Chapter V: The Wolf Moon, AD 481
Contra vim mortis non est medicamen in hortis.
There is no herb against the power of death.
* * *
The
All the mature trees along the
Thus, the vegetation along the road to
In front of this structure, a buck-toothed man with a bald forehead and a protruding Adam’s apple paced about. He wore a priest’s cloak with multiple patches, sewed with neat tight stitching. As clergymen went, this one appeared to fall into the category of runt. But still, he had a dagger in his belt. Upon seeing Merthen, the priest reached for it.
“I am not a Saxon!” said Merthen, raising both hands in surrender. “I am Ambrosius Merthen the apple seller. Dominus illuminatio mea. Widow Blodwen suggested I stop by, something about an injured girl?”
The priest sheathed his knife. “Beg your pardon, Sir. Your braids confused me. I am Father Thomasius. Are you the physician?”
“I am an herbalist. Where is the child?”
“She is inside. Let me get Mister Brynmor.” Thomasius stepped into the cottage.
“What happened to her?” said Uther. “Is she all right?”
“She is ill,” said Merthen. “She was bucked off a horse.”
Out came the priest along with Mister Brynmor, dressed in thick leather boots and a peasant’s smock.
Brynmor bowed. “Good day, Mister Merthen. Thank you for coming by. You heard about our Delyth?”
“Widow Blodwen informed me of her predicament. How did it happen?”
“You know Lord Carasius? His wife brought some of her ponies to market. My daughter managed to climb onto one of them. My son tried to push her off. It spooked the horse and it tossed her. She landed on her head.”
“On the cobblestones?” said Merthen. “Was there any bruising? Did she pass out?”
“She had a blue mark on her head. She seemed fine. Then she said the back of her neck hurt. This morning, she got sleepy and fell down. Now we cannot wake her. She has a fever. Come inside.”
Merthen said to Uther, “Stay out here, boy.”
Brynmor and Father Thomasius had to duck to pass through the low hung doorway. Merthen followed. Inside lay Delyth, a girl no older than Uther. She rested on a clean straw mat, but she did not look restful. She was stiff and pale. Delyth’s mother, Missus Gwenda stroked her un-reactive hand.
“Good day, Mister Merthen,” said Gwenda. “Thank you so much for helping us.”
“My pleasure, Madam. I need a lamp.” Merthen crouched down. He pressed his fingers against the girl’s shoulders, neck and scalp. She was not feverish. He asked, “Did she have any fluid coming from her nose?”
“Aye,” said Missus Gwenda. She handed him a candle. “It came out her ears as well.”
Merthen manually opened one of the girl’s eyes. He brought the flame close to it and her iris expanded. Clearly, her faculties were still active. Back when Merthen was a drummer boy, he saw quite a few legionnaires carried off the field with a blow to the skull. The eyes were the first thing the physicians checked. Once the eyes died, the rest of the body followed.
Merthen said, “I have seen this sort of injury before. She has bruised her cranium. It is possible that she is bleeding on the inside. I know this may seem strange, but it can happen.”
“Will she get better?” said Gwenda.
“Some can recover from this, others cannot. You need to boil a pot of water and gather some clean rags. I must speak with your husband.”
Merthen went outside. Mister Brynmor and Father Thomasius joined him. Uther was down the road with a group of children. It was just where Merthen anticipated he would be. Whenever Uther got the opportunity, he would be off trying to out jump the other boys, or making a doll dance for a toddler.
Merthen addressed Mister Brynmor, “I am compelled to impress upon you how serious this is. Your daughter’s brain is attracting aqueous humors. It is swollen with liquid. I fear that that in all likelihood, she will not make through the night. However, if we can drain her skull, she may survive.”
Brynmor showed no outward emotion, but the pink drained out of his face. He asked, “How do we do that?”
“You need to get a wood auger. Whereas your daughter is so young, the bone on the top of her head is still thin. We can poke through it.”
“Come again?” said Father Thomasius. “Are you suggesting we drill a hole through her head? No offense, Sir, but this procedure sounds more like, well… what some people might construe as witchcraft. I am not saying it is, mind you.”
“We must release the pressure,” said Merthen. “She may not live, but if she dies, she will go quickly. I observed this operation many times when I was with the legions. It was always conducted by Christians.”
“Are you sure she will not get over it?” said Mister Brynmor. “Can you give her some herbs?”
“I could prepare an infusion of cherry stems, but she would need to swallow it. In her state, she might choke. I cannot make this decision for you. And I must reiterate in the starkest terms that whatever we do, we will most likely fail.”
Mister Brynmor hung his shoulders. “We lost our first son when he was her age. His cut his leg. It was just a small damn cut. It took him months to die. If this happens again, my wife will go mad.” He asked the priest, “What do you think?”
Thomasius considered his response. “Well,” he finally said, “if it worked for the legionnaires.”
“We should do it then,” said Brynmor. “My brother-in-law has an auger.” He ran down the road.
Merthen called out, “We need a curved quilting needle and some thread. And a long wooden spoon.”
“My wife has that. I will be back in a moment.”
