Butterfly Garden (20 page)

His howl, when it came, sounded inhuman, feral, even to him, but stopping was beyond him. Anyone in hearing distance would expire of fright or come running.

No one came and Sara never woke.

It was too late.

Adam Zuckerman, heart pounding, fever raging, sure now that he was as mad as everyone claimed, hugged his burden to his heart and raised his face to the stars.

“Just this once,” he raged. “Could you not have listened, just once!” He pulled Sara’s icy face into his neck and shouted as he walked. He made so many promises—to Sara, to God—he’d have a parcel of work to do fulfilling them all—if only he would be given the chance.

Impossible as it seemed, hope walked beside him. Pain too, but that had been with him for a long time. The pain, he ignored. But hope, now that was another story. Where had that come from?

He’d felt nothing like since ... since he was four, almost five years old, at a time when he believed his mother would be there forever. He remembered the hope, because it was probably the last time he experienced it ... until now.

He’d found a missing calf in a snowstorm and wanted it to be alive. He was too young and stupid to accept death, he supposed. He’d wrapped it in a blanket and held it close to his body, to warm it while he carried it to the barn, the way he carried Sara now.

He entered the clearing, the woods behind him now, and made for Sara’s buggy. He took the extra blankets from behind her seat and wrapped her again. He even took the blanket from her dead horse’s back and threw it over his shoulder. If he could get her to that shack and start a fire, he’d lay it out to dry. Sara might need it later.

He thought of that calf again. He’d brought it to its lowing mother and right away she’d begun to wash it. He remembered how happy he was, because she would have ignored it, if it was dead. It was too weak to nurse so he’d gone into the house to warm some milk, which he practically poured down the hungry mite’s throat.

The calf had opened its eyes. It had even begun to move a bit on its own, until his father had come out of nowhere and gave it a kick. He laughed at his “weakling son’s” tears over a dead animal and tossed the calf on the heap behind the barn, like so much garbage. “No use wasting energy on a lost cause,” the bastard had said.

Adam remembered when his mother found him crying. Her hand on his brow had felt as good tonight as all those years ago. She offered hope when she placed that jar of warm dandelion wine beside him “for medicine.”

He stopped. Damn, he’d left the wine in the buggy and that was farther away than the shack. He looked to the heavens and started walking again. He would get Sara to the shack, warm her, then fetch the wine.

One thing he’d learned since that day with the calf; there were no lost causes. Oddly enough, it was the woman in his arms who taught him to believe that again, and not so very long ago.

If they made it to the shack ... no, when they made it, after he got a fire started, he’d get Sara out of her wet clothes and wrap her in blankets. He’d leave her by the fire while he went for the wine. Then he’d pour it down her throat, by God.

After what seemed like hours, during which Adam feared he’d lost his way, he was surprised to see, through the veil of snow surrounding them, that foolish yellow buggy, like a beacon lighting his way, for the shack stood somewhere between them and the buggy, not as far away as he thought.

Hating to let Sara go, even for a minute, he lay her down on the floor of the shack, before the cold hearth, but not without rubbing her limbs through the blankets, hoping, hoping to revive her by rubbing some warmth into her.

She failed to stir. She barely breathed … if at all.

Wiping his eyes, he got up and set to work on the fire. Broken furniture lay scattered about. Even the sound of him breaking it up failed to rouse Sara. A rotting old wagon in the lean-to had crumbled when he kicked it aside to make room for his mother’s horse. He went and fetched the wood from that.

Given dry kindling, the fire started right away. Adam lit the lantern and brought it close to examine Sara. White face, blue lips. He buried the sob that rose in him and set to work. “I will not give up on you, Sara. No more than you gave up on me. I will not.”

He hated that he could not strip her until the room warmed, so he wrapped her with another blanket. Though he hated as much to leave her, he needed to fetch the wine.

He was back in no time, but felt as if he’d been gone forever. Immediately, he tilted Sara’s head back and brought the wine to her lips, but she failed to sip any on her own, so he poured a bit into her mouth, massaging her throat to help her swallow. When the first bit had slipped down, he tried again, convulsively swallowing himself, so badly did he want her to do so. He even tried issuing an order, but Sara failed to respond.

