by Amy Cross
A week? Does he really think he'll still be here in a week? The plan was for them to get me here, that was all; now suddenly he seems to think it's his job to nurse me back to health.
“Look at that one,” Marnie says after a moment, her voice tense with fear, maybe even a little disgust. “It looks like it's starting to -”
“I know,” Donald says calmly.
“And that one,” she continues. “Is it actually -”
“Everything is completely under control,” he replies, interrupting her again. It's clear that he doesn't want her to say anything that might worry me, which is nice of him, but he simply doesn't realize that I'm way past that point by now. “Marnie, perhaps you could go and find a bucket, and put some seawater through the cloth filter like I showed you earlier. We're going to need a lot more water tonight.”
“But -”
“Please, Marnie. It would be a huge help. Use two filters, just to be sure. The last thing Rachel wants is to have saltwater on her wounds.”
“Of course,” she replies, although there's a hint of hesitation in her voice. “Just... Call me if you need anything here, okay?”
“I will.”
I listen to the sound of her walking away, and then I hear what sounds like Donald dipping a rag into some water. I can tell that he's working carefully and methodically as usual, taking his time so that he doesn't make a mistake. That's one of the reasons I chose him.
“I'm sure the last thing you want,” he says after a moment, “is to get salt into these wounds. It's okay, though, we've got a filtration system set up, it's pretty basic but it works. Good job I paid attention to my science teachers at school, huh? Plus, there's a real storm building, and I'm going to try to find a way to catch some rainwater. I was thinking of putting buckets up around the top of the steeple, away from the sea's spray. It's possible that even with -”
Suddenly there's a loud, heavy bump high above us. It sounds almost as if something thudded into the church's sloping wooden roof. The lack of any falling or slipping sound suggests that whatever it was, it stayed up there.
I wait.
“Well, I'm sure that was nothing,” Donald continues after a moment, although I can tell he's worried. “I'll take a look in a minute, but we're so far from anywhere else, I can't even...” He pauses, before I feel him examining the area around my waist. I'm not certain, but I think I can feel his fingers rubbing an exposed section of bone, perhaps part of my pelvis. “One thing at a time,” he adds. “We weren't followed out here, that's for certain. I know you were worried that something might be left over after the battle, but honestly, I would have seen if we'd been followed. Most of our journey here was across the plains, there simply wouldn't have been anywhere for a pursuer to hide. I also made sure to take all the precautions you suggested, so...”
He leans closer, and now I can see him more clearly.
“That's not how it works,” I want to tell him. “There are things that can sniff me out.”
“I don't mean to disparage Marnie,” he continues, “not for one second, but when it came to following your instructions... I just think you should know that she seemed to panic a lot, as if she wasn't quite able to stick to the rules. For example, there were quite a few times when I had to remind her that we needed to lay markers. I guess she was just scared, but if you notice that I seem to be taking charge and ordering her around a little, that's why. It's not like I want to be the boss, it's that someone has to get things done. Marnie has many wonderful qualities, and I honestly don't know if I could have got you all the way here to the church without her, but... Well, just for future reference, she needs help with these things. She needs discipline.”
I want to thank him, but I'm still far too weak. Instead, all I can do is wait as he continues to clean my naked body. I was very lucky to have gained the services of a man liked Donald, and sometimes I wonder if he was purposefully guided into my life so that I'd have someone to tend to my injuries at times such as this. I can already think of several earlier moments when I might well have died if I hadn't been able to avail myself of his help.
“This is the part that might hurt most,” he says finally, and a moment later I feel him starting to wrap fresh bandages around my body.
I brace myself for more pain but, although there's a little discomfort, for the most part the sensation of being redressed is almost pleasant. The bandages feel cool and inviting, and I have no doubt that my injuries are in a better state now that Donald has been able to attend to them again. Every few minutes, he bumps me a little by accident, hitting one of my bones and causing a brief shiver of pain to pass through my body, but compared to the pain I felt during the battle, or in the aftermath, or even when I was lifted from the cart, this pain now is nothing. All I need to do is wait as he finishes wrapping the bandages around my body, and finally I feel him tying the strings off at their ends and I realize that he's done.
Above, there's another faint bumping sound on the ceiling.
I know I shouldn't worry, but still...
“I'll check on that shortly,” he tells me, as if he can read my mind. “Don't be too concerned, though. Like I said, there's a strong storm developing. I think you'll hear plenty of bumps and creaks during the night, and maybe even through into the morning. While we were on the road, I saw indicators that suggested we're in for a great deal of bad weather, but this church is sturdy enough.” He pauses again. “Is it true what they say? Did you really build the place yourself?”
I want to smile, but I can't. Donald should know better than to believe crazy rumors. It's gratifying to know that he believes for one second that I could have built the entire church, but the truth is that I merely repaired on old ruin and fortified the walls and roof. I was young back then and full of strength, and I always had an inquiring mind. Even now, I still remember being up there on the roof with a hammer and nails, learning basic carpentry as I went along, working alone and with no-one to advise me or interfere. Sometimes, I feel that I would have been happy to have lived my whole life like that, and there was a time when I was certain I'd never leave the church. If my young self could have envisioned how my life would change, I'm not sure she'd have been able to believe that I'd end up like this. I'm not sure she'd have let it happen. After all, the battle was so far away, I could have just sat it out. Maybe it was none of my business.
