As usual, you were in the chapel, patiently listening to an old lady from a nearby village, who was detailing rather loquaciously her daughter-in-law's attack of sore throat, which theoretically had something to do with her present complaining of angina, although you could not see any connection. A shadow crossed the door, interrupting the old lady's list of symptoms.
You looked up in surprise to see a familiar man rush in; it was Reverend Innes; and Old Uncle Fontez followed him, both of them looking worried and anxious.
''What... '' You started to say, but were interrupted by a third man who accompanied them, it was Mister Marc, owner of the stable, peering over Reverend's shoulder at your hands, which he showed to him.
''Yes, her hands are fine, but what about her arms? Does she have the arms for it?'' Fontez contested.
''Look.'' Reverend Innes grabbed one of your hands and stretched your arm forward, measuring it against one of his arms.
''What the hell is happening?!''
''Language, girl.''
''Well...'' Fontez said, eyeing you doubtfully. ''Maybe. Yeah, I think it will fit.''
''Could you tell me what's going on?!'' You asked, but before you could finish, you were already being dragged through the stables at the side of your house among the men, leaving your gaping elderly patient behind you in bewilderment.
A few moments later, you were looking suspiciously at the large, gray, shiny hindquarters of a mare. The problem was cleared up on the way to the stable. Reverend Innes explained while old Fontez joined in with remarks, curses, and interjections.
Astuta, in general, a good breeder and a valuable animal from Jean-Marc's stable, the mare was having a hard time. You could see that for yourself; it was lying on the ground and periodically the shiny flanks rose and the huge body seemed to shudder. You could see the animal's labia open slightly with each contraction but nothing else happened; no sign of a tiny hoof or a delicate wet snout showed in the opening. The foal was evidently on its side or completely turned over in Astuta's womb. Fontez thought it was on the side, Reverend thought it wasn't, and they stopped to argue about it until you brought the discussion to order by asking what you were expected to do, whatever the case.
Reverend looked at you like you were a fool.
''Turn the foal, of course.'' He said patiently. ''Rotating the front paws to be able to get out.''
''Huh?! You mean to stick my hand in there?!'' You looked at your hand absently, it would probably fit. ''But then what?!''
When you knelt next to the mare, you found yourself surrounded by men. Workers from the stables. Everyone's hand was too big for the task.
''This is going to be difficult, I think we'd better call more men.'' Said one of the workers.
''Yes, it's complicated. It takes strength.'' Another added.
''Don't worry!'' Reverend interrupted them confidently. ''(Y/N) is much stronger than any of you good-for-nothings!''
You appreciated the vote of confidence, but you were by no means so cold-blooded about it. Telling yourself that this was no worse than breaking a boil, you retreated to a stall to change your clothes. You washed your hands with tallow soap.
''Well... here we go...'' You murmured softly, holding your breath and reaching inside.
With Fontez's hand on your shoulder, being uselessly busy giving advice and moral support, you closed your eyes to better concentrate and cautiously reached for the foal's front legs. Gradually, you got used to the sensation of touch and the need to be still when a contraction came; the surprisingly strong muscles of the uterus contracted over your hand and arm like a clamp, crushing your bones very painfully until the contraction began to ease and you could resume your quest.
''I put my hand on his muzzle!'' You squealed triumphantly. ''I found the head!''
''Great, girl! Great!'' Fontez encouraged you. ''Don't stop!''
''Good job, (Y/N)!'' Crouching beside the mare, Reverend stroked its neck to calm it down.
So you kept groping, your arm buried shoulder-deep in the warm darkness of the animal, feeling the terrible force of contractions and cooling, blindly struggling to reach your goal. You felt like you were giving birth yourself and it certainly was a chore.
Finally, your hand caught a hoof; following Fontez's confused and anxious instructions as best you could, you alternately pulled and pushed, slowly turning the foal's heavy bulk, sweating and groaning with the mare.
And then, suddenly, everything worked. A contraction eased and suddenly everything slid smoothly into place. You waited, not moving, for the next contraction. It came and a wet little muzzle popped out, widening on its first breath.
''One more push and it'll be over!'' Fontez was almost dancing with glee, his arthritic-crippled body bouncing back and forth in the hay. ''C'mon, Astuta, my smarty!''
