Dead Man's Reach

by D. B. Jackson

  Ethan helped him lie down on his back. Diver gritted his teeth and let out a low, quavering moan.

  For the second time in less than an hour, Ethan laid his hands on someone he loved and whispered a healing spell. “Remedium ex cruore evocatum.”

  He kept his hands over the wound for several seconds, but nothing seemed to happen. Blood continued to pulse from the ravaged arm at an alarming rate, running over his fingers and soaking his breeches.

  “Damn,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “What?” Diver asked.

  Ethan didn’t answer. Pulling his hands away, he bent to inspect Diver’s injury more closely, and nearly vomited in response to what he saw. The arm was a mess. The musket ball appeared to have splintered the bone, so that shards of it were embedded in the surrounding muscle. And he could tell as well that the ball had severed the artery. That was why it bled so.

  “Ethan?”

  The wound was beyond his talents as a healer, and his friend was bleeding out before his eyes. Ethan could let him die, or he could do the one thing he knew would save Diver’s life, though at a potential cost that sent a shudder through his body.

  He hesitated for all of two seconds.

  He didn’t know any better way to do what he had in mind, and so he cast a fire spell, aiming it at the artery and sourcing it in Diver’s blood. His conjuring pounded in the lane, and he smelled flesh burn as his spell cauterized the wound.

  Diver screamed. When he could speak again, he said, “What … what did you do?”

  “I’ve stopped the bleeding,” Ethan said, the words scraped from his throat. “But we need to get you to a surgeon.”

  He pulled off his scarf and, as gently as he could, made a sling of it, to keep the arm immobile. As he did, he took a moment to survey the scene before him, and to try to get his bearings.

  The tall mulatto man he had spotted ahead of Diver before the shooting began lay near the soldiers, unmoving, the blood on his chest shining in the moonlight. A second man, no more than two or three feet away from the first, had been struck in the head. Ethan thought he must have died before he hit the ground. Long had he expected that the occupation of his city would lead to bloodshed and even death, but never had he imagined a scene like this.

  Tearing his gaze away from the dead men, he looked to the south, considering what options he had. Dr. Church’s house was too far from here. He wasn’t sure he could carry Diver such a distance, and he didn’t know how long his cauterization would hold. But there was another doctor to whom he could take his friend.

  “Am I dying?” Diver asked, his voice faint.

  “Not tonight, you’re not,” Ethan said. “You’ll be back in the Dowser sipping ales with me before you know it.”

  A grimace flitted across the young man’s face and was gone; Ethan thought he was trying to smile.

  “I’m cold, Ethan. I can’t feel my hands.”

  “Which is why I need to get you to a surgeon, straight away.”

  “All right.”

  “I have to lift you, and it’s going to hurt.”

  Diver gave a slight nod.

  Ethan slipped his arms under his friend’s back and legs and lifted him into his arms.

  Diver gasped. “Oh, God! Oh, God, Ethan, that hurts!”

  “I know,” Ethan said, rasping the words as he struggled to his feet. He nearly fell, but righted himself and staggered toward the Town House. He glanced at the clock tower; it was a few minutes before ten o’clock. He wondered whether Kannice had awakened yet.

  Once past the Town House, Ethan followed Queen Street to Brattle. For once, he cared not a whit about walking past Murray’s Barracks. Let one of the soldiers accost him. Let Morrison show his face. Ethan would incinerate with a thought anyone who troubled him this night.

  Reaching Hanover Street, his bad leg aching, his breath coming now in great gasps, he walked past several doors until he reached a modest home on the left. Even as he approached the front door, however, he heard quick footsteps behind him. He spun, the words of a shatter spell on his lips.

  But the man striding in his direction was none other than the one he had sought in coming here.

  “Doctor Warren!”

  The doctor hardly spared Ethan a glance, so intent was he on Diver.

  “He was on King Street?” the doctor asked.

  “Aye, and was struck in the arm.”

  The doctor regarded him. “I was on my way to retrieve my bag. Others require my services as well. But you’re here and I’ll not turn you away. Follow me.” He pushed open his door and entered the house, gesturing sharply for Ethan to follow.

