Read Online Cold Pastoral by Margaret Duley - Free Book Online Page A

child’s eyes unclosed from blue sockets.
    â€œHello,” she said, like a tired bell. “You passed before, but I couldn’t call.”
    Josephine moaned in anguish. “Oh, oh, Mary Immaculate, are you starved to death out in the snow?”
    In the momentary suspension given to shocked examination her voice touched them like a snowflake.
    â€œI wasn’t alone. The Little People stayed by me. When I was hungry I ate snow. I slept when ’twas dark and woke when ’twas light.”
    The flare of life went out, succeeded by blue pallor.
    â€œNo, no,” protested her mother. “Open your eyes, Mary Immaculate. Oh, has somebody got a drop of rum?”
    The sergeant and a policeman had been unrolling a pack.
    â€œNot a drop of spirits,” said the sergeant sharply. “Step aside, now, everyone, please.”
    The sergeant and the policeman worked for Mary Immaculate’s second survival. That she had endurance and intelligence was apparent by her efforts to preserve herself. Before she lay down to sleep she must have gathered spruce boughs to make a bed. They were scant but sufficient to break her contact with the snow. All but her feet. They stretched beyond, revealing the black heels of her rubbers frozen to the ground. Under her ankles lay the glazed white of a slice of bread.
    â€œGod Almighty!” said the sergeant. “She had a piece of bread and didn’t eat it.”
    â€œGlory be to God!” cried Josephine hysterically, “that’ll save her against the frostbite.” In a frenzy of gratitude she threw her arm round Molly Conway and rocked her backwards and forwards.
    One glance told the sergeant that the quickest way to free Mary Immaculate’s feet was to cut her out of her rubbers and over-stockings.
    There was no feeling in the hands and feet that were bared in the snow. Against the white surface they lay livid and black.
    â€œLoose snow,” directed the sergeant. “And take the stopper from the thermos of milk. The circulation can’t be stimulated with this frostbite.”
    â€œYes, yes, give her a hot drink,” implored Josephine. “She looks like death.”
    â€œCan’t be done, ma’am,” he said briskly, rubbing Mary Immaculate’s feet in loose snow. “The circulation must be started gradually.”
    They worked fast. After a thorough rubbing, the blackened limbs were wrapped in cotton wool, and a few drops of cooled milk poured between her lips. Then she was bundled in blankets.
    â€œNow, Mr. Keilly,” said the sergeant, straightening. “We’ve had our orders. When you called us in I was instructed to find her, and if she needed attention beyond the scope of this village to transport her to town. The quickest way would be by boat across the Bay, and then by catamaran to the railway. Your consent is necessary, but you can see for yourself the state of her hands and feet. Extreme danger from gangrene if she gets the wrong attention.”
    â€œThe skiff!” said Benedict. “I’ll go ahead and get her ready.”
    It was his only answer. What help he had went into action.
    While they were stooping to lift Mary Immaculate from the ground Josephine scrunched to the bundle of blankets. “Wait a minute,” she commanded.
    She had stopped crying and her voice was calm. The sergeant made way for her while she parted the hood over her child’s face. Knowing only its constitutional health and the warm tints of its skin she was appalled by the blue shade suggesting dissolution. Mary Immaculate was dead! Dead without need of her mother’s hands to compose her last sleep! That frozen coma could not belong to childhood, nor suggest any assurance of survival. Lightness, gaiety, colour, pink and blue wool and the coming and going of a pale gold head were all gone! It was the will of God! Her daughter had been lent to her as a lovely plaything. Josephine would go on,