As if heeded, the mare gave a convulsive neigh and the foal glided smoothly into the clean hay, a flurry of bony paws and huge ears.
You sat in the hay, giggling. You were covered in secretions and blood, exhausted and sore, reeking strongly of the less pleasant aspects of a horse. You were euphoric.
Astuta turned weakly and licked the foal, nudging it gently and pushing it with the muzzle so that it stood on its huge, wobbly paws.
''Nice work, girl! Wonderful!'' Fontez beamed, shaking your slimy hand in congratulations. Realizing that you were swaying in place and in a deplorable state, he turned and shouted for one of the boys to fetch water. Then he walked around behind you and placed his callused old hands on your shoulders.
''Okay, girl, it's over. A wonderful work, don't you think? Maybe I'll put you to work here, you could replace five of my men!'' He smiled at you and then beamed with true adoration at the foal.
For a brief second, an icy drop fell on your face and woke you up, making you see the inhospitable landscape of the frozen northern lands. The blizzard seemed to go on forever, so that when the day finally dawned bright and sunny, you squinted in the daylight like a mole.
The mansion that Gyro had found had all the spooky, sepulchral air a haunted house should have. But, luckily, he managed to dry it and light the fireplace. Now you were all resting in a large, empty room in an abandoned, bug-ridden mansion.
You drank terribly bitter coffee, ate canned food, stretched and insisted on taking a look at the two men's wounds. Gyro ignored you, while Johnny refrained from stopping you. Now, he was resting beside you after arduous minutes treating a wound in his abdomen. He was shirtless, to make your work easier, although he didn't feel as comfortable as Gyro.
Johnny's skin was naturally pale, but it was paler now. It was so thin you could see the blood moving under the flesh, but you were pretty sure it was your stand ability that allowed you to see it. Absentmindedly, when you finished cleaning a cut on the oblique region of his torso, you traced the path of a ray of sunlight across his bare abdomen, but then stopped, afraid he had noticed.
''You're pale, Johnny.'' Stated the obvious, trying to escape the awkward silence. ''I can see the veins from your hand to your heart.''
''What do you mean?''
You smiled at how flushed he was, then grabbed his wrist playfully. You ran your finger gently from his wrist to the crook of his elbow, then down the inside of his upper arm and down the slope below his collarbone.
''This is the subclavicular vein.'' You said as Johnny looked down his nose at the path your finger was traversing.
''Subclavicular? Oh, of course, it is below the collarbone.'' He muttered as if to himself. ''Where did you learn all this?''
''With my mother.'' You said, your finger slid down. ''You can't see it, but I can... That's the lateral thoracic artery.''
''Can you... see my arteries? Is it your stand?''
''I think so... If I concentrate and stay calm, I can see a lot of details.'' Absentmindedly, you poked the center of his chest, right above his sternum. ''This is the internal thoracic vein, it's completely protected by the sternum.''
His chest rose and fell with increasing tension. Although you didn't exhibit any suggestive behavior, Johnny was nervous but not uncomfortable. Your touch was intoxicating, but at the same time it felt like cold iron against skin.
''And what are those thin veins that appear?'' He questioned, referring to the small set of vessels that appeared in the thin layers of his skin, being them the chest and neck, as well as the face. ''What are?''
''Capillary vessels. They're like bridges that carry blood from one artery to another.'' You placed your finger again on Johnny's chest, gently, indicating the bluish branches around his burgundy nipples. ''These branches carry blood from the internal thoracic vein to the lateral thoracic artery.''
''And how it is?''
''What?'' You took your hand away to smooth a non-existent crease in your clothing.
''Be able to see these veins and arteries.''
''A bit disturbing, I must say. But you have pretty arteries.'' You smiled, feeling your face heat up a little.
''Oh...thanks.'' He said sweetly as you got up to pack your things.
A few minutes later, you sat rigidly at the closed window of the house. The snow was getting worse to the point that you had to keep the animals inside. You watched the place through the window, beside Cadichon, for countless minutes. You sought in each thick snowflake a form of refuge against pain.
