Our Last Candle

By Wallace Pond

What does a handsome, free-living man do when he is in a plane crash in a remote area of British Columbia and he finds the only other survivor is an injured nun, young and pretty? With winter approaching and rescue uncertain, Link Longstreet is troubled by a nun whose vows seem unbending.

Faced with demanding hardships, both find this time and place afford a unique opportunity to question where life has taken them. Through introspection, Link struggles with the emotional devastation left by three loves from his past who rendered him reluctant to love beyond a physical level. On the other hand, Sister Dowery wonders what place her community vows of poverty, chastity and obedience have in a primal setting where a man and a woman struggle as partners for survival.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wallace Pond
• Release date: Dec 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310089039

Wallace Pond

Born in Nelson, British Columbia, Wallace Pond grew up with a love for the mountains, lakes, and wild trails of the interior, which he writes about so vividly. He holds a BA degree from Washington State University and a MA from the University of Portland.Currently he lives in West Linn, Oregon, where he teaches English and Journalism at the local high school. Wallace Pond spends many of his summers in British Columbia, drawn back by what he calls "a love affair with the most rugged, beautiful country in the world where you can still find untouched lakes, woods without trails, and where you can shake hands with a tree and touch God."

Book preview

OUR LAST

CANDLE

by Wallace Pond

PIONEER PUBLISHING CO.

VICTORIA, BRITISH COLUMBIA

1976

© Copyright, Pioneer Publishing Co.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages.

Smashwords Edition

First printing August 1976

Printed in Canada by Fleming-Review Printing Ltd.,

Victoria, B.C.

Canada

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Once I knew a nun

To war with a god-lover is not war,

It is despair.

Table of Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

1

At last Link found himself in knee-deep water as he struggled toward shore. He paused for the first time, feet apart, while he swayed drunkenly to the rhythm of the waves. Hypnotically he glanced at his torn arm, watching the blood drip from two fingers, staining the water red in a little patch where the waves carried the blood away with swirling eddies. The red mixed imperfectly with the water in a curious marbling effect that childishly fascinated him.

Once as a boy he had won a marble with blood red curls in a watery background. He had carried it all summer, never daring to chance it to the ring for keeps in a serious game. Looking through that glassy treasure into the sunlight had been a magic trip into a dream dimension, and the experience had been personal, intense, and completely incommunicable. Now the blood and water mixed in the same varying patterns as though they too were objects of glass. He tried to focus his wandering attention on the marble of long ago. Through the dim light of many years he looked for it, and its fate disturbed him.

Run silently, Little Marble Boy,

in your glass yesterday,

holding the sun in place

with broken colors on the face.

Glancing over his shoulder he could see the plane sinking lower in the lake. A gaping hole stretched up the side near the tail section, and from it were floating several suitcases, a couple of cardboard boxes and various items that were partly submerged and could not be identified from that distance. The rip disappeared underneath the plane, giving it the appearance of a huge sea monster, or perhaps a whale, that had been gutted and was streaming entrails, while a fluke raised poised as the creature prepared to sound.

As far as Link could tell, of the dozen passengers, he was the only one to get out.

He tried to recall his actual escape from the wreck but could not remember whether he had made his exit through the baggage compartment or through the bottom where the jagged rip was visible. He shook his head to clear his thoughts … his clouded mind could not recall even swimming from the floundering plane; only the roar of the engines that sputtered and died before the long glide and the impact were vivid to him.

The impact! God!

The plane had angled directly for an outcropping of rock short of the lake; the pilot had been able to hold almost high enough to miss, but the plane had hit the very top and bounced upward with an explosion of tearing metal. Seconds later one wing began snapping tops of trees in quick succession. The jack pines in northern British Columbia were small and popped with the crack of rapid gunnery. He could not remember the final plunge into the lake nor getting free of the sinking plane.

As Link stood unsteadily in the water the sound of the trees popping rose to a crescendo in his mind until he raised his bloody hand and pressed it against an ear.

Firecrackers, assailing the alleys of the brain.

Locomotives charging in a bullring,

Lights goring tissues of the eye,

A cannon arguing with a night.

Now, cried the pop-popcorn salesman,

you too

can enjoy the comforts of Niagara Falls

assaulting your ear

hear the circus sound

to some, the popcorn

pop, pop,,, pop.

The last ten feet he crawled, half dragging himself. He staggered through tall reeds at the edge of the lake and collapsed flat on fairly solid ground, relatively secure in the knowledge that for the moment he was safe.

