Turbinio

Trompeta Del Diablo

''I got called to see a woman named Lindsay, or something like that. She showed up in the late afternoon with an injury to her left hand, caused by an ax while chopping wood. The wound was large, her left thumb nearly severed; the laceration ran from the base of the index finger up to 5 centimeters above the styloid process of the radius, superficially injured. She had injured herself about three days ago, and the wound had been treated with pig fat and a makeshift bandage. Serious apparent sepsis, with a suppuration, and great swelling of the hand and forearm. Darkened thumb; apparent gangrene; characteristic pungent odor. Red subcutaneous spots, indicative of infection in the blood, extend from the wound site almost to the antecubital fossa.

Curious, don't you think? From a woman chopping wood to the severity of the wound. She had a high fever, dehydration and mild disorientation. Obvious tachycardia. I thought about what you would do, and the only thing that crossed my mind was an immediate amputation, but I can't do a job like that, so I took her to the most competent doctor I could find (it was an arduous search). And, although she did not accept the guidance, she was soon convinced to do so. I don't know how she is nowadays.

My other two patients are with me now. I ended up getting into a firefight with them, but I'm fine. One of them was hit and ruptured the brachial artery, but I managed to stop the bleeding and sew up the wound. There was a lot of blood. I imagined what you would do in my place, but nothing came to mind. I even consulted the Bible to try to get my bearings; ironic, don't you think?

If you received the last letter I sent you about Joseph of Arimathea's map, please respond. I am willing to visit any agency to get a letter from you. ''

Johnny finished reading the loose page to Gyro and carefully closed it, looking around to make sure you were asleep.

''It says here that the addressee is Innes Duncan. The priest she'd mentioned... Well, at least we know he exists. What do you think this map of Joseph of Arimathea is?''

''I don't know, Johnny, but did you see this diagnosis of the woman who cut the hand? Even my father's notes weren't that formal. Where did she learn all this?''

''I don't know... I think we better return this before she wakes up.''

Any rift that morning that Gyro's treatment might have caused between you and him seemed to be over. During the morning, when the snow was decreasing, they left for the north and soon after they sat around a fire to eat, but you ended up sleeping even before the pasta with rabbit was ready. Gyro took the opportunity to rummage through some things in your wagon, at first, in search of spices, but he returned with an old diary in his hands.

Gyro had Johnny read the diary, who promptly protested the idea, but was soon overcome by curiosity. Whatever kind of incriminating confession they were looking for there, they didn't find it. Only travel reports, recipes and shopping lists. But strangely, everything seemed to be written as if they were letters.

During the reading, Johnny constantly checked to see if you were awake, but he always saw you sleeping like a rock next to him. From time to time he gently wiped the snowflakes that fell on your face. He watched your form and how soft, imperceptible tears of sleep gathered in the corners of your eyes. It came to his mind, watching you, that you didn't look like a witch at all.

Taking care that Gyro didn't notice, fearing any kind of mockery from his friend, he slowly brought his hands closer to your hair like iron is attracted to a magnet. The smoky air near the fire was filled with a kind of trance; the sensation that Johnny feared was equated with lust or admiration, the terrible burning desire to feel. He could count every hair on your head if it would allow him to look at you any longer. But Gyro's approach made Johnny pull himself together.