by Mark Butler
"They say there are mystics in Egypt! I have never had Egyptian slaves, but imagine what a rich, French family would pay for a dark-skinned foreigner who can divine the future? If I can get my hands on a real desert shaman, this whole venture will have been worth it," Christof said. Raul smiled and nodded. They were at the prow of the ship, the horizon big and blue.
"I can't believe Artois is still with the king's bodyguard, I thought he would have brawled his way out of that lofty position months ago," Raul said. Speaking about his sons was one of the few things that he and Christof could talk easily about, killing hours as they paralleled the young men to themselves.
"I never would have lasted a week, guarding that prissed-up king."
"Aye."
"What about Francois? Ha! Tending wounds and mixing potions? That boy has a hunter's instinct and a general's intelligence. He would do better as a scoutmaster, or a cavalry captain."
"He will make a fine surgeon," Raul responded.
"Aye."
Raul left Christof to stare at the open ocean, and he passed over the spot with the trapdoor. He had discovered it was where Makel, the urchin, lived and slept. Raul concluded it was Makel's eyes he saw back on the coast of Cyprus. He wasn't completely sure why Christof was going to see the boy, but he assumed it was because Makel was a dark-skinned foreigner, and Christof was interested in international slaving. The alternative, the idea that Christof had an appetite for the flesh of young boys, was too distasteful to even think about. Raul didn't know everything about his brother, but he thought he knew at least that much.
Olivia was permitted to ride on the ship with Francois and the rest of the medical staff. She had become something of an angel to sick men, who responded to her ministrations enthusiastically. In truth, men seemed to get better quicker when they were in her care, and Francois was sure that it was a spiritual belief, a connection with their own mothers, or a renewed positivity in life and the belief in beauty, that sped along their recoveries. But as many men as Olivia helped, that many more came in, sometimes malingering, sometimes with lustful intentions.
"And when did your stomach start hurting?" Francois asked the young soldier. He was a German boy, less than twenty years, and was complaining of knots of pain in his stomach.
"Two days ago."
"Have you been eating the same rations as your comrades?"
"Yes."
"Have you been drinking seawater?"
"No."
"Just lay here and rest," Francois said, leaving the young German on the cot below decks. He went to the captain's cabin, a dry, clean dwelling that sat to the rear of the prow of the ship, elevated enough so that the captain could see in every direction at all times. When Francois got there, the captain was in bed, Olivia by his side, ladling tea mixed with honey into his mouth. The captain's arms were dangling off his bed, and his fingers were grazing Olivia's calf.
"Olivia? A moment?" Francois asked. Olivia turned and smiled, her bright white teeth and gorgeous eyes reminding Francois of why he had loved her since Troyes, of why he forgave her the iniquities with King Louis, and the iniquities he did not have the courage to ask about.
Outside, he asked her directly, "Could you feel the captain's hand on your leg?"
"What?"
"Just now, when I walked in, his fingers were touching your leg, and moving up, unless the listing of the ship has addled my sense of direction."
"I felt nothing; I was concentrating on the poor man's condition."
"How is he?"
"Well, his fever is gone and his appetite is back. He says he still feels ill, though, and says that I remind him of his wife back in Paris . . . oh, oh I see." Sudden realization dawned on Olivia's face, and she spun to reenter the cabin. Francois caught her elbow before she could go inside.
"The captain is not the only one. Every man on this crusade wants the warmth and comfort of a woman, including me. I only want you to be aware."
"I am . . . now."
"Good, let me talk to the captain. There is a German boy below decks who is complaining of a mysterious stomach pain, though I can't identify a cause. I fear he may be here to see you as well. Him, you may berate and rebuke to your heart's content. As for the captain, best let me handle that."
Olivia nodded and kissed Francois, her soft lips cool against his own. They shared a moment of eye contact more intimate than the lovemaking they shared each night. To him, her skin was so clear, so perfect. He did not know if she had always been so beautiful, or if it was simply that he hadn't seen another woman in months. Clearing her from his thoughts, Francois entered the captain's cabin.