Turning on his back he looked up into the grass immediately around his face and suddenly the reeds took on forest proportions. His total concentration was absorbed in one clump of sword-like grass that swished dryly in a breeze. Link became suspended in unimportant time and mesmerized by the sound of the grass as it took different forms. Reeds became soldiers testing swords as blade clanked on blade. Armies marched accoutered with lance, shield and plate. He watched the grass with a dulled mind for an endless time, a Lilliputian caught in the sway of marching phalanx and toppling kingdoms. The outcome of these battles were of utmost importance to him.

Link remembered the downed plane with hazy indifference. He would have to save the rest of the passengers sometime. Some lazy, sunny afternoon he would swim out to the plane and save all those aboard. By then the craft would be on the bottom of the lake and the people would be glad to see him, and they would put him in charge of the armies for saving them. They would be smiling at him through the portholes of the airplane while fish darted around their heads.

Fish swaying like grass in a breeze.

He dozed and awoke and dozed some more while the afternoon wore on. A droning sound disturbed him and he opened his eyes to see a huge yellow honey bee navigating around his clump of grass like an outdated bomber laboring with a heavy load, hugging the valley and dodging the hills. It hovered while the sound filled Link’s ears with a sense of urgency and foreboding. He tried to warn the bomber against the danger of the grass that would entangle its wings but its engines were too loud and its load made it sluggish. Then his mind cleared as he became aware of the cold wet ground. The movement of the bee gradually focused him into the present.

Link raised himself to a sitting position and scooted crab-like about five feet until he sat on a weathered log, slate gray and smooth.

Turning his gaze to the lake he found that the plane had completely disappeared. A gentle swell moved except where a small oil slick had formed and kept the water calm above the sunken plane. A thin trail of oil led toward shore, breaking to his right. Along the water’s edge were sundry items from the wreckage. Almost at the spot where he had crawled from the lake Link saw a blue suitcase partly awash. Curiosity prompted him to rise and move in its direction, and immediately a pain shot through his left arm and leg.

Link stopped to inspect his injuries. His pantleg was torn where his leg was bruised but no bones appeared broken. A deep gash extended from his forearm several inches toward his elbow. Blood oozing from the wound had coagulated in dark splotches through his fingers. Satisfied that his injuries were not serious, Link took a few experimental steps toward the lake, limping heavily. He stopped at intervals to examine his cuts.

Reaching down he retrieved the suitcase and gave it a gentle toss to dry land. Then he stumbled along the shore salvaging articles. A cardboard box was so heavy he contented himself by just rolling it over a few times onto higher land. Next he found a plastic covered cushion and then another box almost as heavy as the first. Two more suitcases were fished from the water and carried to shore. When he saw nothing more Link turned back to high ground.

Sitting on the bank Link began for the first time to think with a purpose. There were no other survivors, but rescue planes would be out tomorrow working from Prince George, Quesnel and Prince Rupert in the large triangle where the plane went down. In a matter of a few days at most he would be picked up, thus his task seemed to be to stay as comfortable as possible until the event.

Other than supplying himself with clothing for warmth, he had little curiosity in the debris that he had collected along the shore. Clothing in the suitcases would be soaked and must be dried.

The date was the twenty-second of August, the days warm and still quite long; however, nights were cold. He should start a fire to provide warmth and to attract search planes. Some sort of shelter would have to be rigged, no matter how flimsy, to see him through a few nights. There was no food but that would be only a temporary discomfort solved soon when he was picked up. Already his clothes were drying in a gentle breeze, and the sun heartened his spirits.

Of all the needs, fire seemed the most necessary. While he had no matches, perhaps the suitcases contained a lighter or dry compartments with a book of matches. He found the first suitcase badly damaged. It bore bronze letters BDY on a corner, personalized initials of the owner. He undid the fasteners, opened the lid, and discovered the contents to be men’s clothing. He rummaged through them quickly, throwing socks, shorts, a pair of dress pants, two shirts and other items casually over rocks to dry. No matches.

Next he moved to a carton that already had one end ripped open. It contained a roll of yardage of the type women use for light summer print dresses, gaily decorated with roses of small and delicate design. He did not bother to spread the sopping mess to dry, but tore an end from the material and used it to wrap his cut arm, tying it with his teeth and his one good hand. Then he left the roll just out of reach of the water. Further on he saw a toothbrush bobbing in the waves in an inch or two of water. He did not pick it up though he wondered at the object ever reaching shore without sinking. Perhaps it had worked out of the damaged suitcase or fallen there directly from the plane.

