With Youth Lies Hope
Renard's men returned to the valley about half an hour later. Raissa had fought down her personal shock and terror and was working feverishly to save her husband's life. With the aid of Lucy, she had turned Sven over. The giant of a man was extremely difficult to move, even with the two of them. She had torn the edge from her dress and was trying to stem the steady flow of blood still coming from the terrible wound in his left shoulder. The man was barely breathing, and Raissa feared he would die. She had no idea how she and Lucy were going to move him to the minimal comfort of the cave.
Her mind was not helping her focus at this moment. It kept leading her to frightening scenarios, ones she did not wish to face.
What if Sven died, how would they survive without a strong man here in this place? What would they do?
Fortunately with the men's return there was aid for the two struggling women, and they could at last move the gravely injured warrior into the cave to rest somewhere more appropriate. After some discussion, it was agreed that Dale and his men would ride back to the farmlands as swiftly as they were able and that supplies and a physician would be sent as soon as possible. It was really all they could offer. It was obvious to all from the outset that Sven's chances of survival were slim, and to attempt to transport him some three days distant, would not be a possibility.
*****
Raissa and Lucy settled in to care for the ailing man. True, the women were afraid to remain here so unprotected, but circumstance now dictated they must. The most pressing problem to face the two lone women, besides that of their ailing charge, was that neither woman could hunt. Raissa thought that perhaps she could use the rifle and possibly bag some small prey, but she was afraid that unwelcome ears may hear the noise and creep curious to their camp.
According to the men, every encampment and small civilization for miles around had been ransacked and decimated, however, the young woman still could not bring herself to break that silence. So they subsisted on mostly corn and goat's milk and waited for help to arrive. They still had some dry rations, but soon sustenance would become a real issue. Both women hoped that Renard's men would return as they had promised.
In the ensuing day's wait Raissa was a tormented soul. She thought about Carlos often, and most heavily on that last interaction between them. He was a man who had been a slave just like her, a man to whom she had unreservedly given her heart and trust. She thought she had understood him. So many risks she had undertaken for his sake. Raissa was sure now she had meant nothing to him. The realization stung.
Then there was this man, Sven. The one who had fought so tirelessly to protect her and their child, selfless in his quest, and yet she never saw him. In just the same way Carlos had never seen her. This man who was now her husband languishing in his world of fever dreams.
It had been some forty-eight hours. Sven had not awakened since he fell. Raissa sat tirelessly by him tending the fire, cleansing his wounds, and trying to get him to drink some thin warm milk, and she prayed. She had never really paid that much attention to Father Andrew's benevolent God, but she called on him now with a fierceness.
Infection would take him she feared, as the big man muttered in his sleep and thrashed about. She held his giant scarred hands in her own and willed him to win this battle within. She had never realized Sven had meant this much to her. He was more than just a provider and protector. True, he was exemplary at what he did, but Raissa realized that she had loved this big rough man more than she had ever realized. She tenderly kissed his fevered brow and prayed for a miracle.
*****
The television was on in the low-ceilinged, almost over-warm lounge room in the small suburban home. Sven had to stoop to avoid the light fixture as he crossed barefoot on the plush brown carpet, beers in hand to his chair. He sat back in the recliner and turned to the man next to him watching the game, handing him a beer.
"The Crows scored another goal!" The older man said excitedly. "They can beat Collingwood!"
Sven nodded and took a swig directly from the beer can. The foam from the beverage sat on his upper lip and he licked at it with his tongue, gray eyes trained on the televised game. He wanted dearly to get his mind off his job, and the happenings he had been privy to in the last few weeks. He had to fight mentally to enjoy his leave, dark scenarios crowded his mind, and he would not give them up.
"Another goal for the Crows!"
Sven was as always glad to see his dad happy.
'Enjoy it while you can old man.'
He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, something didn't feel right, there seemed to be a low-level pain shooting through his upper body. He took another drink of his beer.
'I'm upset,' he reassured himself, 'and edgy, with all this talk of war with the guys and my commanders. They won't do it surely? I'm going to go back next week and they will have stood down. It will be like all the other times the Americans have postured and pretended.'
"Damn son! They are going to win! Would you believe it we will have a spot in the grand final!"
"Yeah."
His father then turned to him, his big hand alighting on Sven's forearm that lay on the elbow rest. The excitement of prior gone from his face to be replaced with seriousness. "Look after them my boy, Mum,and your brother, you promise?"
Sven turned to his father. The big armchair creaked, and the television droned on in the background, as the credits and commercials rolled.
"Yes dad, of course."
"I know it's probably easier just to perish." His father continued. "It's the survivors that have the toughest road ahead..."
"Dad stop, it will be okay, really. That's just doom talk..."
