The Crowded Shadows

by Celine Kiernan

  Razi knelt down beside Sólmundr’s bed, speaking softly in Hadrish and smiling. “Hello Sól.” Blearily, the poor man opened his eyes and gazed up at him. “I am going to prepare you now, if I may?”

  Ashkr released Sólmundr’s hand and gently took the covers from his body, leaving him naked and exposed. Sól was lying on a narrow pallet of pine boughs and hide, his body still curled around his fist, as he had been the night before. He was sweating and shaking, though the opium seemed to have dulled much of his pain.

  Razi spoke to him again, leaning forward so that he could easily make eye contact. “You understand now, Sól, what we are about to do? You remember all we spoke about last night?” Christopher translated all this into Merron, as he, Wynter and Hallvor took their appointed places around the pallet.

  Sólmundr nodded once, his eyes full of fear and pain. The men set the cauldron of instruments down by Razi’s side, and Sólmundr’s eyes drifted to it, his breath quickening. “Do not look there, Sól,” said Razi, gently turning Sólmundr’s head. “Just look at Ashkr. That is it. You keep looking at him.” Razi’s soothing voice went on, as another bowl was laid beside him, this one filled with hot water and soap. Christopher went on translating, his voice just as calm, just as soothing as Razi’s. “We are going to roll you onto your back now, Sól. Just let us do everything for you, don’t you try… that’s it… good. Good fellow. That’s good.”

  Razi nodded to Embla and Úlfnaor and they sprang forward to join the others kneeling around the bed. Gently, all six of them pressed down on Sólmundr’s shoulders, knees and ankles. Sólmundr cried out and his body tried to curl back into a ball, his sinewy muscles trembling with the strain. At his voice, the warhounds, chained on the far side of the camp, began to howl and bay.

  Wynter fought hard to keep her hold on the poor man’s sweat-soaked ankle.

  “Sól,” murmured Razi. “Do not be afraid to cry out. There is not a man alive who would not do so under this torment. You cry out, if that is your wish.” He nodded to the men and women who were waiting at the door, and they hurried forward with the thick leather straps that were going to hold Sólmundr down. “Keep looking at Ashkr, Sól,” he crooned. “Keep looking at him.”

  Sólmundr had a tremendous grip on Ashkr’s hand. Wynter was sure that Ashkr’s fingers must simply burst under the pressure, but the blond man just kept smiling down into his friend’s face, running his hand through Sólmundr’s hair. “Beidh chuile rud go maith, a chroí,” he murmured.

  The leather straps were pulled tight across Sólmundr’s chest, thighs and ankles, and fixed in place by the hammering of long wooden tent pegs into the ground. Finally Ashkr had to unpeel Sólmundr’s grip from his hand so that Sólmundr’s wrists could be similarly restrained. Sólmundr was clearly terrified now, his mouth compressed into an unsteady line, his breath coming in long, shaky sighs. Ashkr leant over him, keeping eye contact and smiling. He stroked the poor man’s hair, murmuring all the time.

  “Now, Sól,” said Razi, taking a cloth from the bowl of hot water and lathering it with soap. “I must ask Úlfnaor and Embla to leave.” He began to wash Sólmundr’s torso, cleaning him of sweat and dirt. He crooned sympathetically as Sólmundr tried to curl against the pain. “I know, I know. I am so sorry. Have you anything you wish to do before Úlfnaor leaves? Any prayers or such things you need to complete before I begin? Sólmundr? Have you anything that you wish your Shepherd to do before he leaves?”

  Sólmundr, still staring into Ashkr’s eyes, tightly shook his head.

  Razi nodded and tipped his head to Úlfnaor and Embla. They leant, one at a time, and kissed their friend on his lips and stroked his face. Embla whispered what sounded like a blessing. She hugged her brother. Then they left and it was only the six of them remaining in the tent.

  They each took their appointed positions, Wynter and Christopher on Sólmundr’s left, a copper bowl of small, silver implements that Razi called “retractors,” between them, and a slate and charcoal by Wynter’s side. Razi and Hallvor knelt on Sólmundr’s right, Hallvor poised with a wicker basket of freshly laundered squares of cloth.

