You awoke just after dawn, tense and sore from sleeping on boards, to the soft sound of the man's breathing beside you. Gyro stirred at your movement, turned and pulled you against his chest.
You felt his body curl up behind yours, in his paradoxical morning state of sleep and desire. He emitted a grunt, a soft ''hmmm'' in a deep sleepy voice, husky in your ears, and came closer to you.
''Stop.'' You whispered, unsure if he was awake or if the numbing effect of the laudanum had worn off. ''For God's sake, remember where we are.''
You heard another grumble, accompanied by relief at the force Gyro was using to pull you against him.
''Ah...'' He said, regaining consciousness. ''You're right.''
Gyro stretched out his arms, clasped your torso with both hands and squirmed his body slowly and voluptuously against yours, giving you a detailed idea of what you were losing.
''I have to go.'' You said after a few seconds of snuggling into his warmth, getting rid of the blankets, and seeing that Johnny was still asleep, thank God.
''What?'' Gyro's voice and confused expression would have made you laugh if you weren't as sleepy as he was. ''What time is it?''
''The sun just came up. I have a wagon to pack and a cat to find; you don't.''
''I asked what time it is, bambina...''
You frowned, with a certain bad humor.
''Look at your damn watch, I don't need that. Looking at the sun is enough for me.''
''What a bad mood... But no matter, stay a little more, bella.''
''How can you afford to sleep late on a race?''
He looked at you, and the sunny face turned to approval as he saw your disheveled state.
''I like to take it nice and slow, you know?''
That classic start to the day seemed to have had a lasting influence on your mind at that stage. You had already traveled about eighty miles in less than four days, and you were desperately looking for some town that could distract you from all those damn runners flooding your mind.
Wrightsville seemed like the right place. It was a good size, with heavy local traffic for such an isolated location. As you stopped your wagon at the edge of the village, near the bank of a river, a strong smell of resin hung over the place, trapped in the hot, sticky air.
''My God, it's like breathing terebintina!'' You said to Cadichon as you offered some carrots. ''I mean... Turpentine.''
You exhaled as a new wave of the strong smell washed over you.
"You're breathing turpentine, young lady.'' A sudden smile appeared just behind you and then disappeared. The fisherman carried a bucket full of trout in his hand and his fishing rod in the other. Beside him stood a young man of slim, gaunt complexion who seemed to be a copy thirty years younger than the older man. Probably his son, who kept quiet.
You startled slightly, but then smiled back at him and looked in the direction the man had pointed, indicating a barge chained to a pile on a deck across the river. It was full of barrels, some of which showed a thick, black mixture through the gaps. Other larger barrels bore the marks of their owners, with a ''S'' burned into the wood.
The fisherman narrowed his eyes in the strong sunlight, waving his hand slowly before his nose as if that might ward off the stench.
''It's the time of year when the tar-bearers show up, scaring away all the good fish and leaving only these skinny trout. Tar, turpentine... it all comes off the barge from Harrisburg, and they ship it all to Philadelphia, then to Trenton.''
''Hm... I don't think it's just turpentine.'' You said, engaged in conversation with the fisherman, drying the back of your neck with a handkerchief as you nodded towards a larger shed, the door taken by soldiers. ''Can you smell it?''
The fisherman inhaled carefully. There was something else in the air of that place, a warm and familiar odor.
''Rum?'' He inquired.
''And cognac. And a little port wine too.'' You wiggled your nose, sensitive as a mongoose's. The fisherman looked at you amused.
''You have a very good sense of smell, miss. I'm sure your sense of taste is too."
You gave a short nasal laugh. You've always sold drinks and your nose and palate have always been the best in the tasting rooms.
''Ha! I think I could still tell the difference between brandy and horse urine if I could smell them both. But differentiating rum from turpentine is not too difficult.''
The fisherman's son inhaled the air sharply and let it out, coughing.
''The smell is the same to me.'' Said the young man for the first time, shaking his head.
''Good.'' Said the older fisherman in a coarse yet humorous tone. ''I'll give you turpentine next time we go drinking. It'll be a lot cheaper.''