"Captain?" he asked as entered.
"Yes, young doctor?" his voice was remarkably robust.
"The senior surgeon on this voyage, Henry, has made a broth of fish guts, cinnamon, rye, and oak bark for you to drink. He said it may be the only thing that can save your life, if you are still not recovering," Francois said. He produced a cup from behind his back and held it out.
"I'm not drinking that."
"Do you wish to live?"
"I'm getting better, I just need some rest."
"That's not what Olivia tells me."
"She must be mistaken, I am recovering just fine," the captain insisted. Francois and he had a moment of intense eye contact, and Francois knew he wasn't looking into the eyes of an ailing man. He was just looking at a lonely one.
"Olivia is mine, captain, and no one else's. Get up and do your job. You know who my brother is, right?" Everyone knew about the newest addition to King Louis' bodyguards, the massive Artois, a born killer.
"Aye."
"Now drink this. It's only water." Francois set the cup down and walked out of the cabin, sure that his threat of recruiting Artois wouldn't need fulfillment.
Back at the side of the German boy, Francois found Olivia chatting with Henry. They were standing close, and Francois tried to shake his head clear of jealousy. Could he trust no man? It was a ridiculous thought, because Henry was as loyal and faithful as anyone Francois had ever known. Suddenly, a hideous, gurgling sound came from the German boy.
He vomited on the floor. It was brown and green, thick. The stench was nauseating, and Francois grabbed Olivia's arm and pulled her away from the goop. Henry knelt down and looked closely at the vomit, but found nothing that seemed to interest him.
"Can you two transport this boy to the open-air deck? And get someone to clean this mess up. I don't know what's going on here, but I don't want it spreading," he ordered.
"Aye."
Francois took the German under the shoulders and Olivia took his legs, and they carried him, awkwardly, to the open-air deck. With the better light, Francois could see that the German boy's eyes were dark yellow and unfocused. The flesh around his neck and skin was sucked in, like he was losing weight before their very eyes.
"You said you've been eating," Francois said.
"I have, sir," the German responded weakly.
"We must examine his stool," Henry suddenly said from behind them. His expression was worrisome: brows furrowed, corners of his mouth downturned, shoulder slumped. It was a look that Francois had only seen once or twice on Henry, when a patient was beyond his help.
An hour later, the boy shat himself. It was diarrheal and pungent, but Francois was able to collect a good amount in a pail without dirtying himself too greatly. He immediately found Henry and showed him the pail. Henry looked in and nodded imperceptibly to himself.
"What is unusual about this stool?" Henry asked.
"It is loose and watery."
"What else? Look closer."
Francois peered into the shit, but he couldn't hold his eyes open long enough to distinguish any unique details about the shit. It was shit. "I see nothing."
"There is blood and worm segments in it. The boy has eaten undercooked fish, most likely. He now has a worm in his gut, probably longer than your arm. It's eating the food he's taking in, and it's causing his abdominal pain. I've
only seen this twice before, when men ate undercooked pigs back in Spain. They had similar symptoms, and their deaths were slow and torturous. We should end this boy's life now, there is no cure. After he is dead, I will show you the worm."
Francois nodded. What could he say? He was not upset about the boy dying, he had seen enough dead patients to know that life is not fair, that sometimes people die and there is no good reason, no justification from God or anyone else. Random things just happen; it is the beauty and tragedy of the world. If Francois could learn from the boy's death though, he might be able to help men in the future, men who might eat fish or pigs that were not thoroughly cooked.
They told the captain the situation. As the commander of the ship, everyone's life and death was ultimately in his hands; the surgeons could not kill a patient without his blessing, although it was just a formality. Irrelevant, because he just wanted to get Olivia, Francois, and Henry out of his cabin as quickly as possible. Olivia's cold stare was likely burning a hole in his skiving heart. With a wave of his hand, he consented to the merciful execution of the young German soldier, "Do what you must."
