***
Minutes before sunrise. We stood by the portal at the base of the watchtower, an opening so narrow, only a single man turned sideways could pass through. I took a deep breath and entered. Inside, twin staircases spiraled upward around a stone core. In normal times, one was designated for the ascent and the other for the descent, but as with so many things in the days of anointment, the rules had changed.
"Use the leftmost one at sunrise," Sir Gilly said, "and the right for sunset."
"What if I encounter an assassin blocking my way? May I escape on the other side?"
"Obey the rules, Dauphin. Do not deviate. Any encounter with a spirit or demon is meant to be."
I scurried up the hundred and one stairs to the top of the watchtower, pausing on the last landing to wait for a red-faced and out-of-breath Sir Gilly. He needed a moment before entering, giving me a chance to survey the chamber.
I hadn't been to the watchtower in many years, its allure nothing but a relic of my childhood. I noted how age had changed the place. On the surface it looked less imposing, as all memories of childhood do, a musty room, perfectly round and six paces across. The tangle of beams that supported the point of its cupola was less impressive now, hung with spider webs and covered with droppings where birds had made their nests. The elaborate molding that some artisan had added centuries before had been worn smooth by rainwater and time.
But one thing was the same, exactly as it had been etched into my memory when I was little. Two circular windows breached the battlement walls. Oculi as Sir Gilly had taught me, great eyes that looked out across the land from this, the highest point of the castle. One faced east and the other west. And now, two platforms had been placed before them. On top of each was a disk framed by a golden rim, with a kaleidoscope of gems in the center-amethyst and amber, emerald and bloodstone. I reached out to touch them, but Sir Gilly stayed my hand.
"No, Dauphin. Your role is to sit and dream."
He motioned to a wooden stool facing east. Once I was settled, he turned to go.
A sudden agitation overcame me.
"Wait, Advisor. Stay."
"It is forbidden."
"Stay only this first time."
"I cannot. I must be gone before the sun is up."
Before I could say another word, he fled as if the dawn's first rays might scald him. The sound of his bootsteps trailed away as he raced down the stone stairs. I was alone.
I left my post and went to the western side to peek past the disk toward the darkened valley below. For an instant, I thought I caught a glimpse of something, two riders approaching through the jungle of Stranglethorn, out of the mist at the base of Golgoreth. Assassins?
I watched until my eyes watered. Nothing but shadows. I shook off the sense of dread and returned to the morning oculus. A red glow had begun to dance on the mountaintops. The sun was rising, casting light over the farms of Goldshire and the trees of Elwynn Forest, lands dependent on my protection. I took my seat once more on the wooden stool and glanced through the gems, doubtful anything would happen. I waited.
At once, I was staring into the teeth of a hot wind whistling through the oculus from the mountains, chasing the rays of the sun.
And slowly, the wheel began to spin.
Chapter Four
VA Hospital Stateside
I stared into a pair of Coke-bottle glasses wedged between a green crepe cap and a mouth-and-nose mask. The magnified eyes behind the glasses crinkled at the corners, a hint of a smile.
"You're awake," a muffled female voice said. "About time."
"How . . . long?" Each word burned as it forced its way up my throat.
"You sure you want to know?"
"Uh-hum." It hurt to talk.
"Almost two weeks. Medically induced coma."
"Where . . .?
"VA Hospital. West Roxbury, Massachusetts."
"Why . . .?"
"I guess they couldn't find out much about you. No family. Last known home on Cape Cod but grew up in Jamaica Plain. We were the closest so they sent you here."
I tried to shake my head. Not what I was asking, but I was afraid to move.
"Why . . .?"
"Oh. You mean why are you here. I'll let Dr. B. answer that. You should drink some water. We'll need to take it slow. You haven't had anything in a while."
I nodded, mostly by blinking. The least movement made my head throb.