You laughed, leaving the moment between father and son to them alone, and turned your attention back to your mule who neighed characteristically, demanding more carrots. You immediately grabbed some more and offered them to Cadichon, not distracted by the presence of the two fishermen.
Rum, cognac, and port wine... All heading for Philadelphia. It was undeniable that the preparations for the last stage of the Steel Ball Run were being finalized, and it caused a feeling of heaviness in your chest.
"Are there runners following this route?'' You asked, catching the eye of both father and son. The older man, however, raised one eyebrow uncomprehendingly.
''Runners? What is she talking about, Hal?'' The older fisherman asked.
''Are you serious, father? The Steel Ball Runners!''
''Steel Ball what?''
''I've told you a hundred times. The cross-country race!''
''Cross-country running? I don't have time for that, I have a family to support, and that includes your lazy ass!''
The young man grumbled and looked at you.
''This isn't the main route, miss.'' He said. ''But I've heard that some runners are passing through here, apparently no one important.''
''Ah, good...'' You sighed in genuine relief. ''Thank you very much.''
''Hey, wait a second...'' The older fisherman returned to the conversation after a few seconds of thinking. ''Are you that healer they keep talking about?''
The young man, slightly dazed by his lack of attention, looked at you with wide eyes again. His blue-grey gaze roamed over your clothes, your mule, your wagon, and your spices, then suddenly back to his father's face.
''You're right, sir!'' He said. ''It's her! The healer witch!''
You were paralyzed for a moment. In small towns or ranches like Crowtown and Wrightsville, you knew you had to be doubly careful about your damned reputation within the race. After all, your few contacts with notoriety hadn't been pleasant, and the last thing you wanted was for one of your friends to find on some newspaper page a report that you'd been hanged, shot for witchcraft, or else pecked to death by angry seagulls.
The older fisherman stared at you and shook his head slowly, his mouth clenching for a moment, forming a line in his failing beard.
''What a lucky break!'' He said, and your expression immediately softened, just as your heart began to beat again.
''Ah?''
''Look, Hal, maybe she can help your Uncle Christie!''
''Is he ill?'' You asked, stunned.
''Oh, yes, of course.'' Answered the fisherman. ''Stupidity is his disease. The bastard got into a fight with a baby alligator and is about to lose his damn hand. Sometimes I feel guilty for taking all the intelligence from the family and leaving nothing for my idiot brother."
You held back the urge to laugh. Tragic as it was, it was comical to imagine a man fighting a baby alligator and losing.
''Ah, well... I can take a look, show me where he is.''
Before you could even comprehend the situation as the two fishermen guided you to the location, you saw a large old barn surrounded by half the residents of Wrightsville. All at a safe distance from the dark barn door, except for one fearless man carrying a revolver.
"Haven't they killed the alligator yet?'' Hal asked, cocking his neck above the crowd.
''That idiot brother of mine... He's missing a hand and still insists on trying to kill that beast.'' Said the older fisherman, making his way the crowd. ''Christie, you dumbass! Put down that gun and come here, we got you a healer!''
''Healer? And what can a healer do to kill this beast?!'' The bloodied man in front of the barn asked his brother.
''It's not for the alligator, dumbass, it's for your damn hand!''
After a few minutes of debate based on insults and attempts to convince, the fisherman's brother finally gave in to your care. You found the man in a deplorable state, with a wound on his hand caused by the strong bite. The thumb and forefinger were totally lacerated, the middle finger was badly affected and two-thirds of the hand was so lacerated that it barely resembled a human limb.
You were convinced that only an urgent amputation would solve the case, and you sent Hal, the fisherman's son, to get a bottle of brandy, bandages in your wagon, and two strong men. Everything was arranged quickly and the patient was about to be properly restrained, but something was wrong.
''Get away, get out of here, you idiots, you can't stay here!'' Said the man when he saw that more people were approaching.
You narrowed your eyes in suspicion and looked at the two foremen holding Christie.
''Release him.'' You ordered, and they obeyed. ''What's wrong? Why can't we stay here?''
''The creature is coming!''
''Creature?''
''Christie, you idiot! You didn't even scare the alligator away?'' The fisherman inquired aggressively, but without approaching the spot.
