“I’ve been out for two weeks?” His heart skipped. “What month
is it?”
“It’s the end of the first week of March. Take it easy, Chris. You’re
safe now.”
“That’s what you keep saying. Was I in a coma? What happened
to me?”
“You got caught in the tiger-trap. Hannah said you couldn’t
breathe, were in intense pain, had lost a tremendous amount of
blood. Every time they tried to move you or the trap—” “It hurt.” His heaving chest was suddenly prickly with sweat.
“I . . . I couldn’t . . .”
“Take it easy.” The old man patted his arm. “Slow down.” “I thought I was dying,” he whispered. “When Hannah gave me
that water . . . I thought it was poison and she was trying to kill me.
I guess . . .” It was all a bad dream, like the one about my dad and me and
Lena and then Peter. He didn’t know whether to laugh or break into
tears. “I dreamt that I died. I thought I was dead.”
“That’s because, for all intents and purposes,” the old man said,
“you were.”
56
“What?” When he tried to start up from the bed, knots dug into his wrists and ankles. “What are you talking about? What are you saying?”
“Easy, Christopher,” the old man said. “Calm down.” “Calm down?” He thought he was screaming, but he could only muster a tortured squawk. He strained against the sheets, his neck so stiff he heard the creak of bone. “You’re telling me I was dead? That Hannah really poisoned me?”
“Yes. She wished to ease your suffering, to help you let go. She stayed with you until you slipped away. It didn’t take long. You were quite weak already. If Ellie hadn’t found you when she did and sent Eli for help, you might’ve been stone-dead long before Hannah and Jayden got to you.”
“Ellie and her dog k-kept me alive. Th-they . . .” His throat suddenly clogged as he collapsed back onto the bed. “They kept me w-warm.” Chris’s eyes burned, and when he closed them, he felt a tear leak onto a temple. Why am I crying? Embarrassed, he rolled his face away.
“Yes, our little fisherwoman’s quite resourceful,” the old man said, and then Chris felt the slight pressure of a thumb wiping away the wet on his face. “It is not weakness to become emotional after a shock. You’re clearly a very strong boy, Christopher.”
“But how can I still be alive?” Chris whispered. He opened his eyes. “You said I was dead. I f-felt myself die.”
“I know what I said. You were given poison that should’ve killed you but didn’t. You should be dead, but you’re not.” The old man laid a gentle hand on Chris’s cheek, a touch for which Chris was almost absurdly grateful. “I can’t explain it.”
“Maybe it wasn’t as bad as Hannah thought.” He could feel the tears dribbling into his hair. “She shouldn’t have done that. I’m not a horse with a broken leg.”
“Fair enough, but would you have drunk poison willingly? Would you have had faith in a girl you’d never met, that she was right: you were going to die and this was more merciful?”
“Well, she was wrong, wasn’t she?”
“She may have been . . . mistaken about the extent of your injuries. Hannah’s quite skillful. She’ll be a fine healer someday. But no, she’s not a doctor.”
“Are you?”
“No. But I’ve been a healer for a very long time, and I know that tiger-trap.”
“How did they . . .” He heard himself hyperventilating but couldn’t stop it. “They couldn’t get the trap off. It hurt too much. I heard them argue. Hannah was worried I would bleed even more.”
“That’s right.” The old man’s tone was dry, factual. “After you slipped away, they turned you over and pulled you off. I believe they cut a spike or two to do it.”
Cut me off. The image of them flipping the door and his limp body, tacked on iron spikes like a frog pinned to a dissecting pad, stroked the small hairs along his neck. They would’ve bundled him up, too, before throwing his wrapped corpse onto a horse. Or had the horse drag me if it got spooked. He supposed he was lucky they hadn’t decided to bury him under rocks.
“Nathan was hit with a mace,” he said. “That big log? I heard his neck break. Did he come back from the dead, too?”
“No. His body’s still in the death house.”
Still. He could feel the scream trying to squeeze past his teeth. That’s where I was. They thought I was dead. They put me with Nathan. Then how—
“We’ll bury him come spring, if you like. We don’t cremate remains, although we did butcher his horse for our dogs. We also have Nathan’s belongings—clothing, rifle, a radio? I suppose they’re yours now.” The old man paused. “I know you don’t agree, Christopher, but I’ve had ample time to examine you. From the extent of your injuries and visible wounds—well, what’s left of them—Hannah did the right thing.”
“Left of them?” Every time this old man opened his mouth, Chris felt his mind scrambling to keep up. “What do you mean, what’s left of them?”
In reply, the old man reached and peeled the sheet from Chris’s chest down to his waist. “You have half a dozen wounds, three of which are quite serious. This one”—the old man laid a dry palm over Chris’s right side, just below his ribs—“was the worst: a through-andthrough that collapsed your lung. Your difficulty breathing? Hannah said you had tracheal deviation.” He touched a finger to his own knobby Adam’s apple. “Your windpipe had shifted to one side. That happens when air collects inside your rib cage instead of the lung. And do you remember the pain in your belly? That was probably from blood pooling in your abdomen. But look now.”
Chris craned to peer down at his stomach. A pink eye of taut, raw-looking scar tissue, about as big around as a half-dollar, stared up from his abdomen, just below the shelf of his ribs. My God. He heard his sudden intake of breath. The first time around, when he came to . . . he remembered the old man’s hand on his stomach. How can this be?
“You have a matching exit wound to the right of your spine. From its location, I suspect you sustained a laceration of your kidney as well. Yet that, too, is almost healed. Here.” Chris felt a tug at his left wrist as the old man worked the knot. “As long as you promise not to choke me again, let me . . . There. Look at your hand, Christopher.”