  Razi uncorked a little brown bottle and rubbed his hands with a few drops of the contents. The tent filled with the familiar scent of alcohol and lemons. He swabbed Sólmundr’s stomach with some of the precious liquid and put the bottle away, then he sat back on his heels and took a deep breath. He looked up through the open top of the tent. New-born sunlight was flooding the fresh sky, and there was plenty of illumination. “And so,” he murmured, blinking up into the virgin blue.

  Then he calmly began.

  He lifted a small sharp knife from the cauldron, raised his eyes to Christopher and nodded. Christopher splayed his left hand against Sólmundr’s stomach. The man flinched and gasped with fear, and Razi leant over him, looking into his face. “Sólmundr,” he said. “You keep looking at Ashkr, keep looking at him and everything will be over as quickly as I can make it so.”

  Razi looked down at Christopher’s hand. The young man had his thumb pressed against Sólmundr’s hip bone, his little finger just tipping the man’s navel. His scarred fingers were spread against the poor man’s stomach, pointing straight down towards his groin. Calmly, Razi brought the point of his knife to where the tip of Christopher’s index finger rested low on the right side of Sólmundr’s stomach. This, he had explained earlier, was the best way of locating the canker that might lurk within Sólmundr’s body. Christopher lifted his hand away. Razi wet his lips, released a long, slow breath, and pressed the blade into Sólmundr’s quivering flesh.

  Blood welled up immediately, and Hallvor mopped at it as Razi made a long, deep incision. His knife was exceptionally sharp, and to Wynter’s amazement, Sólmundr had very little reaction to this first cut. Razi laid his knife back into the cauldron with a clink.

  “Now Christopher,” he murmured. “I am going to pull back this first layer. I would like to you insert the retractors as we discussed and hold the wound open.”

  Christopher took two of the metal right angles and held them poised. Razi slid his fingers into the wound, gently pushing the edges apart, and Christopher slipped the silver implements into place. Sólmundr immediately went rigid and began to moan, low and continuous, in the back of his throat. It was a horrible sound, and Wynter couldn’t help but glance up at his face. He was bug-eyed and straining, his teeth bared to the gum.

  “Wynter!” Razi’s sharp voice snapped her eyes back to the job. “Pay attention.”

  She fixed her gaze on the awful gaping mouth of the wound and nodded compulsively, her mind blank. Christopher was translating something for Hallvor who was swabbing blood away from the incision, while Razi put a quick stitch into some area of flesh. Sólmundr was trembling, the blood that ran in bright trails down his stomach shivering with the tremors of his body. Razi’s hands were already scarlet to the wrist. Wynter stared without moving.

  “Two retractors,” said Christopher, his voice coming through faintly, and from a great distance. “Two retractors,” he repeated. “Three swabs.”

  Razi took his knife from the cauldron and cut once more into Sólmundr’s body. He sliced down along the same path again, opening another layer of flesh that seemed to lie beneath the first. My God, thought Wynter, we are just like books. Razi is peeling him open one layer at a time, like cutting into the pages of a book. She watched from miles away as Christopher slid more silver retractors into place.

  “Two more retractors. Four swabs.”

  Hallvor swabbed away the blood again, trying to keep the area clear enough for Razi to see what he was doing. Razi frantically inserted yet more single stitches, and Wynter distantly realised that he was tying off the areas that were bleeding most profusely into the cavity of the wound.

  “Iseult!” snapped Christopher suddenly. She jumped and looked up at him, blinking. “Wake up!” he said. He was glaring angrily at her, his red hands poised in front of him, his grey eyes spitting fire. Suddenly, the ten
t snapped back into focus.

  Sólmundr was panting in the background, huh-huh-huh-huh. Ashkr was crooning to him in soft Merron. Razi’s low, deep voice was speaking, murmuring apologies and explanations. Wynter realised she had been sitting there like a stone, doing nothing.

  “Do your bloody job,” snapped Christopher, “or get out!”

  She blinked at him, then scrabbled for the slate and charcoal. “Tuh… two retractors!” she said, making two marks beneath the R on the slate. “Three, um, three …”

  “It’s four retractors. Four retractors, seven swabs.” Christopher’s voice was softer now. He ducked to catch her eye. “All right?” he said. “Four retractors… seven swabs.”

  She glanced up at Razi and Hallvor as she made the marks. They were poised over their work, watching her. She forced herself not to look at Sólmundr’s tormented face.

  “Are you with us now, sis? Can you keep count from here on?” Razi, cool and practical, wanting an honest answer, needing to get on. She nodded. He bent back to his work.