At that moment, you looked around. The curious crowd quickly turned into a sea of shocked and fearful faces. Not even the patient's family dared to approach.
There was a movement at the open barn door and you could see what had startled the dog that stood among the people, which raised its head barking low, ears perked, attentive. Your patient then straightened up abruptly.
''Get out of here, miss, I'll kill the beast myself.''
"Are you sure this is a baby alligator?!''
''I'm not even sure this is an alligator. Now get out of here!''
You took a deep breath, as if the fear of the crowd was contagious, and stared into the darkness of the barn.
A large, flat head emerged from the shadows less than ten feet away. You could see the dried blood on the scales that covered a ridge along the sinuous neck. The animals that were still alive in the barn stirred and you could catch glimpses here and there of the massive, dark movement coming from the barn door, though the head remained relatively still.
You remained absolutely still. Strangely, you were not afraid. You felt a slight affinity with the creature when you immediately knew what it was.
Recognizing a dinosaur was not difficult, especially when you had seen many. Luckily, that one was no bigger than a dog
There was a sense of horror mixed with unrealism. The lighted skin was rough, dark blue, with a vivid green splodge glowing with iridescent radiance under the jaw. And the strange, pupilless eyes were a deep, shimmering amber. Very, very terrifying.
The creature squealed, and before long you stood up and drew your revolver, but you were no faster than the animal. It lunged at you, its claws clamped on your forearm and its voracious jaw clamped on the barrel of your revolver, which now protected your face. With your free hand, you pulled your other revolver from its holster and, before you fell, shot the dinosaur in the head. It was a quick, painless death, but not at all clean. Cold, reptilian blood splattered across the right side of your body and continued to drip down your hand before you tossed the lifeless body away.
Bathed in blood, gasping, and shocked, you looked at the surrounding crowd, meeting Hal's wide eyes. At first, you were frightened, but then you managed to calm down. You were about to ask him something, but the look on his face as you approached was more than enough of an answer. His face was whiter than the daisies at his feet and small drops of sweat were running down his face. You could see the white of his eyes around the whole iris, like the eyes of a frightened horse, and his hands were shaking.
''It's okay.'' You said, when you got close to him, and tried to reassure people. ''It's dead. You said there were no famous runners around here!''
Instead of your words reassuring him, it seemed cause for more alarm. He dropped something he was holding, falling to his knees in front of you and making the sign of the cross. His father, the old fisherman, did not repress his son's attitude.
''Ha... Have mercy!'' He stammered. To his great embarrassment, he threw himself on the ground and grabbed your bloodied ankles.
"Don't be ridiculous, get up!'' You said gruffly, lifting him with one foot and pulling him up by the collar of his blouse with your free hand. But he just shuddered and dropped to his knees, pinned to the floor like a flattened mushroom. ''Get up, you fool, it was only a...'' You stopped, trying to think; saying its name, dinosaur, would probably do no good. ''Just a little monster.''
When you finally said it, you pulled him tighter by the collar of his blouse, forcing him to stand.
''You said there were few runners here, so who?! Which runners?! Answer me!''
''I-I don't know! I swear, I don't know! I just heard rumors!''
''What does this have to do with this beast, woman?'' Asked a curious man in the crowd.
You let go of the poor boy, aware that you had begun to pass into the realm of chaos once again, and you were thinking of Diego. There was no way not to think of him. You felt him, you were sure. And he will feel you. Somewhere in this village, there was a little cyan dot and he was there. You knew it.
Suddenly, you shivered when you saw the blood on your hands. Your legs were about to give way, so you let your shoulders droop and your head hang. Despair dragged at you like an anchor, pulling you down. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, straightening up.
''I can't... I can't stay here! Mierda!'' You stammered and pushed forward into the crowd around you, hoping you could get through it and get away.
As you tried to make your way through, a strong hand grabbed you and brought you back to consciousness.
"Wait, miss!'' The fisherman said. ''You've already done more than any man here by killing the creature... But please, help my brother.''
His voice was firm and direct, much less desperate than yours. It made you regain your sense of where you were and what you had come to do.
You were a healer, your only duty was to help that man. And you felt ashamed that you had tried to run away, completely oblivious to the fact that there was a wounded man in need of you. That was enough to make your medical stance immediately return and your gaze fall to the two foremen who, startled by the succession of events, could not distinguish themselves from the maidens in the distance.