This was no time to panic, he told himself. Nevertheless, panic rushed him. And heat. So much heat, he could hardly bear it. Just the same, he brought Sara nearer the blaze to unwrap her. As fast as he could, he removed her shoes and peeled off her stockings, then he practically ripped the rest of her clothes off. He massaged her bare arms and legs, in turn, covering the rest, as he did. Then he put his head to her chest to see if he could hear or feel her breathing, but he could not.

The only sign of life had been her passive swallowing of the wine, and even then….

Adam shook his head, denying negativity.

When he had her wrapped tight again, he held her in his arms, her face in his hot neck, and told her ... everything—about his father, himself, about wanting to do murder when he was no older than five. He told of his shame and his fears, then and now. He told her how he had once protected his sister and how and why he protected his girls. He told her why he chose scrapper Sara to care for them, even why he hadn’t told her before—because he was ashamed of not being as strong as her.

When he looked at her face again, he thought maybe her lips were less blue, more pink. That made him try more dandelion wine.

It was difficult to hold her and feed her the liquid, but he couldn’t bear to let go, as if releasing her, physically, meant letting her go ... forever. He stubbornly held on, but nearly dropped her and ended up pouring too much into her mouth. When he made to massage her throat, a noise startled him.

A gasp.

Grating.

Horrid.

Wonderful.

Dreadful.

Like someone drowning.

He sat her up fast, frightened he’d kill her trying to cure her. Her gasps gained strength but were drawn out and painfully repeated.

Jagged torture.

He pounded her back, rubbed it, slapped it again.

He swore in German. At himself. At God.

At his mother for giving him the foolish wine.

Like a madwoman, Sara began to struggle free of his hold. When her arms cleared the binding blankets, she swung them to throw off the rest and rose on her knees. Like an avenging angel she appeared, hair wild and free. The roaring blaze behind her limning her in light, she tilted her head back and struggled to pull air into her lungs.

Adam watched, helpless, immobile, mesmerized by the brightest star in God’s universe, her life hanging in the balance.

Her grating, lung-pulling gasps stretched on long enough to kill him, enough to prove air was being forced into her lungs.

She stood, hands pressed to her back, head back, and dragged in one deep wheezing draught after another, painful to hear and see, yet infinitely more painful to experience, he had no doubt. But blessed as well, because Sara was alive. She was alive.

She paced before the fire and away again, gasping, sobbing, tears coursing down her cheeks. Adam’s cheeks, too, were wet. He wiped his eyes with the back of a trembling hand.

She was going to catch her death, fire burning her on one side, air freezing her on the other. “Sara. Sara,” he shouted to catch her attention. “You have to wrap up.”

She regarded him without recognition for a minute, taking in the shack. Him again. “The water,” he thought she tried to say, but her voice was too raw to be certain.

Adam stood, and only then did he realize how badly his whole body was shaking. He picked up the blankets and wrapped them around her from behind, holding them closed, allowing the feel of her, alive and breathing in his arms, to soothe him. “You have to keep warm,” he said, his words little more than a rasp and nearly as ragged as hers had been.

But she heard and turned in his arms. When she saw his face, she reached up, touched his cheek and examined the fingertip that came away wet, her look akin to awe. She croaked his name and rested her head on his chest.

He held her so tight, he was afraid he’d hurt her. Her bare feet on that cold floor, the wind whistling between the planks, was all he could think about, yet he held her and held her. She sought comfort, from him, and he could not let her down. Not again. “I thought I had lost you,” he said into her hair. “My Sara, my very own scrapper, I was so scared.”

Then he was the one being consoled and crooned to, or so she tried with barely a voice. And when she chided him for taking so long to find her, scratchy throat and all, Adam finally believed he still held within his grasp the most wonderful gift God had ever given him—his wife. Right then he promised the Deity—He who had favored him with a response to his plea, for the first time he could remember—that he would see that no harm came to her.

When Sara went limp in his arms, Adam’s panic flared anew and he lowered her to the floor, wrapping her neat and tight again, but chills shook her nonetheless. A horrible shaking. As frightening as it appeared, Adam supposed it meant she was coming ‘round. Cold was better than numb. Wasn’t it?