As he walked he found a bottle of half-used shampoo, some broken wood that might have come from fine furniture, a small carton of pills with the address of a drugstore in Prince Rupert, a pilot’s cap, and a few tins and bottles of notions.

The second suitcase was filled with women’s apparel which he scattered hurriedly and haphazardly to dry. From the size of a blue miniskirt he judged the woman who wore it to be small. The third suitcase also contained women’s light-weight clothing suitable for casual summer wear.

He had examined all of the suitcases, and still he had no matches. Further along the beach Link saw the remains of a seat that had been wrenched from the plane, and around it clung a cluster of small bottles and items that moved gently with the waves. He limped painfully to it and began scooping the odds and ends onto the shore in bear-like motions.

Suddenly his hand came in contact with something soft, cold, and terrifyingly familiar. Before he could stop himself he had thrown a severed hand onto the pebbles near the water. He recognized it as belonging to an attractive brunette who had sat across from him, making the identification by the large diamond ring on her third finger. He suddenly grew sick, turned, and sat down. The hand would have to stay where it fell until help came, at which time the grizzly find could be taken care of.

When he looked away he still saw the white flesh and the glittering diamond.

Finding the hand had sent shivers of sickness through him, now his search went more cautiously. Presently he covered the stretch of beach wherein lay the wreckage without turning up any more than a small carton of paperbacks being shipped to a store in Prince George and a small case of engine oil, SAE 30. Half the books had spilled out.

But no matches.

As he sat on the bank he ran his eye over the surrounding countryside. The lake was perhaps a mile wide with a mountain on the far side. To the right about a half mile away a promontory jutted into the water, low and timbered, while in the other direction Link could see what appeared to be the lake’s end. At most places the trees came close to the water’s edge, giving the landscape a park-like quality. The hills that surrounded it were, with some exceptions, low, which gave the area a deceptively gentle appearance. He recalled that the scenery had been monotonously similar for the last hour of flight and there really was nothing different about this setting from any other where the plane may have chosen to crash. In fact, they had passed over any number of such lakes in the last hundred miles.

How to get fire?

He had a grim picture of a caveman walking up to him and producing a flame with a few deft strokes of wood twisting on wood to the utter consternation of helpless twentieth-century man.

The clothing he had laid on a rock was already beginning to dry in the sun. In order to hasten them he spread socks, shorts and pants on a branch close by. In the women’s suitcases there were a number of small articles such as combs, brushes, compacts and lipsticks that he disregarded.

Loneliness imposed itself on all sides. A northern tern fluttered in a nearby tree while a soft sibilant lapping came from the shore. These were the only sounds in Link’s world. The tree in which the northern tern busily made strange cooings was framed against a pale blue sky that became more washed in tone as the sun approached the mountain on the other side of the lake. Through leafy branches the sky and mountain formed a flat background in a still-life picture. A fish jumped beyond where the plane had sunk and Link kept hearing the splash over and over in his mind. The sound of a wing snapping trees. Everything seemed dream-like, surrealistic. The world was too secure.

Cometh a fish

cometh Noah

cometh wisdom

out of the mouth of whales.

A whale suckles its young,

like mother earth cradling her own.

Evening time is mothering time.

Oh ye Great Link,

evening time is mothering time.

It occurred to Link that the plane may have spilled wreckage after it had hit the outcropping. He slowly rose and turned toward the path the crippled plane had cut through the trees in its final journey to destruction. Five-hundred yards up a gentle slope from where he stood he could see four or five broken tree tops looking like snapped limbs with exposed splintered bones protruding to the sky.

With slow, cumbersome steps Link moved in this direction, moving first along the edge of the lake until he got in line with the broken trees. Here he turned inland and began ascent, half dragging, half using his left foot. It was not long before he began finding irregular pieces of metal and wreckage. At one point he found a propeller, twisted at the tip. The flight had not been on a direct air route and the feeder line had not employed the larger jets, only small turboprops. Still close to the lake, he climbed slowly around the edge of a granite boulder about the size of a car, picking his way painfully, and on the other side found a large section of aluminum about ten feet long and four or five feet wide. One edge was torn badly and the whole twisted and crumpled sheet was resting against the rock as though a giant had playfully discarded it. Link immediately recognized its use; it would form his shelter for the night.

