Time: unknown (close to 8:00 p.m. perhaps)
Inside the cabin. Temperature is dropping fast. Will’s journal continued.
I tried to be discreet—which meant turning my head away from her as much as I could—and working as quickly as I could.
I removed what looked like a tunic. It seemed thick, but once in my hands, I realized it was quite thin. It was a tightly woven dark green fabric that felt strong like wool but with the light touch of cashmere.
She did not wake, so, hands shaking from the cold and the worry, I slid off her boots.
They stretched up to her knees and were made of leather. But not the cheap junk you buy at the mall. I imagined an old cobbler behind a counter hammering, stitching, and tanning this boot for months. But then again, my imagination can wander.
I reached up to her pant clasp, paused, exhaled, and unlatched the silver buckle. It felt heavy, the difference between a silver dollar and a nickel. I held the buckle in my palm, my hand poised awkwardly at her waist. I ran my fingers across the engraving—angel wings touching, their heads facing out, wrapped in cords of hair.
—So strange, I muttered.
I unclasped her pants and started to slide them off; the tips of my fingers slid against the sides of her pale legs. They felt cold, but soft—like gliding your finger over the still waters of a lake at midsummer as you dangle your arm off the boat pier.
And something else—something beautiful, but troubling. My mind jumped as if sparked by my skin touching hers. At first, I thought it was a normal sensation; like glancing your girlfriend’s hand in seventh grade—afraid to hold it but wanting to do nothing else in the world. But the longing from our touch took hold inside of me somewhere. It was an unfamiliar feeling; like the touch was prohibited yet invited.
I stopped for a moment and looked at her face. Her eyes squinted shut as if she were trying to keep something away, like a child does when they want the evil things to disappear.
But she did not wake.
After I removed her pants, she pulled her legs in to her chest. I looked away from her, grabbed Grandma’s quilt off the back of the couch, and threw it over her. Still, she did not open her eyes.
On her upper body, she wore a shirt and what I thought was a sweater, but when I touched it, I knew better. It was a kind of light armour—like medieval chainmail, or at least what I imagined medieval chainmail might look like—only feather-light and not silver, but a deep bronze.
The chainmail covered a gray shirt which felt like a lighter version of her tunic. It had no buttons and clung tightly to her torso because it was saturated by the rain. It felt ice cold. I decided to pull both off at once.
As I pulled, her arms straightened, and her hair tangled in the chainmail. But again, she did not wake; only moaned. Stuck, I had to gather the sides of her shirt in my hands, once more feeling her smooth icy skin. This time the touch felt even more powerful.
My mind lit up with memories—dangerous and beautiful memories. One when Chad and Josh and I stripped down naked and launched off “the wall” at the James River—stupid college kids jumping off the 30-foot wall for a midnight thrill.
Another, of John and the girls’ funeral, when Sara’s friend Kaley sang “Oh Shenandoah.” I had kept my feelings about Kaley singing to myself; didn’t want to offend Sara. And I didn’t understand the song choice at first either.
But when she leaned into those first few notes, I found myself caught in utter rapture. A hush fell on the crowd, and for a moment we forgot our sorrow, swept away in the performance. I sat in the back pew of that Catholic church and wept.
My mind felt alive with the memories—quickened by the touch of this young woman’s skin.
I pulled up on the shirt and chainmail with some force, loosening the garments from her torso. Her arms fell, and she groaned again. I pulled the quilt up quickly so that it covered her entire body.
I stood up and stepped back from the couch and, holding her drenched clothes, took her in for a moment. The firelight flashed reds and oranges on her black hair—her face barely visible beneath her raven mane. She nestled deeper into the quilt and then stilled.
“Who are you?” I whispered.
