. It’s a hell of a job getting this six-foot-something man out of the car.
My shoulders are burning; my back hurts, and my legs have buckled a few times under his weight. I can’t do this. All I want is let him slip to the ground, collapse next to him, and wait for someone to rescue us both. I close my eyes and appeal to Luke and Amadeus. Please, guys, come close enough so you can lend me your strengths. It works. At least I think it does. I don’t feel so alone anymore, and I experience something people might call second wind.
I brace my feet against a boulder and pull Scottie a foot away from his truck, and then another foot, and another one. My body is on fire and sweat trickles down my forehead. I’m tempted to give up, but the smoking hood and our closeness to the truck are great motivators. I manage to pull him another yard along the stream and look up to the top of the bank. It’s so close and yet, I know I’ll never make it. He is just too heavy.
He moans and stirs.
I give up pulling him and lower him down on the grass strip. Blood is still oozing from his head wound. I should at least put a bandage around his head before I go on pulling him up the bank, but we are still too close to the smoldering truck. This is one of the situations where there is no right solution. Do you want to die of blood loss or burn to a crisp? Those seem to be the options I’m facing for Scottie.
One thing is sure, living in this wilderness may be great for the soul and all that kind of spiritual stuff, but I’ll never again leave the house without a tow rope, or a phone to ring for