Moving on, he picked up a man’s boot but there was no mate for it. The next item was a ballpoint pen with a blue top shining in the sun while close by it lay a paperback, Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley. He laughed grimly at the title. All along the route were metal fragments, though the closer he got to the broken trees the less he saw. He reasoned that the momentum of the plane had carried the parts forward, though a great deal of the speed had been absorbed through the impact of the trees. Actually, the plane must have been very close to the ground near the boulder. Perhaps it had even touched a second time and then leaped skyward for that last pitch before striking the water. The more he studied the extensive wreckage the more he was of the opinion that at some point the plane must have hit the ground a second time. The trees alone could not have ripped the plane so much.

He turned around when his search revealed nothing of value, and he limped back a different route toward the aluminum strip that was already propped as a shelter with one side on a rock.

His way led through a soft grassy clearing, made mushy by springs that bubbled in a marsh and fed into a brisk running stream. Just beyond and on a slight rise he could see the dull gray aluminum sheet, oxidized too much to be very shiny. He did not have to cross the stream to get to his destination, but kept it on his right.

Something caused him to pause as he entered this field. For a moment he thought he had heard something above the quiet rambling of the stream and the squishing of his shoes. He stood silently for a long moment … Suddenly he felt a chill start from his face and work its pattern down through his body until his hands gave a convulsive quiver. Glancing up he saw that the sun had just dropped out of sight behind the mountain across the lake. Immediately he felt the wind coming from the lake grow colder and he shivered again … But the sound?

There had been a sound.

He listened with his head to one side, giving the appearance of an animal alert and inquiring. Satisfied that it had been his imagination, Link struck out across the field through the grass. From its general topography he thought the lake must inundate the low area during high water but now in late August it was spongy. The ground was so soggy he took care where he placed his feet. Just ahead stood a small clump of bushes and he was forced to go around it before continuing.

The surprise on the other side of the bush stopped him. He stared, disbelieving.

On the ground, looking for all the world like a discarded ragdoll with arms and legs akimbo, lay a woman. As he watched she moaned once, deeply, but hardly audible. She was obviously badly hurt. One foot was bent back under her, broken, giving her even more of a ragdoll pose. A jagged bit of bone protruded from the shin, dark with blood where it had come through her nylons. Lying still and unconscious as she was, the bleeding had largely subsided, but her general appearance with blood and mud mixed on her face made her frighteningly deadlike. Link stared transfixed, as still as the meaningless form he looked at. She seemed a part of the ground, for her skin had a grayish tinge suggesting the seriousness of her injuries. If it were not for her low moaning she certainly would have been taken for dead. Other than the hand he had scooped from the water, he had never seen a human bone exposed. Weak from his own ordeal he could only look while he grew sick and faint. To add to it, the disfigured lump of woman exuded the stench of feces, for in her unconscious state her bowels had moved.

He continued to stare, a vacant look on his face. The pattern of tragedy did not fit into such a warm, peaceful afternoon. Some unseen power had put the landscape together wrong; the trees and birds and quiet lake belonged, the warm smell of pine belonged and the humming of the bee as well, but the broken wreckage and the violence he saw on the ground were not a rational and integral part of the order of things. Even if she had been dead, she had no right to present such a grotesque and distorted picture of mud and blood.

Then, for the first time he noticed. She was dressed in the modern habit of a nun. He remembered seeing two nuns on the plane.

As nausea hit, Link took a short step back where he turned and started to dry retch. Pictures floated in his mind.

Flying coffins with black wings

flashing nightward like shadows conversing.

lost shadows

seeking a home at night

away from bone-trees shattered.

Coffins, sloshing full

with blood

and wings swing low

spilling pens and a brave world

while a Northern vulture sings in a tree

of blue skies and warm summers …

Link backed away slowly. He wished the bush could hide his find so that he could convince himself that she did not exist. He was frustrated because he knew so little first aid and she seemed about to die at any moment.

The plane’s nightmarish plunge had been horrible but comprehendible. Planes crash; the papers were full of such things and he had never gone on a flight but the idea had occurred that he might be faced with such an eventuality … Even with only one survivor. But a nun that by all odds would not last the night alive and needed immediate attention was beyond reality. There she was, dressed in a modified habit, defying all probability.

You picked the wrong one for an emergency, he spoke to himself. When it comes to this type of thing I’m useless. Then he felt guilty for his irrational impulse to back away, and he began to look about for means of helping the nun. It was no use reasoning that if he had taken a different course back, she would not have been there.

