IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume
II: Tests of Fire and Blood
Chapter 10 Healing on the Sabbath
Sunday, April 26, 2708,
continued When we return to the
infirmary, new patients fill every possible space and total strangers carry in
more. At first I think there must've
been another skirmish; then I smell the gangrene in the air. These wounds have all gone unattended for far
too long. "Move some of them
into the adjoining classes," I say. "Give us room to take care of
everybody." Friends of the wounded
have been walking on the mats, with no floor to step on between, to fetch water
and bedpans and everything else, till muddy footprints mark every sheet and
patients squirm over the grit that's rolled under them. "Marduk, don't even
try to lift that child!" His face
turns gray just shifting into position to help.
"You lay right back down if you want any hope of ever fathering
children." God forbid--maybe I
should let him help after all. He falls
back on the mat with a groan, muttering, "But they're all so much worse
off than me!" Then, giving me an
acid glare, he says, "They need me, you sow--it's your own damn fault you
don't have my strength to help you."
Then he punches his pillow weakly in frustration, not up to any further
violence. (She needed me, once. She used
to wake up every night, crying over nightmares, glad to have me there beside
her. When did she stop needing me?) "Rashid, triage the
newcomers.” (When did I become good for nothing but killing on her orders?) “Malcolm, pick out a room to convert to a
surgery unit--I don't think we can avoid amputation in some of these cases, and
we'll need all the nitrous you've got.” (When did she start to think that I needed
her?) “Makhliya and Imad will help
you sterilize the setting as much as possible--they know the
routine." People do my bidding
before I have time to think, "Hey, wait a minute--days ago I wore a chain
in slavery, and now suddenly they take orders from me, just like that?" But I do think it, now, as
I move from bed to bed helping with the triage, Rashid and me working different
rooms. "Tell Khouri to get some
clean sheets in here. And fetch Aron--he's
been wanting something to do, he might as well learn nursing." The kid gets around on his knees,
anyway--what could suit him better? Cyran finally arrives, so
at last I can ask hir, "What the devil's going on? Where'd all these people come from?" E shakes hir head. "The rumor mill, apparently. Word got out that I plan to shut down our
operation here as too big, so they wanted to touch base one last time." "All at once," I
groan, "making our presence more conspicuous than ever." E studies our
suddenly-expanded infirmary, saying, "Not bad. Short notice and you rose to the challenge
admirably. I understand you took charge
while the others stood there gaping in shock." "That's what I'm
trained to do," I say as I help Aron change a sheet. "Rise to challenges--easy Aron! You don't want to roll the patient over too
roughly, no matter how much of a hurry you're in--you'll reopen the
wounds. Now let's get the other
side." I look up at Cyran. "Frankly, that's about all I know how to
do; when life gets too peaceful I have trouble keeping up with my
laundry." E chuckles. "I've been meaning to talk to you about
that. But after you settle everyone in
here, could you help organize things at the library? We've got ten times as many healthy bodies to
quarter." "You give whatever
orders you want, Cyran, but do I look like I'm in any danger of finding time on
my hands?" E shook hir head with a
grin. "You think I meant it?" Malcolm's head pops
in. "We're as set up as we'll ever
be. You got the most critical patients
ready, yet?" "No acute
bleeders," I reply, "so we'll start with all the gangrene cases
who're running fevers. We've lined them
up in the room next door to your surgery." When he pokes his head in
there he winces at the smell, then his face firms to determination. "Scrub up, Deirdre. I don't have what it takes to put anyone out
completely, so I'll need a strong pair of arms to hold them in place." Riiiight. I glance down at my bandages. "Got it," I say. I roll up my hair and stuff it into one of
the linen moll-caps that Makhliya made for the purpose, while Imad fetches the
water. "Rashid,” I call out, “are
we almost out of greensoap? No, here,
there's more." I work up a thin lather,
telling Malcolm, "I'm afraid we can't afford anything better than
veterinary-grade antiseptics." "That's nothing new to
me,” he says, scrubbing up beside me, unable to avoid crowding me. “You got a butcher-saw we can
sterilize?" "Of course--and a
dead-sharp cleaver, too. That's
sometimes quicker, especially with child-sized bones. You’ve got to strike hard and heavy, though;
otherwise you cause splinters and fractures the whole way up and you can lose
an entire limb that way." His face
turns white. I discard my old clothes
and don the boiled ones saved up for such occasions, in bags hanging in the
cloakroom. I try not to look as he
strips, too, but curiosity can’t resist a peek at just how all that fat
distributes, too quick for him to notice, before I firmly turn my back. I have never seen such enormous hams in my
life! "You ever do an amputation
before?" "No. Not unless you count pulling
teeth." I turn to face him,
properly attired now in the tentlike smock that Makhliya made for him days ago,
out of sheets. "But I'm willing to
try." His clenched jaw makes his
soft face look hard. "I won't call it
easy," I say as I pull on gloves, while Makhliya ties a kerchief over my
nose and mouth. "But I think maybe
you've done harder things in your life." He nods slowly, reaching
for his own gloves. "I wonder how
many limbs we could save if we actually knew what we were doing?" "Don't even think
about that." Now Makhliya ties
another on Malcolm, making him look like a bandit in a bonnet and a muumuu. "It's our job to do the best we can--if
nobody more qualified volunteers to help, it's not on our heads." Makhliya does the honors for Rashid, who has
just rushed in quickly, to soap up and don gloves and boiled clothing of his
own. I go next door to pick up a
boy that Aron has prepared in sterile garments; As I carry him back, he shivers
in my arms despite the heat. Malcolm,
Rashid, our patient and I then enter a room so sharp with antiseptic that it
makes my eyes sting. Mahkliya and Aron
will take care of the ones who don’t need immediate surgery, and Imad will
sterilize more surgery garb and bandages. Malcolm says, "Sit
over here, Deirdre. Hold him in your lap.
