by Farr, Cathy;
‘Is that blood?’
‘Yer, but I’m planning on living – if we can stop this!’ answered Mortimer. His voice sounded flat. Squinting hard, Wil could just make out a bandage at the top of Mortimer’s arm. It was fastened with what looked like a stick that Seth kept turning. Each time Seth touched the stick Mortimer took a sharp intake of breath through what sounded distinctly to Wil like gritted teeth.
‘It’s a tourniquet,’ Gisella whispered, in answer to Wil’s unasked question. ‘It’s bad, Wil. We can’t stop the bleeding.’
‘Have you looked in my bag?’ asked Wil, equally quietly.
‘No. Why would I do that?’
‘Because Martha packed another first aid kit – didn’t you hear her at the stables?’
‘Er, no, I must have missed that,’ answered Gisella.
‘Can’t think why!’ sighed Wil and silently resolved that this argument between Mortimer and Gisella really had to be sorted out.
Without waiting to be asked Gisella jumped up and ran to Wil’s pack. Within a few moments she returned and handed Wil a small, pink, silk bag – Wil recognised it immediately.
‘Right, let’s see if Lady Élanor has done it again,’ Wil thought to himself and rummaged in the little bag. Almost immediately he felt cool glass and pulled out a tiny clear phial; swinging from its even tinier glass stopper was a label that was almost as big as the phial itself. He made an attempt to read the label:
Wil was confused. He glanced over at Mortimer and then at Gisella.
‘How’re his eyes?’
Gisella pursed her lips in thought. ‘I don’t remember him saying anything about his eyes – he certainly looked horrified enough when I went over to help him! So I’d say his sight is pretty good. Why, what’s that?’
Wil held out the tiny phial of clear liquid. Gisella read the label and peered into his eyes.
‘Must be for you then.’
Wil shut his eyes and looked away.
‘It can’t be – my eyesight’s still a bit blurry but it’s getting better all the time!’
It was a lie – his sight wasn’t a bit blurry, it was very blurry.
‘Maybe that bump confused the messages I’m giving the bag? I’ll give it another go.’
He delved into the bag again, this time keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the fuzzy image of Mortimer’s blood-soaked bandage. A sharp pain shot through his finger and he dropped the bag.
‘Ouch!’
A pack of needles and a twist of extremely fine golden thread lay on the ground next to the bag. But, to his surprise, there was no label.
Gisella looked at the pack, her eyes wide.
‘Gosh – I think you’re meant to sew him up, Wil.’
‘I think you’re right. The only problem is – I couldn’t darn a pair of socks at the moment, let alone Mortimer.’ He blinked up at her. ‘You’re going to have to do it, Gisella!’
‘NO! Absolutely no way!’
Mortimer tucked his injured arm behind his back. Gisella retreated. Still at Leon’s side, Oswald cast a brief, unseeing glance across to where Wil, Gisella and Seth were trying to persuade Mortimer to let Gisella sew up his arm. Leon was still unconscious. Oswald mopped Leon’s brow and then held the rag he had been using to his own face – Wil got the distinct impression the man was crying.
Turning his attention back to the horror-struck Mortimer, Wil did his best to stay calm – blood was now dripping down off Mortimer’s elbow onto the grass.
‘It’s the only way, Mort! You know how Lady Élanor’s bag saved me before – and you remember Gisella’s leg? So if it’s given us this – well, it probably means that if we were back at Lovage Hall, Lady Élanor would be the one stitching you up!’
‘I know that, Wil, but you can do it!’
‘I’ve already told you – I can’t see clearly enough! For all I know, I could be sewing your fingers together!’ Wil’s patience was ebbing rapidly.
‘Well, it’s you or no-one and that’s the end of it!’ said Mortimer, his jaw set. But he was now deathly pale and beads of perspiration soaked his temple. Wil sat back on his haunches and chucked the pink bag to one side. If only Mortimer hadn’t believed Leon and Olivia’s lie! It was a good job that Leon was already unconscious, he thought, smouldering with anger, because if he hadn’t been–.
‘Wil, can you come here a minute.’
Gisella was standing a little way off. In one hand she held the little silk bag; in the other she held out a small square of clean white cloth. Like the phial, it had a label dangling from it. Mortimer was now shakily making his way over to Leon and Oswald. Seth was following behind, poised ready to catch him, if – or rather, when – Mortimer passed out.