With a direct call, the two men approached cautiously after you knelt beside Christie, pale as the belly of the trout in his brother's bucket.
You picked up the destroyed hand, nervously trying to figure out how you would follow through with its immediate amputation. So you sought some way to make that noisy, irritating crowd useful, ordering them to bring some table or bench where the dying man could say goodbye to his hand.
And so it was immediately done. Three men returned with a good-sized wooden table and Hal brought the tools you will require. Nothing was properly sterilized, but all were unused, and that was fine for the circumstances.
Severed or amputated limbs and abdominal injuries were always the worst, you thought. There was really no possibility of sterilization; all you could do was wash your hands, but it would do no good as you were covered in reptile blood. You blocked out of your mind the idea that Christie was a man with treatable injuries who would die of infection. You could give him now the benefit of clean hands and bandages, as well as good shots of brandy; but you couldn't worry about the rest. You'd learned a saying from your mother many years ago: you can't save the world, but maybe you can save the man in front of you if you work fast.
''This is going to hurt.'' You muttered to the man, as you picked up the bandages.
''Don't worry, miss.'' He whispered. He smiled at you, despite the sweat running down his face. ''I can handle it."
''Good." You patted him on the shoulder, put your hand on the back of his neck, and gave him a sip of brandy.
''I can take it...'' He repeated.
The patient again was restrained properly, just as one of the foremen helped tighten a tourniquet to the point of turning the skin purple, and then you began to cut the patient's hand - the right one, to his misfortune - above the wrist. The blood that had been dry for about one day came gushing out again and the front of the barn began to resemble a slaughterhouse. The floor was dirt, which was not a bad surface as it absorbed the blood and other liquids. On the other hand, the saturated places were beginning to get muddy.
The operation was simple, but you were a layman and hated amputations, so you expected something to go wrong, especially with your patient screaming and struggling horribly under two strong foremen. You successfully ligated his arteries, but the anterior interosseum slipped out of your hands and was jammed into the flesh after you sawed the bones. You were forced to loosen the tourniquet to find the missing artery, so the bleeding was intense and so was your despair.
But, perhaps, an accident that came in handy, since the bleeding left your patient unconscious and thus put an end to his pain, and also to his movements, which were hampering your work too much.
You finally found the slipped artery and, triumphantly, the amputation was successfully performed. The suture was reinforced and a mixture of herbs to prevent any infection was applied. Christie was taken by the two foremen to his house and you stayed close by, for should he regain consciousness abruptly, he could undo the stitches you had made.
But the bleeding was enough to knock the man out, and all that remained for you to do was give the fisherman the proper instructions on what to do when he woke up and the proper medicines. After all, before herbs, the common - perhaps the only - cure for an infected limb was amputation. And your patient couldn't go through one more.
You took a deep breath outside the fisherman's family home, no longer able to distinguish the source of the blood covering you. You hated amputations. You hated even the thought of it. Life was hard enough for a man with all his limbs in good condition.
Tired, you returned to the amputation site to get your things, looking also for the dead body of the dinosaur that was no longer there. You shook your head, imagining that some resident had taken it away, and this reminded you of the urgency of leaving that village, to avoid any risk of proximity to Diego. But at the same time, you were very curious; what the hell was he doing with these damn dinosaurs in Wrightsville? The cognac and turpentine barge going to the Philadelphia nobles seemed like some plausible motive, you thought.
You opened your bag and frowned as you put your things away to clean up later. You picked up the small, curved-bladed scalpel, feeling the cold, slippery handle in your fingers. Then you bit your lip, looking at the other blades. The largest was the folding saw, with a blade almost twenty centimeters long. You wouldn't take that. The thought of using that instrument again made sweat break out in your armpits and run down the sides of your body.
You could still hear the footsteps of the amputation process echoing in the muscles of your hands and arms: the effort to cut through skin and muscle, the scraping of bone, the rupture of sinew, and the slippery rubber-like vessels, spurting blood, slithering into the cut flesh like... snakes.