Her only visible injury seemed to be the broken leg, though she must have sustained internal injury, judging by her color and the violence of the crash. Several hours after the accident she was still unconscious which struck him as a bad sign. He thought about what he must do to help her.

He must assume she would live and that he must keep her comfortable until help came. While he did not doubt they would be picked up the next day, there was always the remote chance that they might have to wait as long as a week or two. All along he had avoided the alternative to being rescued, of thinking about the times he had read about planes in isolated places never being found at all or not until years later.

He must act. The most merciful course would be to put a splint on the broken leg now while she could not feel it. When they were rescued a doctor could easily remove it and do the job right.

How do you set a bone?

He would do what he could with rags and wood splints and he would carry her to the shelter. His own injuries seemed not at all a concern in carrying out this plan. Let a doctor laugh tomorrow at his heroic attempts at medicine! At least he could try.

He would have to hurry because the sun was down and darkness would swiftly follow. Night would be cold and he had found little to keep them warm. As his plans formed and as he recognized the need for haste, his resolve to act quickened. He set out for the beach about two hundred feet away to select four pieces of similar sized driftwood to use as splints. He found an ample supply of smooth, worn limbs lying about and wasted no time in selecting more bandages from the cloth he had torn, taking an extra bit of material to use as a sponge with which to clean her wounds. Then he limped painfully back to where she lay.

Link paused before reaching down to touch her, not squeamish now that he had made up his mind on a course of action, only hesitating to touch a nun. Nuns were strange, remote things, and terribly untouchable … Then he gently but quickly lifted her leg to take the pressure from the foot that was tucked at such a grotesque angle under her. With slow but firm movements he brought it around until it lay somewhat in the forward position. While this was being done he heard a faint grinding of bone on bone and she moaned heavily in pain.

We’ve just about got it, gal, he spoke to the unconscious woman. Easy does it.

The bones were far from in line and he knew to get them there he would have to handle the foot just a bit rough; he would have to exert a pull to get the broken end matching the other. There was so little he knew about medicine in general and fractures in particular. Perhaps he should wash the wounds first and clean up the source of the foul smell before actually trying to set the bones. This would at least be the more sanitary approach to keeping infection from the cuts.

Cleaning her fouled body and putting clean underthings on her would require all of his nerve.

Link tore a section from part of an already mutilated shirt, taking it to the nearby stream where he soaked it and carried it cold and dripping back to the silent figure. Next, he placed the wet rag across the injured leg while he limped hurriedly after a pair of panties he had thrown to dry on a rock. Returning with them he knelt straddling the nun’s legs, again seized by awkwardness. But once he decided to act he did so with speed, and the more distasteful the work, the faster he set to finish.

His mind drew a picture of his cousin who worked as an orderly in a hospital. Friends had joked about the type of work it involved, secretly knowing they could never empty bedpans, belittling something they could never do. Now Link envied the cousin who would find this job so routine.

Modesty is peculiar. In his thirty-eight years he was most certainly familiar with a woman’s nakedness. But even under these circumstances of emergency and isolation Link could not look at her simply because she was a nun. He worked with his eyes focused upward toward the distant sheet of aluminum while his hands quickly reached into the habit and withdrew the messed undergarment. Three times he washed the cleaning rag in the cold stream and continued to sponge her until he was sure she was free of mess. As he slipped fresh panties over the broken shinbone the nun gave a much louder groan, and Link involuntarily stopped. In another minute the panties were on and the habit smoothed back to knee length.

He sighed and leaned back. There … God!

But the job was far from done. There was the bone to set and the mud and blood to be washed from her face … He rose, tore off another piece of material for cleaning purposes, dunked it in the stream and continued cleaning. While there were no cuts on her face, her nose had bled profusely. Judging from the bruises, she must have struck her head in the crash. Again he wondered at the extent of her internal injuries to both head and body … With great care he removed the blood-soaked stocking and washed from the knee down, around the break.

Shadows were deepening as Link tore a dozen strips of cloth to tie the splint tight to the leg. Pulling the bones in line was a nightmare, and she moaned loudly until it was done. Gently he felt around the calf, probing the shin to be sure the bone continued smooth from the knee to the ankle while the nun’s sounds became more pitiful. At last, after several painful adjustments, Link felt the leg was ready for the splints, which he placed on each side of the leg and top and bottom. Then he bound all tightly, starting above the knee. Over and over, around and around. And he did not stop though her cries became more insistent. Several times he replenished his supply of cloth. Then he lifted her in his arms and tested his step. He moved ant-like dragging his foot toward the aluminum sheet.

