My skinny jeans were plastered to my wet body and felt two sizes too small. I pulled my hair out of the chignon and wrung out the excess water. I twisted my hair back into place, in the attempt to keep cold water off my body. Ha! That was wishful thinking. My wet locks would have to wait.
I walked back about a quarter of a mile to where I had thrown my satchel and my unsuccessful attempt at jumping across the creek. I took off my blazer–weighed down with water–and twisted it in order to wring out any excess water. I did the same for my blouse. I shivered the entire time. Teeth-breaking shivers. If I took off my jeans, there would be no way I could get them back on my sticky wet body. I sat down, unzipped my boots, poured the water out of them, took off my socks, and wrung them out. I sat there in my soaked jeans and my bra, desperate for hot bath and dry clothes. The wet clothes clung in all the wrong places as I struggled putting them back on. I needed to find a way into the sun or next to that fire. Finally dressed, I threw my satchel back on and headed towards my salvation.
The smell of burning wood grew stronger as I continued to walk in the direction of the smoke. I kept my arms clenched around me, desperate to grasp onto any warmth. I needed to get out of the woods and find the strong sun before hypothermia set in or I broke all my teeth from shivering. Looking back, I’m sure neither one would have happened; however, at that point, no one could convince me otherwise.
I inhaled and drew the scent in through my nose and deep into my lungs. Someone was cooking meat. My stomach protested its emptiness and begged for me to find the food. A faint murmur of men talking and laughing emerged over the sound of the crunching leaves beneath my feet and the water squishing in my boots. My body trembled in pain from the cold, and I picked up my pace through the thick woods. The light was brighter, voices louder, and the scent of food let me know I was getting closer to my salvation.
I grabbed my growling stomach and picked up my pace. The protein bar I had earlier had not satiated me, and I was famished. The exhaustion had become more pronounced. I ached to sleep in a warm bed only to waken to eat for the next week. That would have to wait until I could figure out where I was and how to get back home.
As I emerged from the woods, in front of me was a desolate dirt road, barely wide enough for a car, but no sign of a car or person coming from either direction. I could see no one along the road, but I could hear the low murmur of voices coming from somewhere in the woods on the other side of the road. I worked my way through another set of woods. Again, the shade dropped the temps and turned me into a teeth-chattering ice cube. Fortunately, the trip through the frozen tundra did not last long, and a small clearing filled with the afternoon sun was ahead of me.
Small tents, barely large enough to fit two people, were set up in a somewhat orderly, if not snug, fashion of five or six tents in four rows throughout the field. Some tents comprised of a cloth tarp with sticks. Others were half-sized lean-tos. It looked as though they were using what they were willing to make do with or lug.
A quick assessment of the camp, I could see approximately thirty men, and they appeared to be war reenactors. There was a stark difference between these men than what I had seen before with the Civil War reenactors. I had never been to a Civil War reenactment, but I had seen plenty of them on documentaries, movies, and television shows. The uniforms these men wore were not the typical Civil War uniforms. What I remembered from the shows, the reenactors were supposed to be dressed in blue or gray uniforms. These men were wearing dark blue trousers with blue or white gaiters, some had blue vests or white jackets, others were in their white shirts. I couldn’t place where I had seen the uniforms, but they were not what I had expected from any of the American uniforms of the past. I could, at the very least, discern that from the style.
Reenactments meant there was civilization nearby, or at least someone could give me a ride to the nearest town. Men milled around the encampment cooked food, cleaned rifles, set up their living areas, and sat around chatting. Their voices grew from a murmur to a jovial roar. I could not make out what they were saying. There was too much commotion, and my teeth were chattering louder than their voices. I was sure I was going to break my teeth from the uncontrollable chatter.
“Arrêt…” A soldier ran up to me, rifle pointed at my chest. I could not understand everything he said. “Arrêt” sounded French. I thought I had heard or read it before. There was a lull in the voices as the other men turned their heads in the soldier's direction, running towards me. “… vous?” He nudged at me with the tip of his rifle. He was young, early twenties, light brown hair and eyes, lean, a delicate jawline, and ears that seemed a bit too small.
“Sorry?” I stopped, shook my head, and raised my hands up in surrender. “What is wrong with you? Stop pointing that damned thing at me.” I pushed the muzzle away from my chest and took a step back.
Reenactors don’t use real guns, at least I didn’t think they did, but that didn’t mean I wanted one pointed at me. I wasn't sure what the man was saying to me, although I was almost positive that he was speaking French. However, the fact that he had a rifle pointed at me, gave rise for concern. “Sorry. Need you to break character. I don't speak French.”
Another soldier was upon me, rifle inches from my body. “Qui… vous? Que… vous…?” More soldiers ran up to me. A variety of ages and sizes; at that point, it was a blur. They joined the soldier and pointed more rifles and swords at me. The men continued to speak in French, which left me confused and able to decipher only a word here-and-there, nothing to make out a conversation.
“What in the hell is going on?” I looked around at the gathering crowd of reenactors. By the look of things, they took their reenactment seriously, and I was, unfortunately, at the other end of the game. “Take me to your leader?” I felt as though I landed on an alien planet and the old parody of being captured and requesting to be taken to whomever was in charge was the only thing I could think to say to them. These men were in full character, and I stuck out like a sore thumb, but I needed to speak to whomever was in charge so I could get home.
A man in full uniform, with fancy accoutrements on the chest of his uniform–that I did not recognize–walked with a distinguishable limp, favoring his left leg, towards gathering crowd. He looked to be close to my age, if not a bit older. “… moi …! … moi passer!” The crowd parted, letting the man through. “Pardon, Madame. Qui … vous?”
“I'm sorry. As I told this gentleman,” I said as I motioned to the overly excitable, rifle-toting sentry, “I don't speak French. I had asked him to take me to whomever oversees your group here.”
Another poke in the side with a musket. My head snapped towards the soldier. “Next time, if you want to poke me that much, take me to dinner first.” I brushed the end of the gun away from me and turned back towards the man that had joined our group.
“Oui.” He paused, looked at me down his long, pointed nose, and let out an audible breath. “English. What are you doing here?” The man said with a heavy French accent, raking his eyes over me from the top of my stream-soaked head down to my boots that hid my hypothermic toes. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to size me up to decide if I was a threat or if he was looking at me with disgust. I wrapped my arms around myself. Intentions, whether good or bad, he made me uncomfortable, and I had no clue what was going on. My clothes had not dried. I continued to shiver. No doubt, I looked like a drowned rat.
“Hi! Oh! Great! You speak English. I'm Amelia and I'm just trying to get home.” Be friendly, Murray, win them over with charm. “I don't know how I got here. Well, I know how I got here from over there,” I said, as I pointed behind me towards the woods. “I'm tired. I'm freezing. I'm hungry. Could you please take me to your commander, or whatever he is called, unless you are the commander? So, he, or you, can arrange for me to get a ride to the nearest town?” My teeth continued to chatter uncontrollably.
“… français?” He humphed and looked down his nose at me again. Jerk. This was not going as planned. “Oui. S'il vous plaît, Madame,” the man said, gesturing to me to follow him. He leaned to the side and said something to a soldier.
“Oui, chef,” the soldier said as he saluted. He turned around to bark instructions at the other men. They all continued to speak in French, which were hollow sounds in my English-understanding ears. I understood “oui”, and a few other words here and there, but nothing made sense. I had gone to France twice when Todd was stationed in Europe but had never needed to learn more than a few words. If he was the chef, I hoped I could get some food from him. My stomach felt as though it was going to scream if I didn’t eat.