  It was warm within, the air carrying the familiar bitter scent of spermaceti candles. Warren lit several with a taper, and at the same time pointed at a sofa in the middle of the sitting room.

  “Put him there.”

  “But the blood…”

  “Aye, the blood. Elizabeth will have my head, but there’s naught to be done.”

  “I’ve stopped much of the bleeding,” Ethan said, lowering Diver onto the sofa as gently as he could. “I was afraid he might bleed out. But the ball remains in him and—”

  “Wait,” Warren said. “You stopped the bleeding?” He stared at Ethan, recognition flashing in his eyes at last. “Mister Kaille!”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Forgive me. I didn’t…” He shook his head. “Elizabeth accuses me of being lost to the rest of the world when absorbed in my work. Perhaps she’s right. This man is a friend of yours?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then, let us see to his recovery, shall we?”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Together they stripped off Diver’s coat, waistcoat, and shirt. Warren bent over him and probed the wound with practiced fingers. Diver, who had passed out somewhere between King Street and Warren’s house, stirred but did not wake.

  “When you said it was an arm injury, I didn’t think much of it,” the doctor murmured after some time. “But this … The ball is in there still, right next to the brachial artery, which has been severed.” He looked at Ethan. “There must have been a great deal of blood.”

  “Aye, there was. I thought … I cauterized the artery, thinking it was the only way to stop the bleeding.”

  “It was. You saved his life.”

  Ethan heard a catch in the man’s voice.

  “Can what I did be repaired?”

  Warren continued to examine the wound, wincing at what he saw, or perhaps at Ethan’s question. “I fear not. The damage to the artery is…” He shook his head. “I don’t believe it can be mended; it never could be. And … and as a consequence of what you did, the lower part of his arm has been denied blood for a long time.”

  Ethan closed his eyes.

  “But hear me,” Warren went on. “The ball has shattered the humerus—the arm bone—beyond repair, or at least beyond my capacity as a surgeon. He was doomed to lose this arm as soon as the ball struck him.”

  “But surely a physician of your skill—”

  “I can’t work miracles, Mister Kaille. I’m afraid that’s your bailiwick, not mine. Did you try to mend the bone?”

  Ethan shook his head, feeling ill. “I was afraid even to make the attempt, lest I make matters worse. This healing lies beyond my talents as well. My one goal was to stop the bleeding.”

  Warren assayed a smile, but failed. “As it should have been. You did the right thing, Mister Kaille. I offer this as both a surgeon and a friend.” He briefly rested a hand on Ethan’s shoulder. Then he left the room. Ethan turned back to his friend.

  “This is the second time I’ve gotten you shot,” he whispered, smoothing Diver’s hair off his brow. “And I may have cost you…” He couldn’t bring himself to speak the words, even with Diver unconscious. “Forgive me.”

  Sooner even than Ethan had expected, Warren returned, carrying a black leather case, several cloths, and some white material that Ethan guessed was for a bandage. He carried as wel
l an amputation saw, with a curved iron frame and a serrated blade that made Ethan’s stomach heave. The doctor placed these items on a table beside the sofa and removed from the case a small pair of forceps and two small blades.

  “We’ll deal with the ball first,” Warren said. “Do you have much experience with surgeries?”

  “Very little, and none that was good.”

  “Well, do the best you can. I can’t handle all of this on my own.”

  Ethan nodded. And for the next several minutes he watched as the doctor went about his work with grim efficiency. When Warren asked for his blades or the forceps, Ethan handed them to him, but he held his tongue, and knew a moment of profound relief when at last Warren extracted the bullet, held it up for Ethan to see, and then set it on a small cloth.

  “That was the easy part,” he said. He peered down at Diver’s arm once more, his mouth set in a thin hard line, his brow furrowed. “I’m afraid there’s nothing for it, Mister Kaille. I can’t repair the bone or the artery, and therefore it’s too dangerous for him to keep the arm. I’m sorry.”

  “Let me try again.”

  Warren raised his gaze. “With witchery, you mean?”