The silence was becoming unbearable for you and so you got up and looked for some book in your things. Traveling the Caribbean with Menezes was perhaps a little inappropriate right now, and you didn't feel like reading any novels. Reluctantly, you picked up the Bible and two or three other works of inspiration. All were used by worshipers for whom the silence was unbearable, you thought, searching the random pages for some divine epiphany.
"But I am a worm and no man... My body is dissolved like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted and mixed with my bowels." Well, yes, a competent diagnosis, you thought, with some impatience. But would there be any treatment?
"But do not depart from me; Lord, make haste to help me. Deliver my soul from the sword; my beloved from the claws of the Devil."
You went back to the Book of Job, the Reverend's favorite. Certainly, if anyone was in a position to offer helpful advices...
"But the flesh in his body will suffer and the soul within him will mourn." Yes, yes... You thought, then turned the page.
"He lies prostrate in grief on his bed and all his bones cry out in pain... The flesh is consumed from his bones and disappears; and his bones that were not visible, protrude out." Exactly, you thought. And then?
"His soul approaches the grave, and his life from his destroyers." Not as good, but the next stretch was more encouraging.
"If there is a messenger with him, an interpreter, one in a thousand, to show his righteousness, then he has pity and says: Deliver him from the abyss, I have found a ransom. His flesh will be fresher than that of a child; he shall return to the days of his youth."
And what would be the ransom, then, that would retrieve a person's soul and deliver you from the clutches of suffering? You closed the book and your eyes. Words jumbled up in your mind, the Bible has been never a very simple book to read. An overwhelming sadness seized you as you uttered the Reverend's name without realizing it.
''Did you say something, (Y/N)?'' Johnny's voice echoed through the room.
''Huh? No, nothing.''
As you remembered the holy corpse, the thought occurred to you that maybe it was better for Johnny to stay collecting the corpse parts. When you'd seen the simian expression of sadness and pain on his face last night, you finally realized just how important this was to him. He said that death would be a better option than going back to the life he had before he entered the race and met Gyro. You were morally certain that if you left them alone, to their fate, they would soon be dead.
Gyro, you thought. Gyro Zeppeli. Officer Zeppeli. He had said he came from a kingdom in Italy, but any tiny mention of his past or his home kingdom had him blow out like a candle. Putting the dots together in your mind, you remembered Oyecomova. As you hid in the rubble, you heard him mention that Gyro's father was an executioner. Was this a hereditary occupation? If so, what was he doing here?
Should you ask Johnny about this? After all, you were pretty sure he knew a lot more than you did, but in his current state, you doubted he'd have the mood or reason to talk about it.
There was a feeling, not sudden but complete, when you remembered the corpse. Holding it was like being given a small object to hide in your hands. Precious as an opal, smooth as a jade, heavy as river gravel, more fragile than a bird's egg. Infinitely still, but alive as the root of creation. Thinking about joining Johnny and Gyro over the corpse became a recurring thought, but that soon died with the slightest memory of Diego and Hot Pants. The corpse would not be a gift, but a deposit of trust, coming from whoever you chose to ally with. It was like loving feverishly, guarding and protecting tenderly. The words spoke for themselves and disappeared into the shadows of the ceiling arches.
You got up and caressed Cadichon, not doubting for a moment the eternity of the moment when time stops in such a place. But the simple movement of lifting the arm made you let out a sudden moan of pain.
''Shit...'' You said, embarrassed when Johnny glared at you. ''Your wounds will take about seven days to heal, but I think my cut will take a little longer.''
''Are you cleaning your wound?'' Gyro suddenly butted in, throwing the last few pieces of wood into the fireplace and clapping his hands together.
''Well... I haven't had time yet.''
''What were you doing all this time looking out the window? You need to clean this up, (Y/N)!''
''I know, I know!''
''Come here, let me have a look.''
He came over and dragged out a chair so you could sit down, which you promptly did. First, he looked you over from head to toe, looking for any other wounds as serious as the cut across your ribs. With the exception of the point-blank gunshot marks, you looked relatively well. If you could still walk, then you were still fine. He looked into your eyes, hovering his hands over your shirt, as if asking permission to touch. Then you lifted the hem and raised your arm painfully so he could examine it.
Everything Gyro did was familiar to you. Feeling flesh and bone under the fingers, taking a pulse, inspecting tongues and eyes, it seemed like something you had in common with him, though you didn't know how.
