Trying to Kiss

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Manueline stood paralyzed by events but came out of it, back into herself, when Wals touched her, asking her something. She asked him, "Are you all right?" He seemed satisfied with the response and turned looking at the two men he had killed first and then turned back again, looking down at the old man dead in the snow at their feet. He made a slow sweeping gesture with his hand, plainly asking what should be done with them.

Manueline wanted nothing to do with them, if it had been summer she would have simply walked away but the valley had to be home to them for all the rest of the long winter and they couldn't just leave the men dead on their doorstep. Then the practical side of her asserted itself and she said to Wals, "We must get the boots and the jackets."

All the men had boots and heavy felt jackets on and there was a sudden urgency in Manueline's movements as she realized that they would quickly stiffen in the cold to the point where it would be impossible to get the jackets off. She snapped at Wals, "Help me." She knelt down in the snow next to the old man pulling him up into an odd parody of a sitting position, his head and arms flopping around, his head flopping towards her almost as though he were trying to kiss her. Manueline cried out in disgust and pushed his head away. She looked up at Wals and shouted at him, "Don't just stand there. Help me; hold him while I get the jacket off." Wals did as he was told, moving quickly, grabbing the old man on one side while Manueline tugged the jacket off on the other.

He had a fine shirt on underneath the jacket. They threw him down in the snow, got his hands over his head and took the shirt off. She had Wals hold his leg while she pulled first one boot off then the other. He had pants on, not just a kilt. Manueline remembered weaving the cloth that had been used to make the pants, she gritted her teeth and untied the drawstring and pulled the pants off him as well, leaving him old, pathetic and naked, lying white and blue in the snow.

She stood a moment, looking at him, then snapped again at Wals, "Quickly, the others before they get too stiff." They treated the others in much the same way. Wals could not look at them but Manueline was relentless, stripping the other two of their boots and every shred of clothing until they too lay naked in the snow. She made Wals put one of the pairs of boots on and put one of the others on herself. She gave Wals one of the jackets and she took the old man's.

The two of them set about dragging the bodies away from the house. They did it one body at a time. They each took a leg and dragged them down the path, down the hill and left them in a clearing, some way off the path where they couldn't be seen. The old man was first. He was still flexible his head and arms bouncing along behind him as they dragged him down the path.

Manueline found herself weeping, the hot tears running down her face. She was too busy and too exhausted to think much about what was happening to her and what they had done, what Wals had done. She did remember thinking at one point, 'I wonder what they wanted? Did they want both of us? Did they come to kill us or just to take us back to the village?' She did not know and she realized she probably would never know.

When they came back to make the second trip, coming for the first of the younger men, the body was getting stiffer. They had left him with his one arm above his head and one arm down by his side. As they pulled him, the arm by his side kept catching in things and being pulled away from him. Each time it would come back to its original position.

To Manueline it seemed as though he was trying to catch on to the bushes as they pulled him along, as though some horrible half life were animating him, making him reach out to try and save himself, even though he was past saving, he was already dead.

The last was worst of all. He was stiffening as they stripped him and had somehow curled up, his knees bent, his arms, back and neck at awkward angles. He jerked and pulled as they dragged him down the path. Manueline found herself making strange inarticulate sounds, weeping and moaning, hating the touch of the cold, dead flesh, struggling to keep the memories of the men in the courtyard out of her mind.

They dumped the last of them and almost ran back to the house. Manueline had thrown all the clothes into the house before they dragged the bodies off. Now she took Wals inside, gathered up the clothes and went upstairs. It was getting dark and the two of them sat silently by the fire for a long time. Just as the last of the daylight was fading, Manueline got up and went downstairs, forcing herself to face the darkness and the door alone.

She found some roots, put them in a pot with some water and set them in the fire. She sat again by the hearth, shutting out the sounds of the night, listening to the fire. It was as full darkness came that she first heard the wolves. There had been wolves in her dreams for the last couple of nights. On waking, she even wondered if there had been some about in the forest. She knew there were wolves in the forest but they were never seen on the village side of the river though occasionally, in winter, they could be heard howling in the night. Now they made their presence felt.

She first heard one lone wolf howling some way up the hill. Others soon followed it. It seemed there were wolves all around the valley. They were in full cry, hunting something, confusing the night with the sound of their voices, claiming the night as their own.

Manueline saw that Wals was looking up expectantly, a look close to excitement on his face. He got up, put a pair of boots on, grabbed one of the jackets and made for the stairs. At first, Manueline didn't understand what he was doing. Then she realized he intended to go out and face the wolves.

She could not articulate why he would do such a thing but there was no doubt in her mind it was what he intended to do. Something in her understood the impulse that led him on. She didn't believe he had any thought of protecting the bodies of the men he had killed but she realized he regarded them as his in some way; he wouldn't allow the wolves to come and just take them. That wasn't it either. He felt something in himself that was represented by the night and the wolves and he was drawn to it, trying to come to terms with himself and what he found inside.

She knew that nothing would turn him from it. On an impulse, Manueline picked up a stout, clear stick from the firewood and threw it to him, saying, "Here, take this." He caught it as he turned, apparently without thought or effort. He stood at the top of the stairs for a moment, looking at the stick in his hands, then he turned away again and disappeared down into the room below.

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