The blazing fire could not seem to warm her, yet Adam was sweating so fiercely, he discarded his wet clothes with great relief. It occurred to him suddenly that Sara could use some of his heat as much as he could stand some of her ice.

Removing his pants was difficult, because blood, sticky with infection, matted the fabric to his wound. No wonder he had fever, he thought, when he saw the festering thing. No wonder he was limping. A wonder he could walk at all, he thought at almost the same moment the blasted leg gave way. Falling to his knees sent a shaft of pain so fierce up his thigh, Adam feared for a minute he might black out. After a bit, dizziness passed, but he needed to work fast. His leg had taken enough abuse for one day; even he knew that.

He grabbed the corner of the wet blanket he’d dragged off Sara’s horse and lay it on the ground for him to lie on, then he unwrapped Sara to settle her on her side at the edge of the warm, dry blankets.

Heaven blessed him with relief from the sharp edge of pain when he finally lay down. It also beset him with a new, incredible, and downright frightening, sense of ... destiny ... when he took Sara into his arms, skin to skin, for the first time ever.

Pulling those layers of dry blankets over himself, to keep them over her became a trial by fire, but a small price to pay for Sara’s life. A very small price. Besides, he had learned tonight that he would do anything to keep Sara safe. Anything.

Even walk through the fire of hell.

* * * * *

Sara woke basking in the heat surrounding her. When she opened her eyes she discovered herself in a place she could not name. Dark. Dismal.

Awareness came in slow beats.

It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but finally she discerned a small room, splintered shutters, closed against a cold that, nevertheless, whistled in. Board floors, scattered debris. But no scurrying creatures that she could see … or hear. Sara swallowed with relief, surprised at first that her throat hurt.

Warmth from more than the fire surrounded her. Adam’s face rested between her breasts; his beard tickled her belly. One of his hands cupped her bare bottom. She smiled, appreciating the feel and significance of having it there.

She was safe.

She had been lost, might have drowned, but Adam must have found her when she wasn’t looking. She remembered leaving the Petershein farm and getting lost. She remembered … the pond, covered, like a trap, by a pristine and inviting blanket of snow, a circle of bright welcome amid a darkened wood.

A shiver prickled her spine. She’d tried and tried to climb out, but couldn’t gain purchase. And then she’d seen the branch, like a reaching hand, but not reaching far enough.

After a very long time, it seemed, she’d almost given up. Except that something, stubbornness, Adam might say, though it was more like faith that he would come, kept her trying. Finally she had caught that branch and tried to pull herself out, but it was no use, so she simply clung to it ... and waited.

She was so tired, she’d feared if she let sleep come, she would let go of the branch and slide back into the water. For a long time, she fought to keep sleep at bay.

She remembered, as her eyes closed, thinking perhaps she was going, finally, to join Mom, Datt and her brother. How many years had she wished for just such a gift?  But for the first time since the day she lost them, she wanted to stay. She had more to do, people to care for.

Then Mom was standing there, like it was yesterday, bright smile, forest green dress, black apron and kapp, stirring spoon in hand. A rush of love had filled Sara, a need to follow, and yet….

“Mom, no,” she surprised herself by saying. “I love and miss you all and I want to be with you. I do. But I ... I have things to do. People to care for and love.” She meant the girls, of course.

Her mother nodded, smiled. “Your Adam needs you. He does and for certain, more than we do right now,
Liebchen
.” It had been years since she’d seen or heard Mom so clearly, so when she was gone suddenly, Sara expected a renewal of the grief that had been her companion forever, but joy, rather than pain, filled her.

She knew, then, that Adam had come for her. She no longer felt alone or afraid, but protected, and she found herself struggling to pull air into her lungs.

Adam had come.

Where they were now, Sara did not know, but it was cozy, if drafty and dilapidated. Turning her awareness to the man beside her, Sara realized with a start that he burned with fever. A high one, she feared, but a heat she’d likely needed as much as he might have needed the cold that seemed to permeate her. She must have sought his warmth almost as easily as his embrace.