''Were you with anyone else when you were attacked? You said a guard came and scared off the bastards.''
You swallowed hard.
''Yes, just the guard, but I went back to my wagon alone.''
''Then who sutured your wound?'' He raised one of his eyebrows and looked down at you, kneeling on the floor. He acted like he was a detective who had just unmasked a miscreant.
''Myself. Why?'' You told the truth, although that too seemed absurd to you.
''You? Are you sure?" He let out a short, boastful laugh. "Want to tell us something, (Y/N)? Why are you lying like that?''
''Lying? Don't be stupid! I've stitched myself so many times I've lost count, Gyro.''
''Oh, really? And how did you suture a cut on your rib?''
''The same way I sewed up your damn artery, with a needle and string. What you want, Gyro?''
He laughed again, still not believing you, but having no arguments to continue to question. You rolled your eyes and watched him continue his work. Gyro, at one point, dropped his knowing smile and adopted a serious, professional air. He took you temperature, across your forehead, the back of your neck, and under your arms. He told you had a fever, although you didn't feel that sick. The origin of the fever was more than obvious. The wound was slightly swollen and reddened, still crusted with dried blood. An infection, you thought. A worrisome, festering infection about to poison your blood and threaten your life in such a condition.
"Listen, (Y/N), I can't believe at all that you sewed your wound, because that's a suture that even my father couldn't do..." He knit his brows together as if he wanted to immediately get rid of the thoughts that sentence brought up. ''But it's starting to get infected.''
''I noticed. Don't worry about it, I'm drinking turmeric tea.''
''I don't think your herbs are going to be much help.'' He got up and grabbed his bag.
''What you mean?''
He didn't answer, just dug through his bag for something. A suture even my father wouldn't do, that's what he said. If his father was an executioner, it would make sense that he also had medical experience. Reverend Innes had told you about the customs of Europe and that, on a brief trip to France, he had met an executioner who worked as a volunteer in a field hospital. Would that be the case for Gyro? That still didn't explain what he was doing on that race.
You looked around, Johnny was gone. His taciturnity worried you, and perhaps he had gone to check out the blizzard or simply wanted some time alone. Gyro opened a second full leather bag, filled with threads, needles, and glass vials containing whitish liquids. You had never seen that in your life, so you frowned and watched him work.
''What is this?'' You questioned.
''Some things I borrowed from my dad's office before I left.''
''Office? So you're a doctor too? You're graduate?''
''Yes, you're in good hands.''
''I always suspected you were graduate in something... You're too smart to be just a cowboy or a... European.'' You joked and sneered, which soon disappeared when you saw him pick up a needle much bigger than the others.
This needle was hollow, and attached to a large glass cylinder. He adjusted it a few times, then picked up one of the vials of the mysterious liquid.
''Hey, hey, hey... What's that, Gyro?''
''A febrifuge mixture.''
''A what?''
He laughed, but it sounded like an evil laugh.
''In your language... a preparation of red cornflower, echinacea and hops.''
''I see... and I'm going to drink this?''
''No.''
''Are you going to apply this to my cut?''
''No.''
''What the hell are you going to do with that, Gyro?''
''This wound is very deep, it reached the hypodermis. While they are helpful for the symptoms of a fever, your teas will not get to the root of the problem.'' He filled the glass cylinder with the febrifuge solution and lifted the needle, looking at you with a twinkle in his eye. Those damn green eyes were too bright. ''This will get to the root of the problem.''
''You... That... I don't know if I understand.'' You said, rising from the chair and cautiously moving away from him.
''It's just a sting, (Y/N), it won't hurt.''
Those words were enough to make you walk away from him. Whatever that was, it would have to pierce you.
''Are you going to stab me with this?!''
''I'm not going to apply it to your cut, (Y/N), stay calm!'' He held up his hands in a peaceful gesture.
''Back off, pendejo! If it's not going to pierce my rib, then where is it going to be?!''
''Well...'' His sentence broke off with an unavoidable chuckle. ''On your... On your bu... No, no! On your thighs, just above the thigh!''
''What?! You are crazy?!''
''Come on, (Y/N)! Have you ever been to a doctor?''
