who was the resurrection, he seemed Death personified. Franz knew the way to resurrection and hoped for more laudanum, enough laudanum so that he could cross over and lose himself forever in the lake.
It was not to be.
They had brought him here to this hospital. Drifting in and out of his dream state, he remembered little of the journey except discomfort. He had lain on a stretcher in a covered wagon with other wounded men. Then he was in this room, and here he suffered more pain, worse than the first, but there was also more laudanum, and he returned to the lake.
The pain did not leave him, but it abated in time. And when it did, there was no more laudanum. The cup the nurse offered to his lips now contained broth, and later soup with bits of meat. At first he refused the food, knowing that it sustained existence, and existence was too painful to contemplate.
Another doctor came and asked questions. Franz answered with grunts. Like all doctors, the man volunteered little himself. One day, Franz strained very hard to speak and managed, “W-wh-hat?”
The doctor gave him a sharp glance over his spectacles and said, “What is the outlook, do you mean?”
Franz had meant to ask, “What is wrong with me?” but this would do. He nodded.
“Well, the field surgeons did the best they could.”
They always say that when the news is bad, Franz thought.
“They should have taken your leg off. But as they didn’t, I could see that yours was the sort of case we might learn from.” The doctor preened a little. “There was an article—published by a Frenchman—his name’s Desault, if you’ve a mind to know—that proposes to deal with necrosis by cutting the rotting flesh away. It seemed the opportune moment to test the theory. Mind you, it was touch and go. I cannot count the bits of bone and metal I had to remove first, and it’s a miracle you didn’t die from gangrene fever after all. Nasty stuff, gangrene. Your flesh turns black and stinks to high heaven. Well, I kept cutting and cutting, and here you still are.”
“M-m…m-m?” Franz wondered why his tongue would not cooperate.
“I mean, the leg’s still there. Both of them. Though the right knee may be a bit of a problem. Won’t be able to bend it or put much weight on it. I’m afraid crutches will be in order. The other one’s well enough. Scarred, of course. You’re a lucky fellow.”
“L-ll…l-l…l-la?”
“What’s wrong with your tongue?” The doctor bent over him and pulled down Franz’s jaw, peered inside his mouth and then felt around it with his fingers, pulling his tongue up and down and sideways.
Franz gagged. The doctor’s fingers had a disgusting smell and taste of tobacco and other unspeakable things.
The doctor removed his hand and straightened. “Say something!”
“N-na-no!” croaked Franz and glared.
One day, Franz stole a glimpse at his legs while the doctor and nurse were cleaning and re-bandaging them. It was a very brief glimpse, for the pain was, as usual, excruciating. But the sight of his wounds was so unnerving that for a long time afterward he refused to look at them. The flesh was a violent red or purple, puffed up so much in places that the middle of his leg no longer looked like a limb but like something rotten and slimy unearthed from a grave. On the right leg, trickles of blood and pus pulsated from the doctor’s incisions like burning lava from small volcanoes. The smell of corruption reached his nose, and he closed his eyes, gagging on his vomit.
*
The sharp-nosed servant with the odd yellow eyes closed the double doors of the library behind the visitor. The visitor advanced nervously, bowed, and sat down on the other side of the wide, ornately carved desk. “Is it true?” he asked.
His host poured cognac into two glasses and pushed one toward him. “Really, Paul,” he said. “You have less self-control than a female. Pull yourself together. It appears there was a
It was not to be.
They had brought him here to this hospital. Drifting in and out of his dream state, he remembered little of the journey except discomfort. He had lain on a stretcher in a covered wagon with other wounded men. Then he was in this room, and here he suffered more pain, worse than the first, but there was also more laudanum, and he returned to the lake.
The pain did not leave him, but it abated in time. And when it did, there was no more laudanum. The cup the nurse offered to his lips now contained broth, and later soup with bits of meat. At first he refused the food, knowing that it sustained existence, and existence was too painful to contemplate.
Another doctor came and asked questions. Franz answered with grunts. Like all doctors, the man volunteered little himself. One day, Franz strained very hard to speak and managed, “W-wh-hat?”
The doctor gave him a sharp glance over his spectacles and said, “What is the outlook, do you mean?”
Franz had meant to ask, “What is wrong with me?” but this would do. He nodded.
“Well, the field surgeons did the best they could.”
They always say that when the news is bad, Franz thought.
“They should have taken your leg off. But as they didn’t, I could see that yours was the sort of case we might learn from.” The doctor preened a little. “There was an article—published by a Frenchman—his name’s Desault, if you’ve a mind to know—that proposes to deal with necrosis by cutting the rotting flesh away. It seemed the opportune moment to test the theory. Mind you, it was touch and go. I cannot count the bits of bone and metal I had to remove first, and it’s a miracle you didn’t die from gangrene fever after all. Nasty stuff, gangrene. Your flesh turns black and stinks to high heaven. Well, I kept cutting and cutting, and here you still are.”
“M-m…m-m?” Franz wondered why his tongue would not cooperate.
“I mean, the leg’s still there. Both of them. Though the right knee may be a bit of a problem. Won’t be able to bend it or put much weight on it. I’m afraid crutches will be in order. The other one’s well enough. Scarred, of course. You’re a lucky fellow.”
“L-ll…l-l…l-la?”
“What’s wrong with your tongue?” The doctor bent over him and pulled down Franz’s jaw, peered inside his mouth and then felt around it with his fingers, pulling his tongue up and down and sideways.
Franz gagged. The doctor’s fingers had a disgusting smell and taste of tobacco and other unspeakable things.
The doctor removed his hand and straightened. “Say something!”
“N-na-no!” croaked Franz and glared.
One day, Franz stole a glimpse at his legs while the doctor and nurse were cleaning and re-bandaging them. It was a very brief glimpse, for the pain was, as usual, excruciating. But the sight of his wounds was so unnerving that for a long time afterward he refused to look at them. The flesh was a violent red or purple, puffed up so much in places that the middle of his leg no longer looked like a limb but like something rotten and slimy unearthed from a grave. On the right leg, trickles of blood and pus pulsated from the doctor’s incisions like burning lava from small volcanoes. The smell of corruption reached his nose, and he closed his eyes, gagging on his vomit.
*
The sharp-nosed servant with the odd yellow eyes closed the double doors of the library behind the visitor. The visitor advanced nervously, bowed, and sat down on the other side of the wide, ornately carved desk. “Is it true?” he asked.
His host poured cognac into two glasses and pushed one toward him. “Really, Paul,” he said. “You have less self-control than a female. Pull yourself together. It appears there was a
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