  Razi cut down into the successive layers of Sólmundr’s muscle, Christopher slipping the silver retractors into place each time. Hallvor worked to keep the area free of blood. Wynter noted every single square of cloth used and then discarded, every single retractor placed into the deepening wound, and she marked them down on her slate.

  Sólmundr’s frantic moaning grew to fill the tent, a continuous background noise, Ashkr’s steady voice its deep underscore. The sun moved overhead, slowly creeping down the walls of the tent, and burnished the top of Razi’s curls as the minutes trickled by. Wynter blinked sweat from her eyes—it was going to be another hot day.

  Suddenly Razi paused and jerked his knife from the cavity of the incision “I’m through!” he said, his exclamation unusually loud in the ringing silence. At the same time Ashkr whispered something, his voice so quiet that it went unnoticed by them all.

  Razi licked his lips and blinked around him, as if amazed he’d got this far. “I… I wonder if I may need more light,” he said. Wynter, Christopher and Hallvor peered down into the wound, trying to make sense of what they were looking at.

  Ashkr reached a shaking hand behind him, his eyes on Sólmundr. “Tabiyb,” he said, and suddenly Wynter was aware of how loud their voices were, how still it was. Razi glanced up sharply. Wynter turned to look, and her heart jerked in her chest. Ashkr was staring at them, his tears bright in the streaming sunlight. “Tabiyb,” he pleaded. “Sólmundr, he… Sól …” He looked down at Sólmundr’s white, motionless face, and made a helpless sound. “Sol!” he cried.

  The four of them sat, blank and staring for a moment, unable to process what they were looking at. Wynter looked down at Sólmundr’s hand, pinned to the ground just by her left knee. He had ceased his compulsive scrabbling at the ground, and his long, pale fingers lay motionless, the fingernails filthy from clutching at the dirt floor. “Oh,” she said.

  Razi reached and pressed his bloody fingers to Sólmundr’s groin. He tilted his head, his lips parting, as if he was listening to some distant sound. He knelt quietly for a moment, the sun beating down on him from above. Then his eyes slipped back into focus.

  “He has lost consciousness,” he said, “that is all. Sól is all right, Ashkr Put your hand on his chest. You feel him breathing?” Ashkr nodded, great tears shivering in his eyes, his attention focused on Razi as if his words and his words alone were keeping Sólmundr alive. “Keep your hand on his chest, Ashkr,” said Razi. “You will feel him breathe, you will feel his heart beating, and it will let you know that he is still with us.” Ashkr’s gaze dropped to the red wound in Sólmundr’s side. “Ashkr!” The navy eyes shot back to Razi’s face. “Keep looking at Sól’s face now. Look at Sól’s face, that’s it. He will revive soon enough, and it is your eyes I want him to see, not your ear.” He smiled gently at the distressed man, and Ashkr nodded, turning back to stare at Sólmundr’s face.

  Razi turned back to his work. “Let us take advantage of this while we may,” he murmured. Without any pause, he carefully slid his hand deep into the wound in Sólmundr’s side. Christopher watched with calm, emotionless concentration as Razi groped about inside the body cavity. Wynter turned her head away, alarmed at how close she was to retching. “If you are going to be ill,” said Razi evenly, “please go outside.” Wynter sniffed and gritted her teeth. She was just turning to tell him that she was all right, when she realised that he was talking to Christopher. The young man had turned the most delicate shade of green and was hunched and bug-eyed, trying to control an unexpected bout of nausea. Wynter couldn’t help it she grinned. Christopher turned his eyes to her. Then he ballooned his cheeks in distress and turned his back on the scene, breathing deeply to get himself under control.

  Hallvor caught Wynter’s eyes and they exchanged a smile.

  “Chris,” said Razi, “retractor.” Christopher swung back, still swallowing repeatedly, and slid two more retractors into place. Wynter noted them on her slate. Razi’s face screwed up with concentration. “Shit,” he said. “I can’t …” he growled in frustration. He was rooting about inside Sólmundr, hunting blindly. “Where are you?” he grunted. “Where are you, you whoreson, pox-ridden, bull’s pizzle of a misbegotten cur’s abortion.”

  “Jesu! Brother!” said Wynter, startled. Even Christopher was given a moment’s appreciative pause at Razi’s atrocious language.

