A Gift Upon the Shore (36 page)

Mary didn't know, either, but she started by easing off the ankle-high hiking boot, then the wool stocking. She tried not to show her dismay when she saw Rachel's swollen, discolored foot. In the yellow light of the fire and the sunset sky, the skin had the look of dark, age-patinaed bronze. Mary began cutting the bandages, staying to the inside of the leg, away from the brownish patches. And as she cut through tape, cloth, and gauze, the foully sweet odor made her light-headed. She glanced up at Rachel's face, saw her lips compressed against pain, eyes haunted with dread. Yet she managed a smile. “Malodorous little beastie, clostridia.”

Mary stopped cutting. “What?”

“Clostridia,” Rachel repeated with grim nonchalance. “It's the little beastie that causes gangrene. Of course, it's a camp follower, so to speak. The real soldiers are staphylococcus and streptococcus. Blood poisoning, septicemia, cellulitis. It all comes to the same thing in the end. The microcosm constantly breaks down the macrocosm.”

Mary's throat was too dry for her to speak. Trust Rachel to research her killer thoroughly.

No! Not her killer. Not this time. The microscopic legions would not be triumphant this time.

Mary finished the cut to the top of the bandage. The brownish exudate was too liquid to form scabs that would glue the gauze to the wound, but viscous enough so that she had to ease the gauze off, constantly aware of Rachel's hands locked on her knee to combat the compelling reflex to withdraw from pain. The wound was thus revealed slowly, inch by inch.

The machete had cut into the leg just above the ankle, baring the shinbone, then curved upward around the calf, ending at a point a handsbreadth below the angle of the knee. Rachel had tried to close the wound with tape sutures, but the swelling had pulled the edges apart, and the tapes hung like broken bridges across a riven canyon. The skin was dusky, and surrounding the wound, mottled, purplish blisters gleamed moistly. Shadowy tentacles of red reached toward the knee.

Mary got her trembling under control, ordered the muscles of her face into an expression of calm. “Rachel, you did a hell of a job on this.”

Rachel laughed, although her forehead and upper lip were beaded with sweat. “Like they say, if you're going to do something, do it right.”

Mary cut off a piece of the cloth bandage, dipped it in the water—still hot, but not scalding—and began gingerly cleaning the wound. The smell was dizzying, but she closed her mind to it and to Rachel's clenched hands, her muffled gasps of pain.

But finally Mary could close her mind no longer.

“Rachel, let me give you some of the morphine.”

She went rigid. “No. I won't use the morphine until I have to. And promise me you won't use it on me unless I ask for it. There's not that much of it, considering it's probably lost some of its strength by now. Morphine is very stable, but this is at least ten years old. Mary, promise me—not until I
ask
for it.”

Mary recognized the answer to the question she'd refused to face earlier. Rachel didn't intend to use the morphine as an analgesic, but as a poison.

But it wouldn't come to that. This wound
could
be healed. Somehow.

“All right, Rachel, I promise.” And Mary told herself she could keep that promise because Rachel wouldn't
need
the morphine as a last resort.

Mary applied fresh tape sutures and used the antiseptic spray, knowing its only effect was to cool the skin. Next the aloe, squeezed from the gelid leaf, and she knew it was equally useless against an infection like this. What
would
be effective—other than the antibiotics now lost in history? Other than amputation under sterile conditions with the proper instruments and an anesthetic, however primitive.

The Doctor could've done it.

She found herself shaking and put the Doctor and what might have been out of her mind, smothered those thoughts and the raw hatred they engendered under her mantle of numbness.

There had to be some other answer.

“Sphagnum moss! Rachel, I remember reading something about sphagnum being used on wounds in the First World War.”

“Yes. Maybe it harbors some sort of penicillinlike mold.”

“There's plenty of sphagnum in the woods inland.” Mary started to rise, driven by this new hope, then realized the sky had gone black; only a band of orange at the horizon marked the departed day. “It's too dark to find any now. Damn!”

Rachel caught her arm. “Tomorrow morning. That'll be time enough.”

There was an unspoken plea in that. Rachel was near the limits of her capacity to tolerate Mary's ministrations. Mary nodded, began winding gauze around the leg, but before she finished, the exudate soaked through.

