Angel of Death: Book One of the Chosen Chronicles (83 page)

Nervous, Jeanie’s hand shook as it alighted onto the simple brass knob. The Angel was in there, but she did not know what to expect. It took several calming breaths before she could turn the knob. A shriek escaped her, as the door was wrenched open. Brother Absolon’s stood on the other side, his face wide with surprise. It was clear neither of them had expected the other.

Once hearts and breathing calmed down to near normal levels, Brother Absolon stepped back to let her in before closing the door.

“You should have knocked,” stated the monk, gruffly.

“I’m sorry,” stammered Jeanie, her heart gradually returning to its regular cadence.

Her focus shifted from the elderly healer to scan the room. Everything seemed to be in place. The only difference was that the Angel lay on two pallets, one on top of the other, before a small warming hearth. Lying on his left side, Jeanie could see the horrific wounds on his back. She took a step towards him. It was enough of a movement to send her flying to his side, the sword clattering to the stone floor beside her.

Jeanie brushed his long white hair from the side of his face. He was still unconscious, his expression almost serene. Gradually she took in the sight of him. Clean white bandages wrapped his whole right arm, from shoulder to fingers that were grey and no longer black. His left arm was bandaged from elbow to fingers, and rested up by his face. A padded bandage carefully covered his right breast and another was wrapped securely around the length of his left thigh. Pillows supported him so that he leaned forward, making it difficult to roll backwards.

Silent tears dripped down her face.

“I’ve done all that I could.” Brother Absolon’s voice held no warmth only cool professionalism. “Father Theodore told me not to use steel needles to suture
after
I had started. Needless to say, since I don’t have anything but, I had to make do. You’re Angel is a very interesting individual - medically speaking.”

Jeanie swivelled on her knees and gazed up at the monk who was in deep contemplation. “Will he be alright?”

Broken from his meanderings, Brother Absolon blinked, turned and sat down on the simple wooden chair. “Before I came to the Order I was a physician in the army. I have seen much in my long career, but nothing to the extremes I have tended to today. By all accounts the Angel should have died from such wounds. Instead there he lies slowly on the mend.” The monk leaned back making the chair creak under his weight. “I suppose that you want to know what I managed to do?”

Jeanie nodded, silent in her expectation.

Brother Absolon steepled his index fingers in clasped hands and brought them to his thin lips. “It’s ever the way.” Dropping his hands back into his lap, the monk sat straighter in the chair, a professional air enveloped him. “The wounds on his arm, leg and pectoral were easily stitched after I over came my surprise at the burning the needle caused. His back, well, there is not much I can do. In time it will heal, but the damage is done. It was the injury to the wrists that caused the most difficulty. I have never seen living bone burnt before. The damage is extensive and I have done what I could with my crude implements to repair the delicate tissues. Splints have been placed within the wrappings to minimize movement, but it is my professional opinion that the Angel will have lost the use of his hands.”

She could not believe what she was hearing. The cold, detached way the monk reported his care made the whole proceedings a dream. Shaking her head in disbelief, Jeanie stood to face the dispassionate man.

“Get out,” her voice sounded rough to her ears.

“Beg your pardon?” A bushy grey brow rose. It was clear he had never been talked to like this before.

“I said get out.” Jeanie’s voice grew louder, her arm thrust out to point at the door.

Brother Absolon slowly stood, his face flushed with indignant rage. “I would remind you, my dear, that - “

Regaining some of her control, Jeanie gritted her teeth. “I thank ye for yer help, but ye’re wrong. The Angel will make a full recovery.”

“I am a physician with –”

“Ye are a monk, and he is the Angel,” glowered Jeanie.

Apoplectic, Brother Absolon stood and briskly walked out of the room, slamming the door in his wake.

With the last of the echo dissipating in the room, Jeanie let out a huff that made her head swim. Fatigue crashed through her and she went to sit down on the bed. The nausea receded as the vertigo dissipated and she lay down. Jeanie hoped that the Angel would not begrudge her a short rest before she went to care for him, at least until the room ceased spinning. Heavy eyelids closed of their own volition and before she could stop herself, Jeanie fell asleep.

D
arkness surrounded and comforted him as he drifted in the void
he had once feared. Nothing but the gentle current gave indication that he moved, but he did not care. He was away from the pain, embraced by the blackness that swept all his senses away.

If he was dead, he did not know it and nor did he care. He exalted in the feeling of nothingness. The beautiful lack of emotion.

Nothing could touch him and he could touch nothing. He floated in the depths of unconsciousness and revelled in its comfort.

Time refused to exist.

 
Space, an illusion in as far as he could see, was nothing.

He floated, giving himself up to whatever and wherever he may be. Not even the white-faced demons dared to disrupt the rapture of detachment.

Mind numb, body senseless, he drifted upon the vague currents for untold ages and smiled.

A tug.

A pull.

A shift of the current.

An infinitesimal change of direction.

An unwelcome pressure evoking a growing sense of disquiet which was quickly dismissed.