  Razi lifted angry brown eyes to them and hissed impatiently as he felt about in Sólmundr’s organs. Slowly his face began to grow desperate. “Curse you,” he muttered. “All right then, I shall try the other side of… Oh!… hah!” His face brightened in a moment of pure, childlike delight. “There you are, you scabrous, putrescent …” Sólmundr jerked suddenly and Razi froze, his eyes snapping to the man’s face. Sólmundr made a grating noise and tried to arch against his tight bonds. “Shit,” said Razi. Ashkr briefly met his eyes, then he leaned to peer into his friend’s now horribly alert face.

  “Hallvor,” said Razi, bending once more to his work. “Hallvor! I cannot see, God curse it! Good woman, that’s it, just keep with me now. We’re almost done here. More retractors, Chris.”

  Sólmundr’s hands starfished up against the leather straps and his entire body spasmed. He yelled suddenly, in Hadrish, “No! Oh, no!” Then he began to babble in Merron. Wynter did not need to understand his words to know that he was pleading for them to stop.

  “Two more swabs, girly,” murmured Christopher and Wynter made the note. She forced her eyes back to the operation. Razi’s fingers worked quick as a lace-makers, a new urgency to his movements. He took his scissors to some slithering thing in his hand and snipped. Sólmundr bucked, the muscles in his legs and arms straining, and he keened a high animal sound. “All right, friend,” murmured Razi, tossing something into a bowl by his side. “All right. We are almost done. Almost done.”

  Wynter glanced up. Ashkr was leaning over Sólmundr’s chest, blocking his view of the operation. He had taken his friend’s face between his hands and was forcing him to look into his own, smiling all the time and talking. But Sólmundr had reached the end of his self control and his face was a rigid mask of terror. Though he kept his eyes set fixedly on Ashkr’s face, Wynter doubted that Sólmundr was aware of anything but agony, and his desire that it would stop.

  “I am setting your organs back in place now, friend,” said Razi, his deep voice warm and soothing. “I must ensure that they are not twisted or …” he stopped talking, all his concentration on his work, and he once again slipped his hand into the wound. Sólmundr’s hand knotted to a fist by Wynter’s knee. His eyes rolled up and he released a scream so agonised that it was nothing more than a long hiss of air. Razi’s demeanour did not change. He continued to speak in that same deep tone and feel about inside the man’s stomach. Then he withdrew his hand and looked at Hallvor. “Clean water,” he said. As he washed his hands, he glanced at Christopher. “Needle and gut, Chris.” Christopher bent to prepare the needl
e. Razi, soaping his hands and rinsing them, glanced at Wynter. “Count those swabs now. Then pay attention and mark off each retractor as it is removed.” As soon as his hands were free of slime, Razi took the needle, and, without pause for breath, began the laborious procedure of sewing Sólmundr’s successive layers of muscle back together.

  An indeterminate amount of time later, Razi snipped the thread on the last stitch and sat back on his heels, his eyes wide. “We …” he said. “We are done.” He ran his bloody hands through his hair and laughed shakily. “We are done!” he said, and Wynter found herself grinning from ear to ear. Razi looked at Christopher, his grin luminous. “We are done, Chris!”

  Christopher nodded, smiling gently.

  Razi leant to look down into Sólmundr’s chalky face. “We are done, Sólmundr. It is over.” Sólmundr rolled bloodshot, swollen eyes to him. “We are done, friend, you stuck it out to the end.” Razi smiled and put a bloody hand on the man’s trembling shoulder. “Such bravery,” he said. “I am in awe. I have never seen the like.” Sólmundr swallowed and his eyes slid shut.

  Hallvor staggered to her feet, groaning and rubbing her calves. She was calling out before she even ducked beneath the tent flap, and whatever she said was greeted with whoops and screams and the frantic baying of hounds. Christopher tilted his head and shut his eyes, weary now, listening to the happy shouting outside. Wynter reached for his hand, and their bloody fingers entwined.

  “Can we set loose Sól now, Tabiyb?” asked Ashkr softly. “Can we unbind him and put him in bed?”

  Razi watched as Sólmundr’s breathing evened out and he slipped into a deep, exhausted sleep. “Aye,” he said. He laid his hand on Sólmundr’s steadily breathing chest, and smiled at the feel of his heart beating strong under his palm. “Aye,” he said again. “I think that would be just fine.”