  “With a conjuring, yes.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise? If the bleeding starts again—”

  “I won’t let that happen. Please.”

  “Very well.”

  Ethan had been standing by the sofa, but now he knelt beside Diver. Blood still seeped from his friend’s injury, which meant that he would not have to cut himself. Casting a quick, self-conscious look at Warren, Ethan placed his hands over the wound and whispered the words of the healing conjuring. The spell groaned and Reg appeared beside the sofa, but Warren gave no sign of noticing either.

  The power of the spell tingled in the palm of Ethan’s hand, as if he were holding a dozen buzzing bees. He closed his eyes for several seconds, delving into the wound with his magick, trying to sense what effect his conjuring was having on the shattered bone and the burned end of the artery. But he wasn’t trained as a healer; he didn’t have as much experience with such spells as he should have. When he opened his eyes again, he found Warren watching him, avid, his eyes wide and shining with candlelight.

  “Is this all there is to it?” the doctor asked, his voice loud after the long silence.

  Ethan nodded. He had cast a good deal this night, and under heartrending circumstances. He was weary. Warren fell silent and said nothing more. When the spell had spent itself, leaving Diver’s wound bloodless but still livid, his flesh ravaged, Ethan pulled out his knife and cut himself, drawing a sharp breath from the doctor. Ethan ignored him. He muttered the spell again, and held his hands over the wound for several minutes more, until finally, this second conjuring spent as well, he pulled his hands away and rocked back on his heels.

  Warren edged closer and bent low to scrutinize the injury. After a second’s hesitation, he probed the wound with practiced fingers. At first he wore a look of wonder, but as his examination went on, his mien turned grim once more.

  “What you’ve done to the bone is remarkable,” he said, after some time. “More than I could ever have hoped to do. But still, there is too much damage, and the artery remains as it was.”

  Ethan raised his blade to his forearm. “I can cast again.”

  “Is there any reason to believe that your efforts would be more effective this time?”

  He had no answer.

  “We need to remove the arm now; the longer the delay, the greater the danger to your friend.”

  Still Ethan kept the blade poised over his forearm, his gaze fixed on Diver, his vision blurred with tears.

  “The hardest part of my profession is knowing when to give up, when to admit that the wound or disease has won. You can’t help him anymore. And there are others in Boston tonight who require my care. You saved your friend’s life, and that is no small thing. But there’s nothing more we can do to save his arm.”

  Every breath Ethan took seemed to come at great cost, and his hands had begun to shake.

  “Help me move him. We should do this on the table in my dining room.” The doctor spoke in even tones. Not light, by any means. But steady, reassuring, purposeful.

  Ethan sheathed his blade. Together they carried Diver to the dining room and positioned him on the table. Warren returned to the common room to retrieve his tools and supplies, leaving Ethan alone with his friend. He could think of nothing to say, and before long Warren was beside him again, arraying his tools on the table.

  “I need you to hold him,” the doctor said, his voice gentle. “He’s unconscious, which is a blessing—for him and for us—but nevertheless, you must keep him still. Do you understand?”

  Ethan nodded, the motion jerky.

  “Look away. Don’t watch any of it. It won’t take long, and aside from keeping him still, I can do everything else myself.” He pointed to two spots on Diver’s lower arm. “Grip him here and here.”

  He nodded again, bile rising in his throat. He took hold of Diver’s arm where Warren had indicated and stared at the wall opposite where he stood. A portrait hung there: a young woman, pretty, dressed in a blue satin gown. Ethan wondered if this was Warren’s wife. Whoever she was, he refused to tear his gaze from her.

  Still, keeping his eyes averted helped only so much. He could hear it all. The quiet ring of metal tools, the soft shudder of a blade carving through muscle and skin, and worst of all, the horrific rattle of that sawblade on bone. Tears slid down his cheeks and his pulse pounded in his ears. The procedure seemed to take forever, and yet it ended abruptly, sooner than Ethan expected.

  “Don’t look yet,” Warren said, though out of the corner of his eye Ethan saw him take up the bandages. “But you can release the arm.”