She brought a plastic cup over and stuck a straw into my mouth. I took a sip, swished the water around with my tongue, and swallowed. It felt tight going down. She withdrew the straw and waited. I must have looked like hell. Her eyes narrowed, then crinkled again. A latex-gloved hand reached out and stroked my forehead.
"You've had a rough time, Freddie. Okay if I call you that? I'm Dinah, your nurse. You know, like," she half sang, "someone's in the kitchen with . . . No need for formality here. But we'll do everything we can for you. You've served your tour and you're home now."
Home. An image flashed in my mind. A gingerbread house, one of fifteen around a green with a steepled tabernacle overlooking them all. Ours was the runt of the litter, tucked into a half-lot at the end and farthest from the ocean.
The front door for some reason was painted purple and had frosted windows with palm-frond cutouts. Joey used to tell me they were cannabis leaves. Richie claimed they looked like snowflakes. But I knew they were palms. The steeply pitched roof had white scalloped trim, and a tiny balcony on the second floor overlooked the green. The house had four and a half rooms, a kitchen and sitting room downstairs and two bedrooms up-one for my parents and the other for the three of us boys. The half was a garret with a single circle-shaped window where Mom used to sit and pray to the ocean.
The first time I saw it, I was ten. Mom was so happy that day-the ocean at last. The five of us raced each other into the house and scrambled up the staircase to the garret to check out the view. Dad and Mom, Richie, Joey, and me. And now only I was left.
And not much of me, from the look on Dinah's face.
I blocked out the thought. My mind wanted no part of Iraq. But I wasn't ready for memories of home either.
I mumbled one word. "Morphine."
The eyes behind the Coke-bottle glasses sagged, and the green crepe cap nodded. I felt a tube along my arm shift. Then sleep.
***
I stirred to the sound of Nurse Dinah removing the metal cover from a plate of scrambled eggs. Two days had passed, and I'd managed to spend a fair part of them conscious. I'd graduated from water to juice to soup, and now this. I was actually starting to look forward to solid food.
Dinah's cheerful voice serenaded me as she positioned the tray.
"Big day today, Freddie. A hearty breakfast. But we'll need to sit you up first."
She pressed a button on my bed control and a voice responded.
"Yes?"
"This is Dinah, can you send Ralph in?"
A moment later, Ralph filled the doorway to my room. He was dressed all in white-white smock, white trousers, white shoes-and wore a mask and cap like everyone else. And he was huge, almost needing to bow his head to get into the room. I bet he could touch the rim with either hand standing flat-footed.
"This is our newest patient," Dinah said. "Lieutenant Williams, but he answers to Freddie."
Ralph nodded, then bent down and reached out a latex-gloved hand to shake mine.
"Pleasure."
Another mask, another smile. This time I could tell because his great brows slanted upward. I thought I might like Ralph. I suspected I'd be seeing a lot of him.
Dinah and Ralph moved to either side of the bed, grabbed the pad beneath me, and curled its folds into their fists.
"Get ready, Freddie. Take a deep breath."
I did.
She counted to three and they slid me back toward the head of the bed. I let out a yelp.
"Sorry Freddie. Best way is to do it quickly."
Then they raised the back of the bed. It wa
s my first time sitting since Iraq.
Ralph started to leave but came back, placed a great gloved paw on my head and rubbed the stubble.
"Hang in there, kid. It'll grow back." His voice rumbled like he had his own built-in echo chamber and seemed to linger after he was gone.
Dinah helped me with the meal. Though it was a modest portion, I didn't think I'd be able to eat it all. Somehow I managed to down every bite. When I was done and the tray shoved out of the way, Dinah cleaned me up, then hovered over me.
"Are you ready for Doctor B.? He thinks you're well enough to get evaluated."
"Haven't you poked me enough?" I was glad to be speaking in full sentences.
Dinah tapped her head.
"Concussion test. Only you can tell us how well your brain's working. I'll let Dr. B. know you're ready."
She gave me a little wave and followed Ralph out the door.