Wil lifted the label but the words swam in front of his eyes.
‘Sorry Gisella, can you read it for me?’
Gisella read in a whisper, ‘Chloroform – emergencies only. Ideal for minor operations, stitches, extracting teeth or foreign objects. Get patient to take one deep breath and work quickly! Best before: Eternity.’
Wil pursed his lips.
‘OK, so all we have to do is get Mortimer to put this over his nose and breathe in and everything else will be plain sailing!’
‘Look Wil, I know he doesn’t trust me at the moment but to be honest, I’m not sure he trusts Oswald. Maybe if you show him this and tell him that Seth will do the stitches – well, he might just go for it – then I can do them and he’ll never need to know!’
‘Seth! Do you honestly think Mortimer’s going to let Seth loose on any bit of his body with a needle?’
‘Well, in that case we’d better just wait until he passes out from loss of blood – which I don’t think is going to be that long!’ hissed Gisella. Mortimer had slumped against a tree. His face was ghost-white. Wil knew they didn’t have a choice. Somehow, Wil had to convince Mortimer that Seth could do the stitches.
‘Needles! Oh, no. I faint at the sight of needles – always have! I’m really sorry!’
Seth did look genuinely sorry. He had perked up significantly at the prospect of helping Mortimer but as Wil and Gisella had hastily explained their plan, his expression had gone from eager enthusiasm to genuine horror.
‘But Seth, you don’t have to do the actual stitches – just let Mortimer believe you’re going to do them. Once he’s taken the chloroform Gisella can do them!’ Wil begged – his sight was clearing, but not nearly quickly enough.
‘I really don’t think–’ Seth began, but Gisella cut in.
‘How about, if Wil holds the needles – as if he’s helping you? You can give Mortimer the chloroform, Seth – after all, he trusts you!’
Seth brightened but then frowned again.
‘But won’t he suspect something if you’re with us, Gisella? And what about Oswald? I can’t see him standing back if he sees you bearing down on his son’s new best friend with a needle in your hand!’
Gisella threw a guilty glance towards Wil.
‘Gisella’s already thought of that one, Seth,’ said Wil, managing to sound a lot more confident than he felt.
‘How is he, sir?’ asked Wil quietly.
He knelt down opposite Oswald and stifled a gasp. Leon was as still as a stone. Across both of his closed eyes were three dark red wheals. He looked like he’d been branded.
Oswald mopped his son’s face and then dabbed his own eyes as he had done before with the same grubby cloth. He blew his nose.
‘I couldn’t do anything,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so sorry, son. I just couldn’t do anything.’
‘Why don’t you come and help us, sir? Seth is going to stitch Mortimer’s arm,’ said Wil gently, although he was pretty sure that Oswald wasn’t listening. ‘Come on, sir. We could do with some help over here.’
Wil waited, praying that Oswald would refuse. If Oswald did agree to join them Wil would have to resort to his back-up plan, which he hadn’t quite formulated yet.
Oswald let a tear run down his cheek unchecked.<
br />
‘Come on, Mr Beck. Please, we need your help.’
Wil tried his best to sound desperate, which wasn’t hard under the circumstances.
Oswald suddenly fixed Wil with a bloodshot glare.
‘Did you say that Seth Tanner – the clumsiest Chaser that ever rode in a Moon Chase – is going to stitch our best Fellman?’
Wil was taken aback.
‘Yes, er, yes, sir – Lady Élanor, um… gave us some… er… stuff – over there, sir,’ Wil stammered and waved his hand vaguely in Mortimer’s direction; the powers that Lady Élanor and Tally held were a closely kept secret and it was only now dawning on Wil that Oswald may not know about Lady Élanor’s first aid bags.
‘No!’ snapped Oswald, so abruptly that Wil jumped. ‘If there’s any stitching to be done, I’ll do it!’
Oswald was on his feet in a second.
Wil scrambled to follow. He had banked on Oswald staying put. Wil’s idea had been to offer him a clean cloth for Leon, hoping that Oswald would do what he had done just now and blow his nose in it – Wil had been hoping he would breathe in the chloroform and be out cold while Gisella did Mortimer’s stitches. Oswald volunteering to do the stitches was not in Wil’s plan at all – his mind raced.