They took him to the rear of the ship, away from the prying eyes of the crew and other soldiers. It was just Francois, Olivia, Henry, and the German. They stood around his cot and stared at him, each seeing the abyss that they knew would be their own fates, one day. The boy did not look afraid; he looked delirious, unaware of his circumstances.
"Does he understand?" Francois asked Henry.
"Maybe not, it depends on how long he has had this worm. The worm eats precious nutrients, and he may be losing his mind without them. It is a sad thing, but we must press forward. Do you want to do it?"
Francois nodded and pulled a razor-sharp dagger from his belt. Without hesitation, he grabbed the boy's hair and pulled his head back, exposing his throat. Olivia covered her eyes and looked away, and Francois plunged the blade into the big blood carrier, the one that travels from the heart to the brain—the spot on the neck where the heartbeat can be felt, where someone's life can be taken away. Warm blood spilled over Francois' hands and onto the deck. The blood pumped out quickly, and the boy's skin became paler and paler. Within ten seconds, he was dead.
"Thank you," Henry said. Francois knew that Henry had mercy killed many of his own patients in the past, and it was probably a relief to have someone else perform that unpleasant duty from time to time. "Shall we?"
"Right here?"
"No better place, no better time," Henry responded. Francois nodded and looked to Olivia, whose eyes were shaky, disturbed. She looked away.
"You should go, there are others who can use your help," Francois said gently.
"No! I'm not a child to be protected! I am a part of this team, and I will see this through!" Olivia shouted. Her hands were shaking and she looked so scared, so pitiful. Francois understood though; if she couldn't handle this, she wouldn't be much help to men on the battlefield, who were missing eyes or legs or worse.
Francois ran the razor blade down the middle of the German's abdomen, while Henry instructed. "You must go very deep, but don't put your weight into it. I don't want you going all the way through. Get past the stomach. Good. Now, make another incision next to that one . . ."
Henry walked Francois through the steps, and he removed the organs, one by one, until he found the bowels. They were long and rope-like, and surprisingly malleable.
"Give me the blade," Henry instructed.
Francois gave it to him and stepped back. He took a clean breath of air, shocked at how malodorous the inside of a human body is. It could be considered an evil thing to cut a person open like this, as if they wouldn't be accepted by the higher powers in the afterlife because of the things other people did to their body after they were already dead, but none of those religious extremists were present. That was at least one thing to be thankful for.
Henry slit the bowels open with fast, precise incisions, and he kept going, slicing and searching. Slicing and searching. After a few minutes, he nodded, "Ah. Here it is."
Despite herself, Olivia leaned close with Francois, to get a glimpse of the strange thing that killed this poor soldier as surely as Francois' blade had. Henry pulled out the worm, and it was yellow and slimy. It was as thick as a thumb and longer than a human leg, and Henry guessed it had been inside the boy for a few weeks, at least.
"He likely ate something on Cyprus, and this worm has been killing him ever since we left that island." Henry stood and threw the worm into the ocean, and then looked to the poor, eviscerated German. "Dump him into the water and get yourselves cleaned up," he said.
The king's bodyguards were stupidly motivated, Artois thought. Even without supervision, they constantly argued about procedures for guarding the king, how best to ensure his passage through an open countryside, which nation had the deadliest assassins. Their lives were their jobs, and they seemed incapable of conversing about anything else.
"Have any of you ever been to Egypt?" Artois suddenly asked. They were seated outside, on the king's luxurious personal ship, eating cooked beef. His abrupt question stopped the chatter, and Jean cleared his throat.
"I've been there, once. My father traveled there to trade in exotic animals when I was a boy. I stayed for three months, when I was thirteen. It is a hot, dry country with dark-skinned Muslims. But we all know that, right?" Jean smiled, his unsettling feminine features contorted into a mask of serenity.
"How do the natives live in the desert?"
Jean shrugged. "They build their communities along the waterways, the rivers. Everything is controlled by the rivers, the largest and longest being the Nile. They bathe in the rivers, fish, drink, and bury their dead."