It's okay; I'm used to working this way.
You'll have more control holding him in place, and he'll have the comfort
of human touch.” Ouch. “Yeah--like that." He puts the nose-gear onto the kid's face and
starts the nitrous/oxygen mix. I can
feel the fear-taut muscles relax degree by degree in my sore arms. (The slant feels weird,
leaned back in the tall woman's lap, but then everything has gone pleasantly,
distantly weird. At first I feel like I
can't breathe right with that thing over my nose, but she presses fingers over
my lips to keep me from breathing through my mouth. Then my hands and feet go all tingly in a
nice sort of way and I don't care whether I can breathe or not, but my chest
rises and falls, rises and falls, so I figure I must be all right. I am all right. I lie safe and warm in a kind woman's arms.) Using the forceps from his
own supply of tools, Malcolm delicately unwraps the fetid bandages around the
right hand. (She strokes my hair from
my face as the fat man lifts my hand, the bad hand, the one that throbs even
through the tingles.) His eyes widen
when he sees the mangled ruin--with a distinctive grid pattern stamped into the
flesh. Malcolm looks at me and
says, "We'll have to tell Cyran.
They already know that we've concentrated at one base." Of course. Why else would they send tanks against us? "Lidocaine," he
says, and Rashid makes the injection, while I hold the limp little boy. (Now...no!
She betrayed me! The Jenji kid
plunges a needle in bone-deep, pain-deep, chasm of hell deep, but she grips me
like stone so that I can't escape, all the while pressing her cheek to my head
and murmuring, "Shhhhh, shhhhh," like she loves me. I struggle feebly, the pain far away,
actually, and soon gone, soon even the old throbbing ache goes away as I feel
my hand swell up like a ball, but I glance that way and it's the same size it
ever was.) Rashid
paints the boy’s entire hand and forearm with Akhbar’s Ox Ointment. “Before you do any sawing or cleaving,” he
tells Malcolm, “see if you can cut a flap, anchored to the sound part, to fold
over the stump. They heal better with
their own skin, if we can manage it.”
Then he ties on the tourniquet. (The tightness hurts a bit,
but I don’t care. I can’t feel the ache
that had taken over my life, for days on end, and that’s a big improvement. I settle back against the
woman's breast and turn my head, not really wanting to see what the fat man
does to my hand. I feel the grace of
Heaven drift down onto me as I breathe slowly, deeply, in and out and in and
out. Arturo forgives me, I
know. I can feel his forgiveness waft
down from heaven like the gentle breeze from an angel's wing, like the sparkle that
courses through me. My little brother
knows how I tried to pull him from the path of the tank, how my grip wouldn't
let go of him no matter what, just like I promised. He forgives me for all the times I called him
boogerface or beaglebreath, or any old mean thing I could think of. I bear my good intention stamped upon my
flesh. Arturo's just fine, now, and
maybe I'll be, soon.) "Praise
God," Malcolm says. "I think I
can save his hand, after all." (I feel my arm lift as he
turns it this way and that, but I can't feel the hand itself anymore and who
needs to, anyway?) "Part
of it, at least, the thumb and first finger--he'll have a grip." (Have a grip.
I don't want a grip on anything right now. Just let me float away, not attached to
anything, not even attached to fingers.
Let me, for a little while, rest...) * * * Shaking with exhaustion,
all my cuts burning, I make my way out into the fresh night air. Some day of rest! Romulo walks by and I bum a cigarette off
him--any pick-me-up can only do me good right now. Fourteen operations. We had to do fourteen operations back to
back, quick and dirty but still a labor, every one. Some kids we put on the table, some I held in
my lap, depending on the injury and the patient. My spine feels halfway broken through from
holding them. I amble over to a bench,
get off my feet and lean my sore back against a pillar, while I smoke and
listen to the crickets sing. In the
distance I hear shoveling as they bury body-parts in the orchard--too foul to
compost for the vegetables, but gangrene won't infect the apricots. I smoke to burn the smell of it away. I wonder who might pick our apricots after
us? I can hear the cemetery,
too, where Father wails some inchoate chant over those who didn't pass
triage. He'll bury more than them in the
days to come, I know. I surprise myself
with a yawn, made callous by sheer weariness.
We did what we could. |
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