‘Brother, you should go. You can do nothing. God will decide what happens here.’
I was right, but he still hesitated in the doorway. He was a good man.
‘You understand, I must close the door.’
‘I understand.’
‘And lock the door.’
‘I understand.’
I was on my own. They wouldn’t take him into the hospital now.
‘I will come every day.’
He would. I knew instinctively that he would.
‘I will pray for his soul.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And yours.’
Well, about time someone did.
‘Thank you, brother.’
He stepped back and pulled the door to behind him. I heard the bar being pulled across.
I was on my own.
The little shed was pleasantly dim. Enough sunlight filtered through the rough plank walls to give a reasonable light. Chinks of light shone through the roof. If it rained, I would have a problem.
I studied my resources. A few gardening implements leaned against one wall. Piles of empty sacks were stacked in one corner, together with some lengths of twine that had been rolled into a big ball. Peterson’s discarded clothing, neatly folded, lay nearby. I had his two blankets, his boots and hat, his staff, and the small knife he kept in his boot. A hidden pocket in his cloak revealed some waterproof matches, a compass, and a small pepper spray.
There was a bucket of water by the door and a small wooden bowl. I suddenly realised Brother Anselm hadn’t left us anything to eat. We could both be dead in a few hours. Perhaps they wouldn’t bother feeding us.
Not that I had time to eat. I spent all my time trying to keep him cool. On the one occasion I tried to get him to drink something, he knocked the bowl from my hand. Shortly afterwards, he seemed to fall asleep. I didn’t know whether to let him sleep or whether to keep him conscious. Since he was in such pain, I left him, just trying keeping his head and hands cool and watching the swelling get bigger. I couldn’t believe how fast it swelled. If I took my eyes off it even for a second, it seemed to have grown again when I looked back. It looked angry and painful. I knew that if it burst, there was a chance of recovery. And he only had the one bubo. And he would have been vaccinated against just about everything under the sun. And he was strong. I told myself he could survive this …
He was caught in a vicious circle. The fever kept him restless. Every move was agony. The pain inflamed the swelling, which increased the fever. And so it went on.
Hours passed. I sat beside him, wetting his lips with water and considered my options.
When he started to scream, I made the decision.
I stood up and undressed, laying the linen shift aside and redressing in my dress and surcoat. Using his knife, I cut and ripped my shift into strips for bandages. I filled up the bowl with water and had it ready. I took a sack, cut that up as well, and mixed it with a little twine. Both sack and twine had been waterproofed with something that smelled like creosote and which I hoped would burn well.
I sat back on my heels and rehearsed everything in my head, going over it all several times, making sure I had everything I needed close to hand, because once I started there would be no going back.
I made a little fire, gently puffing the flames into life, and adding small strips of sacking. I didn’t want a massive conflagration, just a small flame. Just enough to sterilise a knife and burn the soiled dressings.
All this took time and when I looked at him again, he appeared to have lapsed into deep unconsciousness. I wasn’t sure if this was a good sign or not. Hoping to God that I hadn’t left it too late, I pulled off his shorts and set them to one side.
Here we go.
I held the knife in the flame for a few seconds, commended us to every god I could think of, and gently pulled his leg away from his body.
The swelling was huge and ugly. The size of a golf ball, it nestled in his groin. In the last few minutes, it had turned from red to purple. I could almost see it throb. Peterson had grown ominously silent. Dried saliva caked the corners of his mouth, dark with blood where he’d bitten his lips in pain. His breathing was all over the place. I was gripped with a sudden urge. Do it now. Before it was too late.
Still not knowing if I was doing the right thing or not, I carefully placed the tip of the knife in the centre of the bubo. He jerked and I nearly dropped it. Do it quickly, Maxwell. Do it now.