Still, at least I'm back now.
At least I'm home.
“I should let you rest,” Donald says, getting to his feet. “Marnie has been roasting some dried fish, I'll bring a couple for you later. Don't worry if you can't eat too much, the most important thing is to drink, but a little food could make a big difference. Your body needs fuel and sustenance right if it's going to heal.”
I try to speak, to thank him, but the most I can manage is to make my lips twitch slightly.
“It's fine,” he replies, as if somehow he understands. “I just hope we can help you get through this without too much more pain.”
“Get through this?” I want to ask. “Are you serious? I'm dying.”
As he walks away, I take a deep breath and feel a sharp pain in my side. For all his talk of healing, Donald must know deep down that the situation is hopeless, but I appreciate his attempts to keep my spirits up. In all our discussions earlier about what to do if I survived the battle, I never got around to telling him my wishes when it comes to the disposal of my body and the future of this church, so I must at the very least find a way to summon a little more strength, so I can explain my thoughts to him. My body is of no concern, and I merely wish to avoid a grand ceremony, but I have very strong thoughts regarding the church and I feel certain that this place can have a good future long after I'm gone. People have long since begun to refer to it as Rachel's Church, but that name will pass soon enough. It's not my church, any more than the sky above or the sea all around are mine. It's my home, though, and that is all I could ever have wanted.
Above, there's a faint scrabbling
sound on the roof. More and more, I'm worried there's something up there.
Three
I can hear them ahead, somewhere in the darkness, perhaps by the wooden altar at the far end of the church. They're talking with low voices, obviously hoping that they won't be overheard, but they're relying on one mistaken assumption.
They're assuming I'm still bed-bound.
Limping forward on ragged, painful legs, I reach out and steady myself briefly against the back of one of the benches. I don't know exactly how long it has been since I was last on my feet, but the effort is extremely draining and I already feel exhausted. I'm not old, not by any means, but my body has taken so much punishment lately, it's a miracle I can move at all.
Still, I've spent long enough in bed. Now that I can get up and walk around, I must. I've got work to do.
“There'll be more bad weather soon,” Donald is saying as I limp closer. “I simply don't know when the causeway will be passable again.”
“So we're going to end up stuck out here?” Marnie replies. “For how long? Forever?”
“For as long as it takes.”
“As long as what takes?” she asks, sounding increasingly anxious. “What are we really doing here? Are we waiting for her to get better, or are we waiting for her to die?”
“She will get better.”
“You don't believe that.”
“I do.”
“I can see it in your eyes, Donald. You're saying it because you think you have to, but you know she's going to die. She knows it too. We all know it.”
I can see them now, sitting on the steps by the altar. Stopping next to another of the posts, I take slow, deep breaths as I watch Donald sharing a foil-packed sandwich with Marnie. There are only a few candles burning nearby, and I can hear the sound of rain pounding on the high wooden ceiling. Still, the overall scene feels extremely calm, as if nothing can reach us as long as we're hidden away in here. I wish that were true.
“What are we going to do when the supplies run out?” Marnie asks. “You keep saying we can get supplies from a town, but I didn't see any towns on the way here. Did you?”
“It doesn't -”
“We're going to starve,” she continues. “We only have enough clean water to drink because of the storm. Your filters are going to run out pretty fast.”
“I know, but -”
He stops suddenly, and then he turns, looking straight at me. Marnie follows his gaze, and for a moment they both stare at me with open-mouthed astonishment, as if they truly can't believe that I'm here. I steady myself a little, before limping out of the shadows and reaching out to hold onto the end of one of the benches.
“Rachel,” Donald gasps, getting to his feet. “What are you doing out of bed?”
I force a smile, but the pain in my belly is a little too strong for me to speak yet.
“We thought you were sleeping,” Marnie adds, as they hurry over to me. “We checked on you a few minutes ago, you seemed fine.”
“You shouldn't be up,” Donald continues, taking my arm as if he intends to guide me back to bed. “You must be putting immense strain on your body.”
“I...” I gasp, immediately feeling a sharp, dry pain in the back of my throat. I can taste blood, too. “I... woke...”
“Come on,” he replies, trying to lead me back toward the door on the far side of the room. “It's good that you're feeling better, but you're definitely not well.”
“How long...” I gasp, still holding onto the bench, refusing to be led around like a fool. “How... long was I... asleep?”
“Rachel -” he starts to say.
“How long?”
He pauses.
“Three days,” Marnie says suddenly.
I turn to her.
“It's three days since we arrived,” she continues. “You developed a fever, you were having nightmares and you kept waking and panicking.”
“I remember,” I whisper. That's not strictly true, of course; I remember waking one time and barely knowing my own name, but I don't remember much else. “Three days, huh? I've really been asleep for that long?”