  Doing so felt like the most evil of betrayals.

  Forgive me, Diver.

  And then another thought: Ramsey, you will pay for this in blood and torment.

  “Why don’t you step outside, Mister Kaille. I’ll join you there shortly.”

  Without speaking a word, Ethan left the house. The cold air was a mercy, and he took a long, unsteady breath. Church bells continued to peal, echoing up and down the deserted lane. Ethan listened for musket fire, but heard none. He glanced up at the sky, bright with stars and moonlight, and tried to summon a prayer for Diver and for Kannice, tried to feel the Lord’s presence, just as he had when he was a boy in Bristol, standing with his parents and sisters in the cathedral there. But he felt naught but anguish and fury and heartache.

  He stood thus for a long time, until at last the door opened behind him and Warren joined him on the ice-covered walk that led from the house.

  “He’s resting. I don’t imagine he’ll wake for some time. My wife and children won’t be home this evening. Samuel feared violence this night, and suggested that our families lodge elsewhere. So, he can remain here, but if he does wake, he’ll probably be alone. I’d like to move him, but I dare not so soon after the surgery.”

  “I understand. He lives near here, on Pudding Lane. Perhaps tomorrow we can see him back to his room.” If I survive the night.

  “That would be fine. I’ll check in on him when I can.” The doctor hesitated. “What you did in there—earlier, I mean … I know that we didn’t save his arm, but your powers are most remarkable. I heard you say something as you … as you conjured.”

  “It was Latin,” Ethan said, weary beyond measure. “Roughly translated, it means ‘healing conjured from blood.’”

  “I have others to whom to attend this evening. I could use your help.”

  Ethan took another long breath. “Diver is a friend, Doctor Warren. He’s known me for many years. He trusts me, and the power I wield. And you’re a learned man who is more accepting of … phenomena with which you are unfamiliar than most would be. There are some who would rather die or lose a loved one than be healed by what they consider witchery.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “I
assure you it’s true. I know as well that there are many who would see me hanged before they allowed me to cast a healing spell.”

  Warren grimaced. “That I believe.”

  “Will you also believe that I have other matters to which to attend this night that are every bit as important as healing the wounded? I seek to prevent more deaths and injuries.”

  “Very well, Mister Kaille,” the doctor said, but he sounded disappointed.

  “You have my deepest thanks for all that you did for him.” Ethan dug into his pocket. “I have a pound or two—”

  “No,” Warren said, his tone brooking no argument. “Not for this wound, not on this night. There will be a price to pay in blood and death before all is said and done. But I’ll not make coin from it.”

  “Again, my thanks.”

  “We should move him back to the sofa. He’ll be more comfortable there.”

  Ethan followed the doctor back into the house, his legs leaden. Reaching the dining room, he faltered in midstep, his gaze falling to the bandage that covered what was left of Diver’s arm. It was stark white, save for a small circle of crimson staining the center, like a target.

  “He’s better off now than he was when you brought him here,” Warren said. “Please believe that.”

  Ethan didn’t answer. They moved Diver to the sofa, and Warren laid a blanket over him. Ethan didn’t want to leave, but he knew as well that there was nothing more he could do. And what he had done had been woefully inadequate.

  You saved his life. Kannice’s voice.

  I cost him his arm.

  He thanked the good doctor one last time and let himself out of the house.

  Glancing once more at the night sky, Ethan headed back toward the Dowsing Rod to see how Kannice fared. He knew that he couldn’t remain there long, but he had to see her. And after that, he had other places to go.

  This deadly night was far from over.

  Chapter

  NINETEEN

  Church bells pealed all across the town—not only at the Brattle Street and Old Brick churches, but, it seemed, from every sanctuary in Boston. Ethan saw others hurrying through the city streets, their heads lowered, their expressions uneasy, their gazes darting furtively. But no one spoke a word, not of vengeance or resistance or even mourning. Aside from the tolling of bells, a strained silence had settled over the lanes and shops and houses. Grief and rage, apprehension and anticipation—the emotions of thousands seemed to hang like a low storm cloud in the chill air.