The wind now had picked up and felt cold on his arms and face. The nun’s head sagged to one side as he stumbled along and he was afraid she might already be dead.

Link gently placed her on the ground partly under the metal shelter, then he lifted the edge of the aluminum and positioned it to more advantage over the nun, a little higher so that she was next to the rock and well protected.

Link shivered in the cold evening air as he looked about at the gathering shadows. The sky across the lake glimmered where the sun had set and a shimmering blue formed a solitary band against the expansive gray of the night sky. By the failing light Link struggled to the beach to gather the objects that he had set to dry. With what tenderness he could, he placed these over the nun in casual order. He wished he had been wearing a jacket to have added to the inadequate amount of clothing he had placed over her. Knowing that branches could protect her from the cold he went to the nearest trees and proceeded to break off the smallest limbs which he arranged carefully on her. This he did until it became too dark to see and he was forced to give up.

It was then that he became aware of his own exhaustion. He was too tired to move and too cold to stand still. He staggered with erratic drunken steps to the little stream near the lean-to. There he dropped to all fours while his black hair fell unkempt over his forehead; altogether, he gave the appearance of a defeated boxer, silhouetted dumbly against the night. Then he drank of the cold water, shook his head, rose and moved uncertainly back to the shelter. Crawling under it, he fell beside the nun. She no longer moaned and he was not aware of his own deep exhaustive breathing.

Holy dying Jesus … what a mess! he whispered.

Caveman

winding a timeless clock

ticking with primordial indigestion.

Timeless man

bewildered by the thunder of silence

now and yesterday.

Hold firm to your womb

with its metal roof

and suck from the earth the chill

… of uncertainty.

Tomorrow can only be

someone’s yesterday.

In the night Link stirred and groped out of the metal lean-to bathed in cold northern winds. There was neither stars nor moon to guide him as he fumbled his way. Presently his instinct told him he had reached the spot where the nun had lain injured on the damp earth. The night winds whispered through the tall grass, soft-soled sandals shuffling on invisible feet. He got down on all fours and began searching, groping in such darkness that he could not see his hands. Presently he touched a small metal object. It was a silver cross and rosary the nun had clasped in her hand where she lay.

2

In the morning Link awoke to the sound of light rain falling on the aluminum roof. The wind had died and now a heavy gray hung in the sky. This morning he should have been in Prince Rupert closing the deal on a timber sale for his Vancouver firm. From his position under the lean-to he could see a corner of the sky, heavy and dark with drizzling rain. His body felt sore as though somebody had worked him over from head to toe with a ballbat. Shifting his position he saw the nun, her eyes closed and apparently still unconscious though breathing. In her hand she clasped the silver cross and beads, and Link vaguely wondered how she came to be holding the rosary.

He tried to sit up but there was not quite enough room. His joints moved only with arguments. Suddenly he was aware of being very hungry. He looked again at the dismal sky contrasted with the dryness of where he lay partially under broken branches. He had provided body heat for the nun though he had been too exhausted to feel his own cold or remember the night as only a fitful semi-conscious experience.

The thought of leaving the dry shelter did not appeal to him and the prospects of getting food out there seemed remote. Though cold, he was not wet. He longed to stand before a blazing fire with a cup of steaming coffee, both as unattainable as getting the Empire State Building beside him. He looked at his self-winding watch. It was a little after eight.

At length the rain slackened and he roused himself out of the shelter, stretching and feeling the sore spots on his arms and legs. His body felt much worse than yesterday and he moved cautiously and stiffy about. Dimly he recalled seeing some blueberry bushes near the top of the knoll where the plane had broken the trees.

Damn leg, he said as he moved toward the berries.

Staying away from the damp flat where he had found the nun, he skirted through a rocky area, passed the small trees where he had obtained the branches for their shelter, and on up the hill where he soon began finding berries. They were just ripening and he found them tasty. Link browsed around the wet bushes eating leisurely while he contemplated his problem. It was not likely that search planes would be out today because the visibility was so low, or if they were out, it would not be possible to spot them. Even in good weather there was little enough of the wreckage to be seen from the air … He would have to get a fire going. A good column of smoke could be seen for miles if the weather conditions were right. His fingers became stained a deep purple as he ate; his thought turned to the problem of getting nourishment into the unconscious nun. It did not look