“I dressed your wounds,” Donald replies. “You were quite comfortable, even though... Well, you were crying out a lot, I think you were dreaming about the battle.”
“Figures,” I mutter, wincing as I feel a sharp pain in my left side.
“Sit down,” Donald says, trying to lead me to the next bench. “You really shouldn't be standing.”
“I want to stand,” I reply, pulling away from him and taking a couple of limping steps toward the altar. “I'm not quite a -”
Before I can get another word out, my right leg somehow slips, buckling under my weight and sending me crashing down. I hit my shoulder and then my chin against the side of the bench, and I let out a cry of pain before landing hard on my chest. It's impossible to say what hurts the most: my broken ribs, rattling against my lungs; my right leg, which feels as if it might just have become dislocated from my hip; or perhaps my mouth, which is filled with blood now that I've just bitten through the edge of my tongue. Spitting some of the blood out, I tense as I try to haul myself up, but I can already feel Donald and Marnie grabbing my shoulders to help.
“See?” Donald hisses. “I told you to take it easy!”
“I'm fine,” I gasp, as more blood dribbles down my chin.
I don't want to accept their help, but I let them lift me until I'm able to drag my trembling body onto the nearest bench, at which point I push them away again. Leaning back, I try to catch my breath and ignore the pain as I stare at the bare wooden crucifix that still hangs on the wall behind the altar, all these years after I first put it together from driftwood and set it in place. Every breath hurts as my damaged ribs rip through my flesh, but slowly I'm able to bring myself back to a state of, if not calm, then at least order. Damn it, I did so much work here without any help at all; it's humiliating that I can't even walk unaided now.
“Your ankle's broken,” Donald says after a moment.
Turning, I see that he's kneeling next to me.
“Your right ankle,” he continues. “It wasn't broken before. It must have been weak, though. You never should have tried to walk without letting us support you. For God's sake, Rachel, if we -” He catches himself just in time; I'm pretty sure he was about to start admonishing me, but I imagine he knows too well that he'd be wasting his breath. “I can set it,” he adds, with evident frustration. “There's still enough equipment in the medicine box.”
“I had to get up,” I whisper, barely able to distinguish the pain in my ankle from the pain in the rest of my body. In the grand scheme of things, a little more discomfort doesn't really change things. “What else was I supposed to do? Sit in bed for the rest of my life?”
“You should have waited until you're a little better.”
“Not going to happen,” I tell him, wincing as more pain shoots up my right side. “I can't just sit in bed, you know that.”
Glancing up at the ceiling, I see that there are numerous gaps between the wooden slats, allowing slivers of gray morning sky to show through. When I re-roofed the church all those years ago, I made absolutely certain that there were no gaps, but I suppose the bad weather in this part of the world has been enough to undo a little of my work. If I recover sufficiently, I'd like to go back up there one last time and place some new boards on top of the old ones. I've always preferred hard manual work, it's the only thing that ever keeps my mind from racing into overdrive, although I doubt Donald will be too happy when he learns of that plan. Perhaps I'll have to wait until he and Marnie have -
“Ow!” I hiss, pulling my damaged ankle away from him. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I'm trying to assess the extent of the injury,” he mutters, once again clearly holding back from giving me a piece of his mind. “And what are you doing, that's got you so lost in thought?” He shifts closer and starts examining my ankle again. “Please tell me you're not thinking about going
up onto that roof to make repairs.”
“I...” Pausing, I realize that maybe he knows me a little too well. “Definitely not,” I tell him.
“Good,” he replies, clearly not convinced.
“Good,” Marnie adds.
“Yeah, good,” I mutter.
“Of course you wouldn't do something like that,” he continues, rolling his eyes. “That'd be crazy. It'd be insane. It'd be the most stubborn, pig-headed -”
“So I won't go up there, then,” I say firmly.
“Good.”
“Good,” I reply.
“I can go,” he adds. “I'll take a look up there.”
“No,” I say quickly, interrupting him, slightly panicked at the thought that he'll take one of my last remaining jobs away from me. Besides, I'm not sure it's safe; I'm still worried about the sound I heard, and about the possibility that there's something up there, something waiting for me. I look up at the roof again. “Leave it. It's not a priority.”
“Same as ever, aren't you?” he says with a sigh, before getting to his feet. He winces slightly, and I hear a faint clicking sound from his right hip. “I need to go and check the medical box. I should be able to cobble together a splint.”
“I don't want to be immobile,” I tell him.
“Wait here,” he replies, before turning to Marnie. “Don't let her go wandering about, do you hear? I don't care how you stop her, but keep her still.” Muttering something else under his breath, something about me not knowing what's good for me, he heads along the aisle.
Turning to Marnie, I can instantly tell that she feels uncomfortable.
“You don't have to stay, you know,” I tell her after a moment. “You got me here and I'm grateful for that, but...” I pause, seeing the fear in her eyes. “Your job ended when you wheeled me over the threshold of this church. You and Donald should go far, far away now.”