‘Just a minute, Mr Beck – you’ll need to wipe your hands with one of these.’ Wil held out the chloroform-soaked cloth. ‘To clean your hands, I mean… to do Mortimer’s stitches. Lady Élanor showed me, er, back at the Infirmary.’
He smiled politely and offered up the soft white cloth. Oswald eyed it suspiciously.
‘She said it was really important with open wounds,’ said Wil hastily, raising his hand a fraction more. ‘After all, she did a pretty good job with Giles Savidge, didn’t she, sir?’
Oswald hesitated. Then, to Wil’s relief he took the cloth and gave his hands a cursory rub before dabbing it on his tear-stained face. Suddenly his eyes widened. He held the ball of cloth to his nose and took a deep sniff. Wil wasn’t sure if Oswald had suspected anything but it didn’t matter. Oswald’s eyes rolled back and he collapsed forward into Wil’s arms.
In a trice, Wil had gently laid Oswald next to Leon and was racing back to Gisella and Seth.
Mortimer was now slipping into delirium, which at least meant that he hadn’t seen Oswald fall. Gisella turned the tourniquet tighter but it had no effect on the constant crimson drip from the bandage – but he barely noticed that either.
‘I don’t think we can leave it any longer, Wil,’ said Gisella, trying not to kneel in the growing pool of blood.
‘Right, here’s the cloth, Seth. Where are the needles?’ Wil asked.
Mortimer’s eyes snapped open. Suddenly he was lucid. He pointed at the cloth in Wil’s hand.
‘What’s that? I know what you’re doing! You’re all in this together, aren’t you? Well, you won’t kill me that easily, Gisella Fairfax!’
He smashed his good arm into Gisella’s shoulder and sent her toppling backwards. Then he threw a punch at Seth. But before Mortimer could do any more harm, Wil dragged him backwards and pressed the chloroform cloth over his nose. The Fellman’s taut frame went limp.
‘Sorry, Mortimer,’ panted Wil. Frantic now, he set about the bandage but the blood quickly made his fingers sticky and the tight knot was impossible to undo.
‘Goodness, who tied this?’
He reached for his knife. In one slice the knot gave way and the bandage unravelled. Immediately blood started to pump from the open vein in Mortimer’s arm.
‘Quick, Seth, put some pressure on this. Gisella, are you ready with that needle?... Gisella?’
Wil glanced round expecting to see Seth and Gisella poised ready to help, but they were just sitting there. A huge bruise was already coming up on Seth’s cheek and Gisella was nursing her shoulder.
‘Hey, come on!’
Wil pressed down hard on Mortimer’s wrist but warm blood oozed between his fingers.
‘It’s only a bit of blood – surely you’ve both seen plenty of that before?’
‘What did he mean, Wil? He said I was trying to kill him!’ Gisella said in a shocked whisper.
‘He said we were all trying to kill him!’ added Seth.
‘I know. I think it’s the fever kicking in,’ answered Wil without looking at either of them. ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it.’
But Gisella wasn’t convinced.
‘No, Wil! He meant it. You’ve seen how he’s been with me since we set off. I know why now!’
She held the needles absently in her fingers. Mortimer moaned.
‘Look, it’s to do with what you told Olivia, Giz. But we really haven’t got time to talk about this now. Can we just sort Mortimer out and then you two can have a good chat later, hey?’ begged Wil. He waved the chloroform under Mortimer’s nose again. If they didn’t do something soon, either Mortimer would come round or Gisella was unlikely to get the chance to have that chat ever again.
‘Yes, but this means that he doesn’t trust us!’ objected Seth with a hurt look.
A little flame of anger flared in Wil’s gut.
‘Well, none of you trusted me on the Moon Chase – but I still helped!’ He snapped. ‘And if it wasn’t for me at least one of you wouldn’t be here now!’
His breathing was quick now from anger and frustration and his vision was coming and going in waves – if Gisella and Seth weren’t going to do anything he was going to have to do it himself.
‘Give me the needles then, Gisella. I am not going to sit here and watch one of my best friends die in front of me – even if you are!’
He thrust out his hand for Gisella to pass him the pack and the thread. Gisella looked as though she’d been slapped. She sat unmoving for a second and then got to her feet.