"Bury their dead?" Artois asked, trying not to sound nonplussed.
"Sometimes, yes. They will send a body down the river, to be delivered back to nature, from whence we came."
"But the other towns, that are farther downriver and drink from the water, this does not disturb them?"
"No one thinks of it, I suppose," Jean answered.
Artois tilted back his cup of wine and swallowed it in a single gulp. With a deafening belch, he stood up and walked away from the table. He wanted to be a part of the bodyguards' clique, to be a casual member and chat with them, but they were strange. Whenever he spoke, everyone else stopped speaking and looked at him, like he was some sort of deaf-mute monster and every time he opened his mouth was an epic moment.
Artois went to the prow of the ship and watched the horizon. He desperately wanted to be back with his family, even Christof, to be around normal people. These bodyguards were zealous in their devotion to King Louis, and Artois imagined that was why he stood out. It was clear that he didn't care for Louis, didn't worship the ground the man walked on. Louis was just another man who had the same insecurities and problems as any other man, except he was king. He was not God.
"What's wrong?" Trunk's voice came from behind Artois. He alone was what Artois could consider normal, and it was their similar, humble backgrounds that gave them a platform for communication.
"I'm bored."
"That's ship life. This is the time for the sailors to shine, for them to show their merits. Don't worry, we will be in Egypt in a few weeks and there will be plenty of work to do. I don't think King Louis will want to sit behind his army, watching the battles from a safe high ground."
"Why not?" Artois was genuinely surprised. Sitting and watching the battles from a safe location was exactly what he expected King Louis to do.
"He's eager to prove himself. What satisfaction can a man get from life if he has not answered that burning question within his soul? Who am I? What am I made of? Believe me, Artois, Louis is not as happy as the poor and destitute might believe. His luxury, power, and women have grown stale; unsatisfying."
"There are red clouds ahead!" the sailor in the bird's nest suddenly shouted. Every eye on the boat looked up at the sailor; his name was unknown to Artois.
"And?" th
at was the captain, another lifelong mariner whose name Artois hadn't bothered to learn.
"And seagulls coming, captain! Seagulls by the hundreds!"
The sailors on the ship erupted into a frenzy of activity. One moment, it was a quiet, contemplative morning, and the next moment, pandemonium. The proud sails of King Louis were immediately brought down amid a flurry of ropes and pulleys. Deep groans were heard from the belly of the ship, and the oars were dropped into the water with loud splashes.
"What's going on?" Artois asked Trunk.
"That sailor in the bird's nest can see farther than any of us by at least ten miles. He says there's a storm coming, that's what the red clouds mean. The seagulls are another bad sign; they will sleep on the water if the waves are calm, but if they are taking flight, there are rough waters ahead."
Artois looked up at the sailor in the bird's nest, clutching the railing so far overhead and peering into the distance. For a moment Artois thought he was like the king, high above everyone else and seeing the world from a different perspective. Artois prayed that if they reached Egypt safely, King Louis would have the same vigilance as the sailor in the bird's nest.
The seagulls looked as if they would swarm the ship, but they spread out among the entire fleet, perching on rails and lines and watching the ominous clouds in the distance. Not two hours after the warning was called, it started to rain.
Everything was tied down: weapons, armor, supplies, and furniture. It would not do to have daggers and iron-bossed shields flying around the compartments while the ship tossed and turned in the upcoming storm. All of the non-crew members were ordered to go below decks. This was done for two reasons: first, their own safety, where inexperience will throw a burly warrior into the heaving seas, never to be heard from again; and second for ballast, to concentrate the weight of the men into the heart of the ship to provide stability.
Artois hunkered down with the other bodyguards, in the compartments that comprised the belly of the wooden beast. The bodyguards were scared out of their wits. They could protect their king against any weapon forged by men, but against all-powerful nature, they were as helpless as children. Water leaked through the roof. Grown men cried. Everyone was tossed side to side, over and over, risking broken bones and concussions. The storm felt as if it lasted for hours and hours to those who couldn't see the heavens.