He refused to open his eyes. He no longer cared.

If they were back, so be it. No more would he fear them. No more could they cause him pain. No more would he flee.

In the rising current he waited serenely for their return, willing to offer them anything they might wish.

The current’s pull became stronger and with it came tongues of heat that licked over his body. Still he refused to open his eyes. Throwing open his arms, he tossed his head back in expectation that the searing would eradicate his body to leave nothing of substance.

He sighed. He gasped. He did not open his eyes.

Jeanie woke with a start and gazed about the room wondering where she was. It was not the first time she felt this way upon awakening here, but after a moment the disorientation dissipated and she stretched. Rubbing her eyes, Jeanie grimaced. She had not meant to fall into such a deep asleep and wondered what time it was. A glance out the small draped window deepened her frown. The sun had already set, or it was in the process since the storm seemed to be petering off. Rising to her feet, she quietly walked over to the Angel and knelt beside him.

Tenderly, she laid a hand on his forehead and shook her head at the heat under her palm. Still caught in a fever, Jeanie wondered if he would wake but thought it better he slept. She did not know what to do for him, but she knew from taking care of her mother, that unless the fever broke on its own, there was not much that could be done except to make the patient more comfortable.

A gentle knock on the door jammed her heart into her throat as she spun around to watch it open.

Her pulse pounding in her ears settled at the sight of Father Theodore entering the room, followed by a novice who carried a tray of steaming food. With a sigh of relief, Jeanie rose to her feet and smiled.

“How is he?” asked the Abbot.

Jeanie noticed his right hand hidden beneath his scapular, and turned back to the unconscious Angel. “I dinna ken.”

The novice placed the tray on the table and with a nod of thanks from the monk, left the Abbot and his guests alone. Once the door was closed, Father Theodore pulled out a bottle from his robes and placed it down beside the tray. “A pig was slaughtered for tomorrow’s meal and I managed to have the brother in charge procure me this. I hope it will be alright.”

Jeanie walked over to the table, lifted up the bottle and gave it a sniff. Blood, obviously fresh by its warmth, wafted from the glass. “Thank ye, Father. I hope it’ll do.”

Walking over to the Angel, Father Theodore crouched down and laid a hand on the bare shoulder, closed his eyes and muttered a prayer before standing up and making the sign of the cross.

“Compline services will be starting in about a half hour. I know you have made it clear you aren’t Catholic and that you wish to stay with the Angel, my dear, but you are most welcome to take part,” invited the Abbot. “I can have a novice watch him for you, and if needed he can come and get you.”

Eyes glittering with gratitude, Jeanie gazed at the stone floor. “I’ll - I’ll think on it, aye?”

“As you wish,” replied Father Theodore as he headed to the door.

Warmth stole through his body. Not a burning, soul consuming inferno, but rather a gentle all pervading heat that tenderly embraced, kissing his skin.

All motion had ceased and a new sensation tingled awareness throughout his body. Soft coolness tickled along the edges of his arms, torso, and legs. Beneath that was a sense of firmness.
 

He no longer floated. The rational knowledge that he now lay prone did not give him impetus to open his eyes.

The perfume of lush greenery wafted and he sighed. Behind the green came the sweet aphrodisiac of what could only be flowers and he breathed deeper.

It was the scent of peace. The
 
fragrance of home. He wanted to bury himself in it and never leave.

A trickling of water. The buzzing of insects. The titter of birds. Soft sounds awoke his ears. He smiled and nestled into the softness beneath.
 
It was the music of life. A composition of ordered chaos that bespoke of innocent times. A time when he was a child and the whole world consisted only of he and Auntie.

Auntie.

It had been eons since he had thought about her. Centuries since he last mused upon his life before being Chosen. Decades upon decades that layered the ancient past into oblivion. A knot formed in his stomach and he opened his eyes.

Emerald grass waved before his eyes, dancing in the brightness of mid-day.

Panic!

Pushing himself upright, he looked around. A glade of immense beauty encircled him. He sought a way to hide from the light until he realized his skin did not burn and the brightness did not hurt his eyes. Stunned into immobility he could only stare open mouthed at the kaleidoscopic flowers and trees. Never before had he witnessed such awesome beauty.
 

Vibrant purples, reds, oranges, yellows, greens and even blues bespoke of a painter’s brush held by the hand of nature.

Slowly, he turned around. Each bud, each stem, each leaf and flower and fruit evoked wonder until he beheld the bubbling spring.

Tinkling music was the sound of water against the large rounded rocks that encircled the small well.
 
The clear water churned gently in its natural cauldron. The scent drew him and he took a step.

Self awareness slammed into him and he gazed down upon himself. Clad only a deerskin kilt, his body held no mark, no scar, no evidence of the trials of suffering he had endured. His pale skin did not even redden under the warming light. He did not know where he was and nor did he care. Whatever the place, to him it was a dream come true, a paradise of all that had been denied to him.