Now that I was half upright and alone, I did my first self-assessment, like evaluating intel before a patrol or health and resources in Warcraft before a raid. Only more personal.
I tugged at the neck of my hospital gown, enough to peek underneath. My chest had been shaved and was covered with EKG cups. Tubes ran out of my body in various places, a catheter and lines for antibiotics and morphine. I reached up to my head where Ralph had patted. Peach fuzz. The CCAT guys must have suspected damage to my brain and shaved it. Maybe they were right. Machines beeped around me. I watched the peaks and valleys of the heart monitor. No flat line. I was still alive. Finally, I took a deep breath and slipped the sheet back.
The good news-both legs were still attached. But a black brace enveloped the right one from hip to ankle, secured with Velcro. Metal hinges locked the knee straight.
I peeled back a strip of Velcro as gently as I could, wincing at each fraction of an inch. When I'd removed enough, I spread the brace. Scabs and scars decorated both legs. But the major damage was an angry incision held together with what looked like staples running from mid-thigh to below what was left of my knee. It still oozed along the edges.
When I heard footsteps down the hall, I reset the Velcro and replaced the sheet.
A second later Doctor B. came in, a chunky man with enough wrinkles around his eyes to tell me he'd treated a lot of veterans. He seemed friendly enough, though it was hard to tell through the mask. He'd been to see me before, but mostly just to read my chart and nod. This time, he pulled over a chair and settled beside me.
"How are you, Lieutenant?"
"You tell me."
"Okay." He checked my chart for the third time. "Let's start with your eyes."
He took a penlight from his smock pocket, tested it on his own eyes, and then pointed it at mine. The light was bright but tolerable.
"Follow the light," he said.
I did, as he moved it from left to right and back again.
"Very good. Now a few questions. Can you tell me your name?"
"You know my name."
"I'm not the one whose cognitive abilities need testing. Please. We need to follow the proper form."
"Why?"
"About sixty-eight percent of the wounded we see also suffer from traumatic brain injury. It's the signature wound of these wars where you guys are subjected to IEDs and other kinds of blasts. No shrapnel hit your head. That's why they shaved you, to be certain there were no hidden wounds. The brain scan was clear, but you were pretty groggy when they pulled you out. Non-penetrating head wounds can damage the brain without leaving a mark."
"You think my brain's fucked up?"
"Just being thorough, Freddie. We use the Glasgow coma scale to measure consciousness, ranking from three to fifteen. Three is alive but unresponsive. You were a five on the CCAT, an eight in Ramstein. Let's see if I can get you to the next level. Now please tell me, what's your name?"
Another game. Still trying to level up.
"Frederick Williams," I said. "Lieutenant first class. You want my serial number too?"
He chuckled awkwardly. "No. That'll do. Do you know where you are?"
"Only because they told me. VA Hospital, West Roxbury."
"And who won the World Series last year?"
"You think I'd forget that?"
"Please cooperate. I'm trying to establish you have memory from before the blast."
"Red Sox."
"Thank you." He scribbled something in his notebook, then looked up. "Any headaches?"
"No . . . Yes. I can't tell with all the drugs you're giving me."
"I'll take that as a yes. Now, please count down by nines from a hundred."
"You gotta be kidding."
He tapped his index finger to his head. "Different part of the brain."
"My brain's okay. It's my leg that's fucked up."
"We'll get to that. For now, humor me."
With an honors degree in architecture, this ought to be easy. But I'd discovered some things didn't work as well as they used to. I thought a second, then rattled the numbers off.
"A hundred, ninety-one, eighty-two, seventy-three-"
"Impressive. A lot of people can't subtract that fast even without a concussion."
"No more questions until I get mine answered."
Dr. B. laughed. "Fair enough."
"Why are you all wearing masks? Am I contagious?"
