Turbinio

Twelve Drops Of Laudanum

You counted your instruments, for the third time, and, finding that none had slipped since the last count, you covered them with a clean linen cloth and groped lightly at the assurance of the scalpels, or of yourself, you were not sure. Silk sutures, intestinal sutures, arterial sutures, and fine-edged needles obtained from your shopping in Milwaukee. Small compresses, flaps, and laminated bandages. A six-inch willow twig, carefully cleaned of its pith, polished smooth, and slow-cooked so as not to break, to be used as forceps for you to remove the tiny shards of glass from Gyro's anesthetized skin. You thought about using some tool for this, but decided it would be better to use your fingers to manipulate the blood-slippery tissues, as long as you managed not to cut or puncture yourself in the process.

Johnny was always there to help with the procedure. You felt surprisingly calm, considering the complexity and the need to be patient, and it could be argued that even if you failed badly, Gyro wouldn't get any worse than he already was. The risks involved long-term effects, from shock, infection, bleeding, or simply a nasty scar, but that would be the price to pay for him calling you a snake.

You automatically looked at the cloth that held the blades and other improvised tools. Among them, was a small jar of your homemade recipe for preventing infections. Opening the jar, you smelled the aroma of hundreds of thousands of tiny spores excreting their useful substances; the smell fighting for supremacy with the strong smell of laudanum and blood.

"Give me the needle, Johnny, please.''

The tiny suture needle looked ridiculous held between Johnny's huge thumb and forefinger. The illusion of average competence was not helped by Johnny's sluggish attempts to thread the Zombie Horse's thread through the needle.

''Or I'll do it myself.'' He said, the tip of his tongue sticking out slightly in a sign of concentration. ''Or...'' He interrupted himself as he dropped the needle and began to grope the folds of white linen before your apprehensive eyes. ''Gyro will kill me if that suture isn't done with the Zombie Horse.'' He said, taking up the sentence again, as he triumphantly displayed the needle to his sleeping patient.

A slight nod of his head passed the task to you. You did your best to display a practical and trivial expression, taking the needle from Johnny's incompetent hand and passing the thread perfectly through it in a single gesture.

''I understand.'' You reassured him, although you didn't entirely agree with performing this suture with a dirty thread. ''Gyro is in good hands.''

''Yes, I know that.'' He smiled.

Your hands were cold, and the body under them was very warm, pulsing with life. You took the needle and put it in the first suture.

While you were finalizing the operation with ointments and balms, Johnny was packing the sleeping bags. Gyro had behaved very well while unconscious, with the exception of occasional spasms which were completely normal but made it difficult to sew up the skin. Finally, however, he turned purple. When you finished sewing, every square centimeter of skin seemed suddenly sensitive in such a state.

You found a corner where an old box was stored and leaned on the wall. A wave of pain shot up your legs; the sudden release of tension and the reaction of nerves. You wiped your bloody hands, with the disturbing awareness of who this blood belonged to. Leaning back against the wall, you delighted in the little spasms that shot up your spine and neck as the strain of kneeling was relieved.

Although they were in no immediate danger of death, these men with you were always injured in some way. You knew, however, that death walks the routes of this race at night, seeking out those whose defenses are down, who may unconsciously wander and cross its path because of loneliness, weariness and fear. But Gyro and Johnny were different.