Merthen sneezed and unfolded his hanky. Father Thomasius pivoted on the soles of his feet. Neither man spoke.
For Merthen, engaging in small talk was painful chore, especially with clergymen. This was not because he took issues with the teachings of Jesus. Rather, it was because so many priests attempted to quote the Bible despite having never actually read it. In Merthen’s opinion,
“I have heard about you,” said Thomasius. “Not by name, mind you. The locals say there is a hermit who grows apples in the woods.”
“A peculiar hermit, no doubt. Do they say I am a druid?”
“I suppose some do. All I know is, I have never seen you at
“Eking out a living. What are you doing here? Your accent suggests you come from
“I wanted to be a missionary up in
“If you have gall stones, you should drink plenty of water.”
“Oh, I do. My wife is constantly nagging me about it. Is it true you once worked for King Vortiger?”
“I copied building plans for his architect.”
Mister Brynmor ran up with an auger in his hand. “I will get the needle,” he said. “My wife has rags.” He dashed into the hut.
“Missus Gwenda,” said Thomasius, under his breath, “her father and sister died last year. Her brother two years before.”
The sound of children at play distracted Merthen. Uther swung from a tree upside down with his knees bent over a branch, giggling like a clown. Merthen was about to tell the boy to stop, when Uther set his palms flat on the earth, did a somersault, and landed butt-first in the grass, unharmed.
Thomasius withdrew out his dagger. “Take this. I just sharpened it.”
Merthen accepted it, and the two men made their way into the cottage. The sun was low in the sky. Inside the windowless structure, it was already evening.
Next to the girl, Missus Gwenda had laid out a neat stack of folded rags. There was also a kettle of hot water and two threaded needles. Merthen tore one of the rags into long strips, and bound the girl’s hands to her side. “I will need for you to hold her head,” he said to Thomasius. “You must sit on her torso, but gently. Do not constrict her breathing.”
Father Thomasius complied. He said to the parents, “Perhaps you should wait outside.”
“What are you going to do?” said Missus Gwenda. “Why do you need that water?” She reached towards her child. Mister Brynmor held her back.
“I am sorry,” said Merthen, “but you must go. You need to trust me.”
Like a dutiful wife, she said nothing. Her husband led her out.
Merthen mindfully dipped the needles in the kettle, letting the threads drape over the side. “One more thing,” he said to the dejected parents, “It is proper procedure for a mother to kiss her child before this treatment. Quickly now.”
Missus Gwenda knelt down and caressed her child on the cheek.
“That will do,” said Merthen. “Please wait outside. I would recommend you gather some woman - they all must be mothers - and pray to Saint Luke. Any prayer will be sufficient. The more the better.”
“Aye,” said Gwenda, “I will.” She and her husband set off for their task.
Merthen submerged the tip of the knife into the simmering water. As the old legionnaires used to say, hot metal heals, cold metal kills. Why this was, not even Hippocrates knew.
Merthen lifted out the steaming needles. “Father Thomasius, I may ask you to dunk these in the water repeatedly. We must keep them heated, almost too hot to touch.”
“Very well,” said Thomasius. “I am ready.”
Merthen wedged the handle of the wooden spoon in the girl’s mouth. “Make sure that stays there. I am going to begin now.”
Merthen positioned his dagger securely in his fist and recalled the first time he sliced through human skin. This time would be easier. After all, her eyes were shut, and she was not screaming for mercy. His wrist began to shake.
Thomasius asked, “Is something wrong?”
Merthen brought into his mind a statement he had meditated on countless times. It was a sentence of few words; the past is an illusion, only the present exists.
Merthen pressed the blade into her scalp. He carved out a flap of skin about the size of birch leaf, and folded it back. The girl struggled, then went limp. Too much pain and a person will lose all consciousness. That was something Merthen knew about as well.
With a quick twist of the dagger’s tip, Merthen carved a hay-seed sized divot into the outer surface of Delyth’s skull. He dipped the drill tip in the steaming water. Blood seeped out over the exposed bone. He centered the auger, and drilled down five cycles. There was a popping noise. A reddish liquid oozed out the hole.
Thomasius was breathing hard. “Is that a good sign?” he said.
Merthen was hoping the fluid would be clear. If it was, he would drain her braincase, sew her scalp back on, and sleep well tonight. Instead, a slow stream of blood, some of it dark and clotted, dribbled from her wound. Merthen checked her eyes. They had rolled up into her head. There was no noise. The flickering flame in the candle stood still.
* * *
A cricket with beady black eyes and bolt-like legs joints jumped onto Merthen’s shoulder.
“Fear not,” said the cricket, “I am Gopi.”
Merthen did not let go of the girl.
“You wretch,” he said, “leave me be.”
He wanted to say more, but said nothing. Here he was, trying to save an innocent victim of fate, and all Lady Gopi wanted to do was interrupt him. How could she be so irresponsible? And the worst part was, Merthen had no one to blame but himself. It was his mind that created Gopi. It was his madness that would cost this girl her life.
Gopi hopped onto his red-stained hands. “I am sorry,” she said. “The girl is dead. It was over the moment she fell off the pony. There is nothing you could have done.”
No comments:
Post a Comment