"Just a precaution. IEDs are bad, medically speaking. It's not enough to plant explosives. They pack them with rocks and gravel. Stuff that can cause infection. The soil of Iraq is contaminated with nasty bacteria called Acinetobacter. Both your legs were pockmarked with debris from the blast. Some of the fragments might have carried the bacteria. It's generally drug resistant and spreads easily. You've shown no signs of infection yet. That's good, but protocol requires we quarantine you for a while longer. Now, is it my turn?"
"One more." My throat tightened, and I had trouble getting the words out. "What happened to the archangel?"
Dr. B. gaped at me and set his clipboard down.
"Have you been having dreams, Freddie?"
I began to panic, then realized how strange my question must have sounded.
"The archangel's a nickname, a handle for Specialist Sanchez, Pedey Sanchez. He was with me in the Humvee when-" My voice trailed off. "You probably don't know."
He slid his chair closer and took my hand.
"I've read the report, Freddie. I'm sorry. Sergeant Sanchez was killed instantly, his whole chest was blown-"
I turned my head away, one of the few things I could do without pain. I wished I could walk so I could run out of the room.
"I'm sorry," he repeated. "That was insensitive." Then after a pause, "The archangel's an interesting nickname. Why did you call him that?"
It took a minute before I could answer. This was a lot harder than subtracting by nines.
"He was ugly as sin, a shaved head, looked like the top of a bullet, and brows that almost hid his eyes. But they were the gentlest brown eyes I'd ever seen. And he wore this medallion, a two-handed great sword on a cross. A warrior and a saint. Last guy you'd expect to be religious. He approached every patrol like a prophesied event. Used to give each of us a little Bible quote before we headed out.
"He was twenty-five like me, but married with an eight-year-old son. He'd call them twice a day. Before every patrol, he'd touch the cross with two fingers, say the names of his wife and kid, and then kiss the two fingers.
"Pedey was part of my guild in World of Warcraft. His character was a Draenei priest and his favorite spell was the archangel spell because it increased healing. That's why he took it as his character's name. The archangel. Looked like a demon but had the soul of an angel. And he's dead because of me."
The doctor waited. It was his turn for questions, but he seemed smart enough not to push it. I tried to stay quiet too, but the words slipped out.
"Can I have some morphine now?"
"Are you in pain?"
"Only if I try to move."
"Then why do you want morphine?"
I closed my eyes. "Just give me some, please."
"We're trying to bring you back, Freddie. Morphine's the wrong direction."
"I can't walk. Morphine's my only way out of here."
"Lieutenant," he said loudly enough to make my eyes pop open. "It wasn't your fault."
"Yeah. Well, you weren't there."
"No. But I know you didn't plant that IED or pack it with gravel to do maximum harm. And you didn't start the war. You just fought in it." He stood and fiddled with the IV tower, poking at the bags, most likely to give his hands something to do. After a minute, he pressed his thighs against the bed and leaned over me.
"I know it's hard, Freddie. I see too many boys sent home like you. But escaping reality isn't the way back." When I didn't respond, he sighed. "Okay, I'll give you something to help you sleep. But first, you should know what happened and what the road back looks like."
I nodded. The dreaded road back.
"You were badly injured. In any other war, you would have died. Today we're able to get a wounded soldier from the battlefield to a Critical Care Air Transport to a hospital within forty-eight to seventy-two hours. Your leg was hit hard, a 155 mm fragment full force. Shattered the patella and broke off the platform at the top of the femur. The quad tendon ruptured. Damned near severed an artery too. The medics did everything they could to stabilize you. Then you were taken by CCAT to Germany. You had multiple surgeries there to repair the artery and remove dozens of bits of shrapnel and gravel. They managed to save not only your life but your leg. Then they flew you to Andrews and from there to here. We fixed what we could. Rebuilt the femur, patched the patella, reattached the tendon."
My throat felt suddenly dry as cotton. "Did it work?"
"That remains to be seen. Your leg sustained a lot of damage. Time will tell if the nerves are okay."
My brain was well enough to suspect the implications, but I tuned it out.
"So no more basketball? Before the attack, I was training to dunk."
Along The Watchtower Page 2
