Something tapped Samuel on the shoulder. He turned. Charles stood behind him in a fancy coat and loafers, blinking heavily. “Hey. Samuel, right?”
Samuel froze. He’d touched him. It was only a moment, but it happened. Why did he touch him? Didn’t he remember who he was? Being the mayor’s son must have given him the freedom to do anything.
“Yes.”
Charles took a step closer, and his ankle dropped into the snow, nearly causing him to fall on his face. Samuel almost reached out to help steady him, but didn’t. He didn’t want to touch the mayor’s son. Not on purpose. When Charles regained his footing, he stomped angrily into the icy ground with his shoes.
“I hate this snow.”
Samuel pushed up his glasses.
“You should wear boots. It’ll keep your feet warmer. And it’ll help with your balance walking over the ice.”
Charles shrugged. “Probably right. Not like I want to live in this frozen hell anyway.” He cleared his throat. “I need a favor. A cleric, specifically.”
Samuel paused. “My father is almost done.”
Charles dusted his tan peacoat shakily. “Can’t wait. I need a cleric now.”
“I don’t know any other clerics. The closet one is in Thamus, I think, and that’s about thirty miles—”
“You’re a cleric, right?”
Samuel shifted his weight to the side. “No.”
Charles stared at Samuel. “But you are his son.”
“I’m not a cleric. Not yet. I haven’t been ordained.”
Charles’s neck reddened. “Don’t be so literal. I’m the mayor’s son. And that means I have the same authority. Right? Isn’t it the same for you?”
“Maybe? I don’t know.”
“Come on. It’s the same thing!”
Charles nervously pulled out a smoking pipe from his jacket. He tossed a pinch of shredded tobacco into the black bowl, lighting it with a metal lighter. He sucked in the dark smoke, then coughed heavily. After a few puffs, he moved closer. “It’s the demon. I messed up. Really bad. I think it’s dying.”
The girl was curled up underneath the barred window, her red hair covering her face as a small ray of sunlight beamed on her milky skin. Her little chest rose and fell, but even from afar, Samuel could tell her breathing seemed uneasy. The smell of rotten flesh and waste filled the jailhouse. Samuel covered his nose to guard it from the stench. A fresh puddle of what appeared to be black blood had formed around the girl’s injured leg. The girl methodically scraped her fingers across the stained dirt, her face unreadable, her green eyes gazing into nothingness.
Charles coughed as he took a drag from his pipe.
“My father put me in charge of the demon since the sheriff’s leaving town for a week after the funeral. Must be worried the drunk will do something stupid, and then get himself killed for not listening to orders. I don’t know why he keeps that fool around. Anyway. That demon? That thing? It won’t eat or drink. I’ve tried, and it won’t take anything. And you can smell that, right? Like rot. It keeps getting worse.” He ran a hand through his hair. “He told me it was my job to keep the demon safe for now. I really messed this up.”
Samuel adjusted his glasses. “She’s bleeding. From her leg.”
Charles let out a nervous laugh. “About that. I went in there, you know. Trying to help.” He sucked his pipe. “So, I went in there and she … it! It started crawling to me like some kind of crazed mutt. And I didn’t know what do. It was instinct. I kicked it and ran for cover. Self-defense.”
“Help? The demon? What do you mean?”
Charles waved his hand. “Yeah. I was going to change its bandage. Or whatever. It doesn’t matter. The demon showed me its teeth. Its fucking teeth!” Charles dropped the pipe. He scooped it back up. Its contents had spilled onto the floor. “I’m dead. He’s going to lose it. It was my job. I was supposed to watch it, keep it safe. He’s going to kill me. Damn it.”
Samuel rubbed his fingers together. “Where are the other patrolmen? Can’t you ask them for help?”
“Of course not. Don’t be stupid. None of them are allowed in here. Just me. They’re citizens. Everyone knows they have big mouths.”
Samuel’s muscles twitched. He could hear a clicking noise, and when he got closer to the bars, he could see the girl grinding her teeth. He watched her, helpless to do anything. “What do you want from me?”
“I don’t know. Pray for it or something. My dad thinks it’s a demon, right? I thought he was going mad. But then … ” Charles shook his head. “You should pray for it. Keep it calm.”
“My father tried that. It didn’t work.”
“Maybe he did it wrong.” Charles clenched his jacket sleeve. “Or maybe you could ask the roots god to help you. Something. Do something!”
“I’m not a cleric!” Samuel burst out. He knew he shouldn’t have, so he quickly regained his composure. He’d never yelled at someone before. “I’m sorry. I want to help you. But I don’t know what to do.”
Charles plopped himself into the wooden chair stationed by the door. He buried his face in his palms, his words stifled in his hands. “He’s going to kill me this time. I know it.”
“The mayor?”
Charles didn’t answer.
Samuel dragged his feet as he approached the bars, pushing his forehead against the cold steel. The girl continued with her finger scraping, unmoved by the outside commotion. When Samuel was a boy, he prayed that Azhuel would bring his mother back up from the earth. He prayed that his father would love him. He prayed that he’d make friends. He prayed that people in Haid wouldn’t ignore him all the time. He prayed that one day he could know what it’s like to be touched and embraced and kissed. He prayed that the roots would give him a sign if they were real. Anything. He prayed and prayed and prayed. Azhuel wasn’t there. If He was, He wasn’t concerned about his pain. But for some reason, maybe because it was all that he knew, he prayed.