“Rachel, are any of these little beasties anaerobic?”

“Yes. Clostridia is. What we need is a hyperbaric chamber. All the best hospitals have them.”

“Well, I'll just call an ambulance from the nearest phone booth. But it might help to leave the wound exposed to the air for a while.”

There was no sign of hope in Rachel's eyes at that suggestion. “I guess anything's worth a try at this point, but if I'm going to lie here with that thing exposed, you'll have to do something to keep the flies off it. I don't want to give the maggots a chance at me
before
I die.”

Mary shuddered. “Rachel,
don't
. . .”

“I'm sorry. Gallows humor, no doubt.” She closed her eyes. “Tomorrow. We'll try that tomorrow.”

Mary swallowed hard, focused her attention on wrapping the leg with cloth bandages, and even when she completed that task she didn't feel sure enough of her voice to speak. She gathered up the old bandages and took them to the fire, then searched in Rachel's packs until she found a pair of clean socks. She returned to Rachel and carefully slipped one of them on her foot. Rachel was still sitting up, propping herself with both arms. She said weakly, “Mary, you're a good nurse. I think it feels better.”

“I hope so. And now I'll see how that meat is doing. Yorick would probably like some, too.” Yorick responded to his name with a slight lift of his ears. When Mary knelt to ease Rachel down onto the sleeping bag, Rachel embraced her, unexpectedly, silently, almost shyly.

Mary held her, and she seemed little more than a child in her arms, but without a child's supple strength. There was so much that needed to be said now, but Mary still couldn't find the words. Perhaps tears were the only language that would encompass what she felt, and she held on desperately to stop them. Rachel didn't need that.

At length, Rachel drew away, looked into Mary's face, and finally nodded, as if all the words had been said. Then her breath whispered out, and she sank back, eyes closed. “Let me . . . rest for a while. . . .”

Mary tucked the sleeping bag around Rachel's shoulders, then took the soap and went to the creek to wash her hands in the frigid water. Then she crossed to the firepit and stirred the simmering rabbit meat, added more water, and built up the fire, reminding herself that she'd have to gather more wood off the beach tomorrow. There was a good stack by the firepit, but it would be a long night, and she had to keep Rachel warm.

At length, she speared a chunk of rabbit meat, put it in one of the cups from the camp set, then cut it into small pieces and covered it with broth. She woke Rachel and helped her sit up, offered the cup and a spoon. Rachel emptied the cup, slowly, as if she were taking a distasteful medicine. Finally she said, “There, I've cleaned my plate. Have you eaten?”

“Not yet.”

“Then get at it. After all, you're eating for two.” She seemed to want to say more, but she was too spent. She sank back onto the sleeping bag, murmuring words Mary couldn't understand, except for one word:
hope
. Mary covered her, waited until she fell into restless sleep. The uncertain pace of her breathing marked a counterpoint against the constant rush of the sea, while Mary sat huddled in an island of yellow light in the center of infinite darkness, profoundly alone and mortally afraid of her aloneness.

The baby moved, and she closed her eyes, concentrating on the sensation. Our child, the Doctor had said.

She felt rage within her as tangible as the child that stirred again, perhaps in response to it, and she pressed her hands to her belly.
You don't belong to the
Ark,
little one, nor to the Doctor, nor even to
Luke. You are mine, but only for a while. One day you'll be entirely your own
.

And entirely alone?

Mary clenched her jaws to stop a cry. Her muscles ached with the effort.

Entirely alone, this child who had been the focus of all her hope.

She had wanted to perpetuate the species. She had wanted to perpetuate her own humanity. For a chimera of instinct and ego, she had betrayed Rachel—betrayed her as surely as Luke had—and she had betrayed this child.

She felt the child within her, heard the wind sighing above her, and desperately sought her mantle of numbness and some relic of hope.

The child won't
grow up
alone.

She would live to see this child into adulthood. Then it must go out and seek other people, but until that time, it will be loved, it will be taught to read, to think, to sing, to make images and ideas.

And this child will have Rachel, too. Mary felt her teeth chattering and clamped them tight. Rachel
would
live. She would teach this child to be a human being, and perhaps ultimately it would in a sense be more Rachel's child than anyone else's.