‘No, Wil. I’ll do it,’ she said quietly. Mia walked over to Gisella and licked her hand.
‘It’s OK, girl,’ said Gisella softly. ‘He’ll be OK, I promise.’
True to his word, Seth had passed out as soon as Gisella threaded the long, silver needle. The golden thread was as fine as a cobweb and it had taken her several attempts to get it into the needle’s tiny eye. Once Gisella started sewing, though, the pin-point accuracy of her needlework was amazing to watch.
‘Have you done this before, Gisella?’ asked Wil.
‘No,’ answered Gisella. She sounded as impressed as Wil. ‘I’m just pointing the needle – it’s as if it knows what to do!’
With each stitch Mortimer’s shredded skin sealed as the needle made contact. Only a neat red mark traced the line of the wound as she sewed. She worked quickly and within minutes the flowing blood had finally stopped; when she finished only a thin scar gave any hint that Mortimer had been injured at all.
Seth began to stir.
‘Is it over yet?’
He looked decidedly queasy. His cheek was dark purple now and very swollen. He flexed his jaw, gingerly pressing his teeth with his finger.
‘I think he loosened two of my teeth, you know!’
Wil finally allowed himself to smile.
‘I’m sure you’ll live, Seth. And yes, it’s over and I think Mortimer’s going to be OK – thanks to Gisella!’
She was peering into the pink bag again.
‘I think we’re supposed to give him this,’ she said, holding up a small bottle of dark green liquid. ‘The label says it’s for heavy blood loss.’
Wil surveyed the dark pool surrounding Mortimer, together with the pile of soggy crimson bandages.
‘Well, I’d say he’s the ideal patient then!’
CHAPTER NINE
Time for Truth
‘Look, I really am very sorry, Mr Beck, but I must have given you the wrong cloth!’ said Wil, apologising for the third time.
Oswald had woken up just after they had poured the thick, green liquid down Mortimer’s throat. Mortimer was still unconscious and the exercise had taken all three of them to avoid drowning him in the process.
Luckily Oswald’s only re
al concern was for his son. Leon had still not stirred and Oswald had made only a cursory inspection of Mortimer’s arm before very begrudgingly congratulating Seth.
‘Oh, it’s quite alright, Mr Beck. It was really rather easy,’ Seth began, ignoring Wil’s warning glare. ‘My mother always said I could turn my hand to anything if I–’
But before he could milk Oswald’s undeserved praise any more Leon suddenly coughed and sat bolt upright. His face contorted in terror. He started screaming.
‘My eyes – they’re burning! I can’t see, I can’t see!’
Oswald, Wil and Seth were at his side in a second. Leon pushed his father away then clutched him back. Closing and opening his eyes, Leon clung to Oswald with one arm and waved the other wildly.
‘Father, what’s happening? I can’t see. Why can’t I see?’
Pale and scared, Oswald made a brave attempt to calm the panic-stricken boy.
‘It’s OK, son. You’ve had a bit of a knock. Just sit back, you’ll be OK. You’ll be OK.’
But Leon wasn’t listening. He kept on blinking his unseeing eyes.
‘I can’t see. Why can’t I see?’ My eyes – they’re burning, arggh! Help me!’
Wil’s ears were filled with the sound of Leon’s rising panic. He could see that the marks across Leon’s eyelids had gone right into his eyes – they were blood red. Gisella’s urgent whisper came from behind him and Wil felt the cool glass of a phial being pressed it into his hand.
‘Wil, the phial! Give Oswald the phial!’
Wil knelt. He grabbed Leon by the shoulders and spoke directly into his face, trying to keep a calm in his voice that he certainly wasn’t feeling.
‘Leon, it’s me, Wil. Listen to me. Calm down and listen!’
But Leon carried on shouting. Wil tried again.
‘Leon, calm down, please! It’s me, Wil. I think you’ve got feather blindness, Leon – we can help you!’
‘No! It’s a trick! You did this! Oh, the pain. I can’t see, I can’t see! Get off me! Arrgh!’
He shoved Wil backwards. The phial span out of Wil’s hand and rolled across the dirt. Wil managed to regain his balance but Oswald ploughed into him and pinned him to the ground. With his face in Wil’s he began yelling, ‘What are you trying to do to my son? I know what you–’