No. You wouldn't do that again. Certainly not. You repeated this to yourself on the way back to your wagon. Or at least where you thought it would be since you couldn't see anything but a sea of heads around the big willow tree where your wagon was. You zig-zagged through the crowd, your arms forming an arc that swept passersby aside.
"What the hell is going on?'' You questioned, trying to remain calm.
''The witch!'' Several relieved heads exclaimed. ''She's here!''
Again, you swallowed. You no longer knew what you were. Doctor, healer, witch... all things made you fear the notoriety you had, for you were at risk either way. You had to be cautious.
''Healer!'' A man exclaimed, towering over the crowd with a child of about five in his arms. You guessed it was his daughter, for he remained silent as he stretched out the girl's dying body to you.
You looked out into the crowd again, seeing that there were small bodies and sickly little heads among the older people in the melee. The little girl was weak, relaxed, on her father's shoulder when he came to you. The people in the village, seeing this as the decisive opportunity to seek proper and competent medical attention, were rushing to you like a flock of wounded sheep looking for the shepherd. Cadichon brayed, the scleras large, annoyed at the torment; and God knows where Agno had gotten itself into.
"What happened to her?'' You asked the father as you took the girl in your arms and laid her on the driveway of your wagon, taking her temperature and heart rate.
''At first, she stopped eating.'' Her father's tired, hoarse voice explained. ''Then drinking water. And when we forced her to drink, she vomited blood.''
Morbidly attentive to hands, you watched the father's gestures. His fingers were dirty and greenish. Your eyes went down to a kind of utility belt he was wearing, on it, a small rake was swinging, shiny against his dirty pants.
"Do you work with dirt?'' You asked, seeming to pay little attention to the report of symptoms.
''What?'' Confused, he frowned, not quite understanding the intent of your question. ''Well... yes, I'm the church gardener.''
''So there are plants in your house? Ornamental plants, I mean.''
''Yes, as it should. I'm sorry, but why are you asking me this?''
''Most ornamental plants are poisonous. Bloody vomit, lack of appetite, fever... let me guess... Caladium? Yes, yes, definitely caladium. I can help.''
The man was shocked beyond concern at having a sick child himself. But your competence proved most reliable, as he allowed you to proceed with your treatment with violet oil and chamomile to force the child to purge all the toxin.
Then, more and more often, some stranger came to your wagon asking for the help of a healer or a simple hawker. Your mother's notebook began to be filled with new annotations, and the larder of your wagon was enriched with hams and venison, bags of grains and peaches, with which your patients returned your attention. You never asked for money, but something was always offered.
Distracted, you would sometimes chat with patients' mothers or wives, who would pass on personal tips and methods for treating complications. You hadn't gone to a medical school like Gyro, and yet many of these techniques were shocking by your standards. You frowned as you thought of some of those treatments - mercury infusions to cure syphilis; scaldings and suction cups against epileptic seizures; lancing and bloodletting to treat all manner of disorders, from indigestion to impotence.
At a certain point, you were already as fatigued as your patients, so it seemed a good idea to open a bottle of whiskey for both you and the poor bastards with splinters in their hands to be removed.
And, even though they saw you working with a glass of booze in your hand, those people trusted you. They noticed your care for patients, your curiosity about the mysteries of the body. You were pondering this interesting idea as the number of patients dwindled, so absorbed in your thoughts that you had not bothered to sit down, but were sipping, interspersing the remaining tea with whiskey, standing in front of your wagon, when you heard a slight stirring from Cadichon.
You sighed impatiently, annoyed at the interruption. You didn't bother to put the cup of tea down anyway, but turned ready to receive - and repel - the expected inquiries about gangrenous fingers and green phlegm.
You huffed and turned with a jerk and the words of greeting died in your throat. Diego Brando was standing in the shadows of the willow beside the wagon.
The burning sensation caused by the tea spilled on your feet brought you back to your senses, but he had already taken a step closer to you.
He looked you up and down with his usual air of dismissive appraisal, then glanced around at the few people around.
''You.'' You weren't sure which of the two had said that.
The cyan gaze blinked from you to your mule, as if trying to ascertain that you were not a ghost. His face was marked by fatigue, and pallid, but showed no reduction in his state of vigilance. The agile, cruel brain had receded a little more, covered by the curtain of those glacial eyes, but it was still there; there was no doubt about that.