Mary looked into Rachel's lined, pallid face, listened for her breathing, heard it, shallow and too fast, and she held on to the hope, held on to her encompassing numbness. Rachel would
live
.

Finally she rose. The fire had gone down. She added more wood, ate some of the rabbit meat and broth, fed some to Yorick. Then she whistled for Epona, and when the mare ambled into the firelight, Mary took her to the next campsite and tied her there. The rope was long enough for her to reach the creek and the grass along the road.

Then Mary lay down next to Rachel under the bearskin, surrounded by its musty odor, but sleep eluded her while she tried to lead her thoughts out of the paths of rage and pain. Rachel repeatedly woke, moaning and frightened, and Mary could only offer the reassurance of her presence. Each time Rachel sank back into restive sleep, Mary rose and replenished the fire. The moon was full tonight. It surprised her when she first saw it through the trees. She had lost track of the moon phases.

She had lost track of too much in the last six months.

The sky was bright with diffuse light, but the sun hadn't yet risen far enough to cast shadows when Mary woke from a sleep of formless, ominous dreams. A bird was singing. The mad bird.

She sat up, dazed with the sudden influx of memories. Rachel. Mary reached out to press her hand to Rachel's forehead, and she was convinced it wasn't as hot as it had been yesterday, and her breathing seemed easier.

Mary rose stiffly and ran her fingers through her tangled hair, then she frowned, distracted, when she saw Yorick lying in the grass near the road. He was gnawing on something, and she walked over to him to see what it was. He gave her a warning growl, but when she spoke his name sharply, he surrendered his prize.

A doughnut-shaped bone. A shank bone, in fact, from a cow. And it had been cleanly cut with a meat saw.

Mary let Yorick have the bone, and her first reaction was enervating fear.

“What's wrong?” Rachel was trying to sit up, leaning on one elbow.

“I'm not sure, but someone was here last night. They muzzled our trusty watchdog with a piece of shank meat.” Mary was looking around the camp as she spoke. It was on the table: a blanket-wrapped bundle.

She went to the table, cautiously unfolded the blanket. Inside, she found drawstring bags of various sizes made, like the blanket itself, of handwoven wool. They came from the Ark.

Of course, they did. Where else would they come from?

Yet this parcel was so unexpected, she might as easily believe it came from the moon that shone so brightly last night. She opened a small bag and found it filled with ground bark, and on a torn scrap of paper, written in ink in tiny, precise letters, the words, “Make into tea for fever.” In another bag filled with dried rose hips, the assurance, “Good for vit. C.” Another bag filled with crushed leaves was designated, “Comfrey, B
₁₂
.” On the lid of a jar of yellow ointment, “Poultice for wound.”

And there was a small, brown bottle with a dropper in the cap. The slip of paper was tied around it with a string: “Laudanum—three drops in cup of water.” And Mary began to laugh, even though her eyes were blurred with tears.

Laudanum. Something to ease Rachel's pain.

Another bag was filled with strips of cloth for bandages, another with dried apple slices, another with a plucked and dismembered chicken, and the last with barley. And the leather cosmetic case—Mary had brought it with her to the Ark. She opened it, found her brush and comb, toothbrushes, soap, cuticle scissors, a jar of aloe and oil.

Finally there was Rachel's sketchbook. The paper for the admonitory identifications had come from the back of it, but Bernadette had been careful to tear out a blank page.

And it had to be Bernadette who had come in the night with this gift. Who else would have access to the medicines? Who else could get Mary's cosmetic case and the sketchbook from the household? Who else would leave the Ark at night, fearlessly traveling by moonlight a road as familiar to her as the forests around it, knowing exactly where Mary would go to camp because there was no better place nearer?

“Mary, please—
who
is Bernadette?”

Mary didn't realize she'd been speaking aloud. She took the bottle to Rachel. “Bernadette lives in our household. Look at this, Rachel. Laudanum. Now you can get some rest from the pain. And she brought herbal medicines—she's a nurse at the Ark—and bandages and a chicken and . . .” She couldn't stop laughing, and she didn't try, because Rachel was laughing with her, and there was hope in it.