“We are but dirt,” Samuel said instinctively. “To dirt we return.”
Charles got up.
“You know,” he said, “maybe the demon is just protecting its leg. Think about it. First time the devil went crazy on that patrolman was when it was caught in that bear trap.”
Samuel recalled how the girl calmly studied his father’s mark before trying to attack them. And he didn’t understand why Charles kept calling the girl an “it.”
“She tried to hurt my father, and he never touched her leg.” Samuel fumbled with his glasses. He also had a hard time believing the girl felt pain, because if she did, her face showed no signs of it. “Maybe we can talk to her. Tell her that if she doesn’t let us help her, she’ll die. Someone’s got to get close.”
“You?” Charles asked.
Samuel’s knees wobbled.
“I don’t know.”
Charles slapped him across the back.
“You can do this,” he said before running to grab a handgun from the sheriff’s rack of mounted weapons. He held it awkwardly. “Don’t get killed.”
“Will you shoot her?”
Charles struggled to align the barrel with the girl. “If it goes bad. I don’t know. You’re not a coward, are you?”
Samuel ignored the insult. He reached for his hunting knife before realizing his father still had it. “Have you shot a gun before?”
“Aim and pull the trigger. Can’t be that hard, right?”
Samuel trotted into the cell and then closed the gate behind him. He approached the girl with cautious steps. He could hear everything: the sound of his boots hitting the floor, the whistle of the wind as it came in through the barred window, Charles fumbling to cock the revolver’s hammer, and his own stunted breaths. He pushed up his lenses, seeing a little more clearly. The girl was shivering, her pale complexion having shifted to a subtle blue. Her body heaved with every breath, steam escaping from her agape mouth with every stunted exhalation.
“She
’s cold.”
“It’s the whitelands. We’re all cold.”
“Hello,” Samuel said to the girl.
The girl said nothing.
“Don’t know if you remember me. I was here before with my father. He’s a cleric.” He rolled up his sleeve, showing his naked arm. “The roots. Remember?”
The girl’s fingers stopped, not bothering to look in his direction. She wasn’t afraid. She was nothing like the deer.
Samuel wiped his bangs before removing his coat. His hands were shaking.
“Please don’t hurt me.”
He held out his arms as far away from his chest as possible, covering the girl with his coat. At first, she remained still, the coat slipping off her shoulders. But then, ever so calmly, her hand grabbed the coat and pulled it up. The chains around her ankles rattled as she curled herself deeper underneath the warmth.
“Your leg,” Samuel said. “It looks infected. We’re going to need to treat it somehow. You might die if we don’t do something. I’m going to make it better, okay?”
The girl closed her eyes.
A minuscule calmness washed over Samuel. The girl wasn’t going to hurt him. Not yet, anyway. He exited the cell and rejoined Charles.
“What are we going to do now?” Charles asked as he slammed the gate shut.
“We help her. That’s what the mayor wants, right? For you to keep her safe.”
“How? Get your father?”
“No.” Samuel shook his head. “We get the doctor.”
Samuel waited for Charles’s return. He tapped his toes against the top of his boots. The demon girl slept soundly. Her eyes darted back and forth behind closed lids, and he wondered if she was dreaming. Demons couldn’t sleep, could they? It took Charles a little more than an hour to return with the doctor.
“We clear?” Charles asked as she stomped into the cell.
“I’m not stupid,” the doctor said as she passed Samuel without acknowledging him. She went to the bars and studied the girl carefully from behind them, her leather bag in hand. Charles unlocked the gate and waved a beckoning hand at Samuel.
“Those shackles stay on, doc. Don’t touch her unless you have to. Trust me.”
The doctor let out a labored sigh. Perhaps she wondered how she could do her job without touching the patient. Samuel walked in front of the doctor, guiding her into the cell.
The girl opened her eyes.
Samuel pointed to the doctor. “This is the doctor. She’s gonna help make your leg better.”
The girl didn’t stir, keeping her body curled underneath his coat. The doctor set down her bag. Her normally hard face was blanketed with fascination at the girl. She whipped her head back to Charles. “What is this?”
“The leg, doc,” Charles said with forced authority.
The doctor’s brows furrowed. Samuel reached out, fearing at any moment the girl would lash out like she had at his father. She didn’t. Samuel gingerly lifted the coat up to her waist, revealing the bloodied leg. The doctor’s nostrils flared as she took in the dark substance oozing from the open leg. “What happened?”
“Can’t tell you,” Charles said.
“Is there anything you can tell me?” the doctor asked, her voice rising. “I don’t know the first thing about what I’m seeing here.”
“Please,” Samuel cooed. “Can you help her?”
The doctor unzipped her bag and retrieved a vial of tar-like liquid. She shook it, the concoction bubbling inside the glass. “It’s long gone. I’ll have to take it.”
“The leg?” Samuel asked.