Making his decision, he grabbed you by the arm.
''What the hell are you... How...'' He stammered furiously.
You would have allowed him to slice you to pieces before you made any noise that would have attracted the attention of the villagers, so you disentangled yourself and pulled away from him abruptly as if his touch had given you an electric shock. You could feel all the blood drain from your head as his eyes traced, incredulous, the curve of your skull. The solidity of your skin. The terror on your face.
Alarms sounded in your head like trumpets and Reveilles as you struggled to accept and repel the impressions that assaulted you. Your subconscious saw the line of his nose, thought "Diego" and turned your body to allow him to approach. "It's Dio", issued the slightly higher, more rational center of your brain, stalling its movements when it saw the familiar curve of his mouth, a half-smile slapped on to disguise the shock.
''You know it's Dio'', repeated the center of your brain, making the muscles in your legs grind to a halt. Then the lurch to panic, the clenching of your hands, the knot in your stomach, as the slower processes of logical thought came stubbornly over the trail of instinct and knowledge, as you saw the blond hair and the arrogant tilt of his head, assuring himself of the unthinkable.
''You!'' It was not your voice you heard, but Diego's, sounding strangely calm and distant. With the attention drawn to his strange behavior, he looked around at the people, and then back at you.
He did not move. As far as you could see through your growing fog of panic, he wasn't even breathing. You were vaguely aware of Agno standing near you, peering curiously at the towering figure of a paralyzed English jockey in front of you, silent as a statue of the god Mars. He was immobile, immobile like a lion that becomes part of the plain, his gaze intense and fixed like the sun burning the steppe. And you saw something move in the depths of his eyes.
''I knew it wouldn't be just anyone who would shoot one of my dinosaurs in the head.''
You took a deep breath, gritting your teeth.
''I knew that dinosaurs don't just appear out of thin air.''
Your arm was as stiff as the gun under your hand.
''Get your hands off of it.'' He said calmly as if giving instructions. ''I would have no qualms about killing you in the middle of the village.''
''But you had about letting a dinosaur loose in the village. A poor fellow lost his hand because of you!''
''That was just an unfortunate accident. Don't you dare pick up this damn gun.''
''Don't you dare come near me!''
He suddenly approached and you leaned against the wagon, and you held onto the wheel to keep your balance. The willow leaves slid down his shoulders as the wagon moved, disturbed by his violence.
Diego stood in front of you, his head and shoulders taking up a good part of the scene behind him. His long, straight nose was two inches from your own, and his eyes had narrowed. They were a light enough cyan to appear pure blue in that light, and looking into them closely was unsettling.
''I still can't understand how the hell you're alive, and why the hell you're still in this race... But don't think you're immortal for it, so watch your mouth.''
You blinked. He didn't.
''I'm not afraid of you, Diego! Fuck you! Get out of here or I'll scream!''
Suddenly, a hand appeared in front of you and grabbed your wrists. You tried to pull away, but Diego was holding you tight and would not let go.
''Listen to me.'' He said, hissing fiercely. ''I've only let two women influence my life. The first was the one who put me in this world. The second was an old woman who made good use of her fortune by giving it to me. You may well be an intriguing witch, but you make no difference, you are of no use to me. You have only condemned me and brought me to what I thought was my peace when I believed you were dead.''
Something flickered in the depths of Diego's eyes. His head lifted sharply and he stared at you angrily and nervously. You felt a spasm of horror at the sudden reminder of what he did in the frozen strait and you felt like ripping out your tongue.
''Get out... get out of here...'' You said, your voice low and flawed. ''Stay away from me!''
He gripped your hands between his, so hard and so abruptly that you gasped, and a few heads turned curiously in his direction. He paid no attention to this but leaned towards you.
''I thought you were dead... and here you are, healer witch.''
He took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh.
''I'll have no peace as long as you live, miss (Y/N).''
Then he raised your hand and kissed it, straightened up, and walked away.
Shocked, you were only able to snap out of your paralyzed state when you picked up the glass of whiskey on the counter of your wagon and emptied it.