She supported Milos as well as she could. Every step he took sent a stabbing pain through his leg. The wound must be deep.
Helen was astonished to find that she had the strength to drag the bodies of Mills and Ramses outside all by herself. She laid them beside Pastor and covered them up with snow. Her own movements, slowed by exhaustion, seemed strange to her. She returned to the refuge like a sleepwalker, picking up one of the dog-men’s shirts in passing. She turned over the mattress, drenched with Mills’s blood, so that Milos could lie on it, and put a makeshift dressing on his injured thigh.
There was a large loaf of rye bread on the table. “Could you eat something?” she asked.
“No,” said Milos, “but you eat. I think you’re going to need enough strength for both of us.”
She put some wood on the fire, sat down at the table, and managed to swallow a few mouthfuls. Then they lay down side by side, while the flames cast moving shadows on the ceiling.
“All right?” asked Helen.
“All right,” Milos murmured, “except that I’ve killed a man.” And he buried his head in the crook of his elbow and wept quietly.
“You killed a man who would have killed us,” she said. “Was that what you wanted?”
“Strangling’s not allowed,” Milos sobbed. “It’s not allowed. And I did it. I never want to fight again.”
She stroked his hair for a long time until he calmed down. Then she said, low-voiced, “Listen, we can’t go on tomorrow. We’ll never get across the mountains in this snow, not with your injury. We must turn back. What do you think?”
But Milos wasn’t thinking anything. He was asleep.
She took his large hands in hers — they were hardly warming up yet — and kissed them. They were not the hands of a killer.
Helen woke up early in the morning. The fire had gone out, and the acrid smell of cold ashes caught her by the throat. She was shocked to see the belongings of Mills and Pastor scattered around her, useless, in the pale light of dawn. So she hadn’t dreamed last night’s events: the fight to the death between Pastor and Milos, the wound in Milos’s leg, the carnage inflicted by the dog-men.
She turned to Milos and gently touched his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
“All right,” he said, smiling. But he didn’t move.
She got up and went to open the door. More snow had fallen overnight. The dog-men’s clothes were covered up, and over by the rocks, the buried bodies of Mills, Pastor, and Ramses showed only as three gracefully curved little mounds. She went back indoors and set to work making a fire with some dry twigs and small pieces of kindling. Kneeling in front of the fire, she blew on the flames. Milos, who was still lying on the mattress, watched her out of the corner of his eye.
“Seems you can do anything! Hide bodies under the snow, light a fire, cheer people up. I’m tempted to ask you for a coffee just to see what happens!”
“Want to bet?” she said, pretending to be cheerful. Hurrying off, she opened drawers and cupboards until she found what she was looking for: an old saucepan without a handle. She went out to fill it with snow and then put it over the fire. Less than ten minutes later she was handing Milos a mug of steaming hot water with a few drops of the spirits Pastor had brought added to it.
“Sorry, not very strong as coffee goes,” she said.
He drank it in small sips, leaning on one elbow.
“Will you be able to walk?” asked Helen. “We’ll each have a pair of snowshoes; that should help us get down. Because we are going to turn back, aren’t we? We can’t go on now.”
Milos put the empty mug down and looked at her sadly. “Thanks for the ‘coffee.’ You’re very kind, but I can’t walk at all. I can’t even get up. I didn’t sleep at all last night — it hurt too badly. And look: I think the knife went almost right through my thigh.”
He raised the blanket. Blood had soaked the dog-man’s shirt, and he carefully moved the torn denim of his jeans aside.
“Oh, my God,” Helen gasped at the sight of the gaping wound. “I’ll change the dressing for you.”
“That won’t stop it from bleeding,” said Milos. “All I can do is keep the wound compressed by trying to move as little as possible. There’s nothing else to be done unless you can stitch wounds too. Got a needle and thread with you?”
But neither of them laughed. Last night Milos had said, “I think you’re going to need enough strength for both of us,” and now Helen realized how right he was.
“I’ll go down to the valley to get help,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I’m sure I can find a farmer with a sleigh, and we’ll get you back down to have that wound seen to. Or I could bring a doctor up here?”
“Do you think you can manage it?”
“I don’t see any other solution, do you? We might wait hundreds of years for someone to come this way.”
Milos sighed. He didn’t like the idea of letting Helen go on her own.
“The snow will have changed the whole landscape. You won’t recognize anything.”
“I won’t even try finding the path we took up here. I’ll go straight ahead downhill and knock at the first door I come to.”
Wasting no more time, she stood up and began getting ready to leave. Mills’s snowshoes were better than the other pair; the wood was almost new, and they had supple leather straps. She adjusted them to fit her and took a few steps out in the snow to try them. Of the two knapsacks, she chose Pastor’s, which was smaller. She took out the contents, a packet of hard crackers, and two apples, and left them beside Milos with half the loaf of bread.
“You must eat a little or you’ll just get weaker.”
“I’ll try,” he promised.
She melted another full saucepan of snow and gave it to him to keep in reserve. Then she arranged anything that might keep him warm around him: the blanket belonging to the refuge, one of the dog-men’s pullovers, and Mills’s jacket, which was still hanging behind the door. She rolled up Pastor’s sheepskin jacket and put it in her knapsack with the rest of the rye bread.
When the time came for her to leave, she crouched down beside Milos and took his curly head in her hands. “It took us two days to come up here. I won’t need that long to get down again. We saw some houses on the way, remember? With a bit of luck I’ll be back tomorrow, the day after tomorrow at the latest. You won’t run away, will you?”
“I’d have my work cut out for me to do that!”
They said nothing for a few seconds.
“I thought I was going to protect you, and now I’m the one who needs your help.” He sighed. “That was clever! I should have stayed at the school.”
“Stop it!” Helen interrupted him. “You wanted to keep the pack from catching up with Bart and Milena, and you did it! It’s because of you they have nothing to fear now.”
“Yes, but what about you?”
“I’ll be all right — don’t you worry. Well, I’d better leave. Shall I look for some more wood for you first? Dead branches? You could burn them this evening.”
“No, don’t waste time doing that. I’d rather you left at once.”
“You’re right. I’ll be off.” But she was still hesitating. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes, come back!”
“Of course I’ll come back!”
“Promise?”
She merely nodded. If I open my mouth, she thought, my voice will fail me, and this is no time to burst into tears. At the door, she turned and gave him a last smile. He waved good-bye with the fingers of one hand.
“I’ll wait, Helen. Look after yourself.”
She walked straight ahead for hours, going downhill, running when she could, thinking only of saving time. The wooden snowshoes crunched at every step she took over the fresh snow. Go on! Go on! their little rhythmical tune seemed to say again and again. The sun made the ice crystals glitter. How beautiful this would be, she thought, if Milos weren’t up there with his leg bleeding!