The doctor nodded.
“What did she say?” Charles asked.
“She needs to amputate the leg.”
“No, you can’t.” Charles flung his arms. “How can you even say that? Take the leg? You haven’t even looked at the wound.”
The doctor grunted, no longer able to contain her annoyance. “I’ve seen enough. The foot is grossly swollen and white, the skin and the toenails are all but black. If infection hasn’t claimed the leg by now, then frostbite has.” She pointed. “See the blotches around her thigh? It’s moving fast. And that blood. This can’t all be hers. How’d this happen?”
Charles crossed his arms. “I can’t tell you.”
“Trying to do my job, little mayor.”
Charles shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Bear trap,” Samuel said.
The doctor uncorked the vial. “And who thought wrapping it up in a filthy bandage would make it all better?”
“You can’t take the leg. My father will … he’ll want you to save the leg.”
“You speak for him now? So, little mayor, answer me this. Is this child better off alive or dead? She’s already lost an arm. Is a leg worth her life? With your father’s money, a functioning prosthetic wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
Charles blinked heavily.
“No. No. No. You have to try to save it. No amputation. We’re not there yet.”
Samuel shifted his weight. The girl didn’t seem bothered that two strangers were in the cell with her, or that there was an ongoing discussion about sawing her leg off. Had she once overheard a similar conversation about her arm?
The doctor handed Samuel the vial. “She needs to drink. I’ll do what I can, but without amputation, I can’t promise anything.”
Samuel nodded. He edged the vial forward.
“Can you drink this?”
The girl kept still, watching him lazily. He took a deep breath before extending the vial forward to her lips, tilting it downward. More than half of the medicine fell down her lips, but some of it seeped into her agape mouth.
Within a few minutes, the girl closed her eyes and sank into unconsciousness.
“Better this way,” the doctor said. She moved rhythmically, grabbing the girl’s leg and unraveling the frayed gauze. Samuel’s nose wrinkled at the foul stench. Pus and dark blood oozed out from the jagged strips of muscle. The meat was torn in a way that made parts of the bone visible. The doctor lifted the girl’s leg, carefully turning it from left to right.
“Get my scalpel. It’s the little blade with the thin handle. And the tweezers. More cloth too.”
Samuel fumbled around in the doctor’s bag and found the tools. The doctor took the scalpel first without touching him. Like a master craftsman, she carved into the strange girl’s injured leg, the meaty flesh breaking under the weight of the blade. More dark blood and pus flowed, some of it squirting onto the doctor’s gloved hands.
“How’s it going?” Charles yelled.
The doctor ignored the question, dabbing the leaky incision with the cloth.
“Give me the green vial. No, the other green one.” The doctor dabbed one of the cloths into the bottle, wiping the areas her blade had cut with it. The girl’s limb twitched involuntarily, but otherwise remained motionless.
“How is it?” Samuel asked.
The doctor shook her head. She went to say something but decided against it. He wasn’t familiar with many people in town, but he knew the doctor well enough to know she was disturbed. She busied herself with cutting away the infected tissue, the black blood and ripped meat breaking under the scalpel’s blade.
“Why are you here?” she asked softly enough that only Samuel could hear.
Samuel pushed his glasses up. His lips pursed. “I don’t know.”
The doctor didn’t press further. “Give me an empty vial,” she whispered.
Samuel hesitated but obeyed. The doctor popped the lid for the vial and placed the tip of it into the wound, lapping up the black and syrup-like blood. She closed the vial and tossed it and its contents back inside her bag.
“How much longer you got?” Charles asked, the soles of his feet bouncing.
The doctor brushed her hands across her lap before taking back the scalpel.
“As long as it takes.”
Another hour passed. The sunlig
ht had begun to fade, but the doctor continued her work. After she finished slicing away the rotted meat and dabbing the cuts, she wrapped the leg in clean cloth and sealed it with a thick layer of gauze. Samuel helped her clean the tools, doing his best to ignore the smell. The girl looked peaceful as she slept, not like a crazed demon. Not that he had any clue what a demon would look like. But the more he watched her, the more he questioned the mayor’s story. Did she really kill that patrolman? How could they be sure? Her body was abnormal, that was true, and she attacked his father with an instinctual viciousness that was primal. But lying there, asleep with her closed eyes and slightly agape lips, she seemed nothing more than a harmless girl.
The doctor stood up and rolled her hips, turning to Charles.
“I need fresh clothes.”
Charles scratched his scalp. “I think I saw a couple of folded-up shirts for the sheriff behind his desk. Why?”
“Get one,” the doctor said before motioning to Samuel. “I’m going to dress her.”
“What do you mean?” Charles’s voice rose. He grabbed the bars, nearly shaking them. “What are you doing? Don’t touch its clothes! I think that’s a bad idea.”
The doctor tossed several tools into her bag. She grunted. “She’s freezing in that useless dress. It’s disgusting and covered in blood and pus and feces and who knows what else. She needs real clothes if she has any chance of recovering in this place. Northern clothes.”
“I’m just saying,” Charles stammered. “I don’t think—”
Demon in the Whitelands Page 5
