But there was a freaky little voice whispering in my head, nudging me to go on. Probably just my imagination, or more likely, it was the wind shushing around me, pushing at my back, a little shove now and then. But what if God was trying to tell me to keep moving?
Fine. I’ll go a little farther. Then I’ll whistle again and hunker down.
That nagging wind pushed so hard I was able to coast for half a mile. I finally had to turn my skis and stomp a few times to hold my ground. Thankfully, when I blew my whistle again, that same wind would carry the sound farther than it might have gone.
I needed to stay upright and visible for as long as possible, not disappearing into a snow cave until I was sure no one was chasing down my call for help. I eyed the fluffy snow to eitherside of me, waiting to engulf me if I didn’t stay on my skis. I was the seal on the ice floe, surrounded by white, faceless killer whales, waiting for me to fall off.
I would have laughed at my imagination, but it wasn’t funny.
I blew and I blew on that precious whistle until the heat from my muscles began to cool. I opened my pack, put my heavier gloves on over the thin ones, and pulled my wool ski cap over my head and neck gaiter. I strapped on my leg gaiters that would hold the heat in my calves and send some of that warm blood to my feet. Thankfully, my expensive boots kept my feet dry.
The longer I stood there, the greater the risk of hypothermia. I slapped my face a couple of times to remind myself who I was and where I was from. Matty didn’t panic. Matty was always prepared. And storms didn’t last forever.
I wasn’t tired. I didn’t need shelter. I just needed to move. No one was coming to save me. I had to save myself.
I broke the tab in one of my hand warmers, mashed it, and tucked it down inside my shirt pocket. I had three others, and three warm patches, but I would ration them. I dug out my compass before zipping up my nearly empty backpack and picked the heading I would stick with.
I wasn’t stupid. I was heading back.
CHAPTER FIVE
Pulling a couple hundred pounds of supplies on his sled didn’t slow Cian much. The snow was packed nicely, and a layer of ice from the previous night’s rain made his burden capable of moving at whatever speed he chose.
Typically, he took his time on the return trip. He dreaded leaving the world of man behind him. No matter how long he and John visited, it was never long enough. And now that Effie was gone, John needed those long visits as much as Cian did.
Just not today.
Cian grumbled beneath his breath. “Why cannae auld women leave their noses on their faces?”
Just then, a strong arm of wind pushed from the side and lifted a large ball of wind-rolled snow off the ground to smash into his head. He stopped to shake the cold stuff out of his ear and bent to keep the sled from flying into his legs. As he straightened, he watched the skyline disappear. Walls of white mist moved in on all sides to engulf him, and the wind lifted the top layer of ice crystals off the snow and flung them in his face.
It seemed the self-proclaimed witches had been right about the storm. He should have suggested he wait out the weather with John, but it was too late now. He was halfway home.
To cheer himself, he imagined that next trip to Aviemore. There was so much he wanted to learn. So much he’d missed in that flash of time between the day he’d stood defending himself on the battlefield and the sudden night he’d found himself in, with that same battlefield beneath his boots—a battlefield that had completely changed in a few erratic beats of his heart.
A battlefield suddenly devoid of 8000 Redcoats.
With a powerful gust,the wind changed direction, but I regularly checked my compass to keep my heading straight. Following my own tracks didn’t last long, but I’d be fine. The forest was off to my right now, somewhere. The trail was due to narrow soon. My head was on straight again.
Turning back had been the smart move, and my muscles warmed up nicely. I concentrated on efficiency of movement. “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.”
I started counting, calculating. I hated the feel of a watch, so I never wore one. There was no coverage in the mountains, away from the Visitor’s Center, so I’d left my phone in a locker. I had no way to gauge the passage of time, except for counting. My strides were close enough to a second each, so I used that tempo and rounded up a little. Every five minutes, I wiped the snow and ice from my lenses and rubbed my ears through the layers.
Fingers and toes were fine. Circulation good. When I hit half an hour, I stopped to put a heat patch on the back of my shoulders. Worked like a charm.
Count. Do the math. Check the compass.
Count. Do the math. Check my compass.
A drink every quarter of an hour. A minute of whistling, then move on.
When I hit an hour and a half, I kept the whistle tucked into my mask and whistled every five minutes. Just to keep the whistle from freezing, I told myself. Not because I was freaking out.
I almost cried when I found myself sliding up to a treeline. I went deeper until I found a felled log to rest on. A break from the wind. A break from counting.
I realized I was starving and dug out some snacks. I told myself I should ration my food along with my heat packs, but I couldn’t stop myself. Staring down at three empty wrappers, I refused to chide myself. Freaking out was hard work.
I wasn’t any better with the water, but at least I could refill my containers with snow that would eventually melt.