''A doctor who wants to pierce my butt? No, never!''
He raised his blond eyebrows when you lifted the chair to shoo him away. Any step he took forward was cause for that chair to be hurled at him. You felt deeply irritated by the fact that your sense of self-preservation was terrified at the thought of submitting to the pity of a man who could carry dozens of logs like pillows.
''Listen to me, (Y/N), if you don't do this, the infection will get worse and it might even kill you!''
''So in order to live, I have to let you stab me in... In there?! I don't consider myself a prude, but this is too much!''
"Your thigh, (Y/N)! I swear, just the thigh!'' He explained slightly blushing, but with a smile on his face. ''And yes, in short, you need to take this febrifuge mixture! Your body isn't sweating, it's not getting rid of the fever on its own, so this will go on until you can barely stand up!''
''I know how a fever works, Gyro!''
He approached slowly and that was enough for you to throw the chair at him and run across the room. Impatient, you knew you'd hit him when you heard him grunt, abandoning his cautious, friendly doctor posture and walking quickly towards you. Your face turned red and hot, so you kept running from him like a rabbit.
You had strong objections to this treatment on several levels, whatever the help in this situation. Your sense of self-worth was deeply offended when Gyro's hand grabbed you.
''I won't allow you to do this!'' You said firmly, tugging on his arm and freeing yourself with a simple bite of the Italian's hand. He groaned loudly in pain and you ran before you found out how pissed off he would be.
''Argh! Strega! Now I'm going to do it, whether you like it or not!''
''I'm going to scream!''
''You sure will! If you don't scream before, you'll scream during!'' He grabbed you by the shoulder, tripping you over one of the sleeping bags and luggage scattered on the floor.
He pulled you out with difficulty. You kicked him in the shin, but it didn't do any damage since you had no shoes. Growling lightly, you kicked what you now assumed was his groin, judging by the furious groan he let out. With difficulty, he managed to get you to face down on one of the sleeping bags, but to do so he had to twist your arm back and put a knee on your back.
Gyro seems to have been better trained as an executioner than a medic, you thought furiously as you struggled.
''You bastard! You... you sadist!'' You said through clenched teeth, blind with rage. ''Sleep with your eyes open, you Italian bastard! Sleep with your eyes open and protect your damn throat!''
''You can be sure I'll stay the hell away from you as long as you want revenge.'' He retorted without flinching. ''But you'll thank me later!''
Your reluctant acquiescence lasted right up until the needle's first pull into your skin. This was followed by a short, violent fight, which left Gyro with three neat scratches on the side of his face and several deep bites across his wrist. Unsurprisingly, this left you crushed against the grimy covers.
Gyro, may the devil take his bloody Italian soul, proved right. The pain of the needle was far less than the discomfort of his knee in your back, although he tried to be very careful. Even with the biting and kicking, you were still a patient.
''See? Did it hurt?'' He released you, smiling.
You whirled around to face him, fists clenched.
''I'm going to knock every tooth out of your mouth, you goddamn bastard.''
''I've taken care of kids braver than you, (Y/N).''
He sat on the floor beside you and you struggled to your feet. Sitting down was out of the question, so you simply knelt on your side. Your face was still red as Gyro, the bastard, looked like he was enjoying it, putting away the objects you considered more appropriate for an executioner torturer than a doctor.
You looked at him, anger evident on your face, then he placed his hand on your forehead to check your temperature, taking the opportunity to wipe your face of the dust that the fight had raised; when his hand pulled away, you could see a purple bite mark.
''You're all dirty.'' He said, still smiling. ''Your fever will improve soon, don't worry... Damn, it's easier to inject horses than you, (Y/N).''
Gyro patted you under the chin, lifting it gently to look into your face. You bit his hand hard but not deeply.
''Oooh!'' He withdrew his fingers quickly. ''Careful, bambina, you don't know where those fingers had been!'' He got up, leaving you there and chuckling.
The main door creaked and you quickly looked around, taking in the wrecked state of the decaying room. At the door, you saw Johnny clearly intrigued.
''What the hell happened here?!'' You heard him exclaim, mouth agape.
''You, Johnny,'' You muttered through clenched teeth. ''are traveling with a goddamn sadist.''