Monsters (25 page)

“I know how you feel,” Winters said. “You did so much to save her, but this is one monster you cannot fight. There is no bear to shoot arrows at, no wolves to chase. There is nothing to be done for the leg. If you care for her, you will let me take her leg—here—just below the knee.”

“Please no,” Lisa said, sobbing. “Don't take my leg.”

“She will understand,” Winters insisted. “It may take her time, but she will realize there was no other way.”

“But you don't know what you're dealing with,” James said.

“And you do?” Winters asked.

“Yes,” James said, realizing he'd have to show his hand and reveal what he knew about bacteria. With measured deliberation and his hands out before him, he added, “There is a world that exists beneath ours, so small you and I cannot see it, but it is real.”

“You speak like a sorcerer. It is as though you talk of magic.”

“Not magic. This is not make-believe or fantasy. Her body is fighting a war against hundreds of thousands of monsters, each of them smaller than the sharp end of a pin.”

“But how could such creatures exist?”

“How does the moon not fall from the sky?” James asked, trying to turn the logic around. “That reality defies our expectations is not magic, it simply means there is more for us to learn.

“Think about it. If you dent your plow, does it fix itself? If you break a beam of timber, will it mend? And yet cut your hand and within days the skin has grown back. Why? What's different?”

“I am alive,” replied Winters.

“Yes, but it's more than that. If you want a glass of water you make a deliberate decision to get up and get something to drink, but you make no such concerted effort to heal a wound. Why?”

“I don't know.”

“Exactly. There are aspects of life that function beyond our knowledge, without our specific involvement, like the beating of the heart.

“There is a microscopic world, smaller than anything we can see, occurring at the tiniest of levels.”

“I have played with a magnifying glass,” the old man protested. “I have seen nothing of this world you describe. Do you expect me to believe in fairy tales?”

“Don't do this,” James snapped. “Don't be like the villagers, caught in their ignorance and superstition. You’re better than that.”

The old man's patience was wearing thin. The look in his eyes betrayed his feelings. The growl in his voice confirmed his anger.

“It is you who are superstitious. It is you who would have me believe in something without reason.”

Outside, birds sung in the warmth of the morning, oblivious to the tension within the cabin. James was losing the argument and he knew it. He looked around, his mind racing, desperately trying to think of some tangible way to describe the world of microbes. His eyes caught sight of a rotund wheel of cheese sitting on the shelf above the kitchen bench.

“Think about mold. Whether it’s forming cheese, causing fruit to rot or growing in a damp corner, what you're seeing is a colony containing hundreds of thousands, millions of tiny spores growing and multiplying. You're seeing the microscopic realm explode into our world.”

James turned to Lisa, adding, “Her body is fighting a bacterial infection, but we can help her fight back. This is a monster we can defeat. Bacteria are living creatures. They're vicious, but they can be beaten.”

“You expect me to believe this?”

“No,” James replied, anger rising in his voice. “It matters not what you believe. It's true regardless.”

The old man seemed taken aback by his audacity, so James continued, explaining what was happening.

“You're right in that the infection is taking hold and the wound is becoming inflamed. Time is of the essence. We need to clean her cuts with something that will kill the bacteria from the outside, giving her body a chance to fight off the bacteria from within.”

“And what will kill these invisible monsters of yours?” Winters asked, mocking him.

“Think about it,” James said, appealing to the others. “Think about what you have around you that doesn't spoil.”

James turned to Amelia, saying, “Meat rots. Bread goes moldy. What stays fresh? What never spoils?”

“Honey?” Amelia replied.

“Yes.”

“What about vinegar?” Jonathan said, a waver of doubt in his voice.

“Bad cider?” Winters asked in surprise.

“Yes,” James said. “We might think it's bad, but it's not. We still use vinegar, right? We don't throw it away.”

“I use it in cooking,” Amelia said, agreeing with him, “And it's good on bee stings, and for getting rid of stains in clothing.”

Somehow, from the kindness in her voice, James felt she wanted to believe him. She wanted there to be an alternative to the amputation. He knew he had her on his side, and he intended to use her support to his advantage.

“What about cleaning?” James asked, leading her on.

“Yes. I use it to get rid of mildew and mold, and for cleaning the bench.”

“Exactly,” James said, ceasing on her point. “Because bacteria and fungus cannot grow in vinegar.”

“And you think this will save her leg?” Winters asked. “Honey and vinegar?”

“No,” James replied. “I don't think these things will save her leg. I think they will allow her body to save her leg. We need to clean her wounds carefully, washing and treating them, and then give her body a chance to wage war against the bacteria.”

“A wish and a prayer won't work here,” Winters replied. He took the wood saw from the fire, cleaning the soot from it with a fresh cloth.

Lisa was trembling, shaking with fear, mumbling under her breath as the boys held her down.

“I don't need either a wish or a prayer,” James said, refusing to be intimidated. He looked the old man in the eye. “I know you think you're doing what's right. I understand that someone once made hard decisions for your life, decisions against your will, but this is different.”

“How is it different?”

“She already fought off a mild fever yesterday. Her leg was far better when I walked through your door than it had been up in the mountains. Her body is responding, but it’s fighting a protracted battle, surging back and forth. We need to help it win.

“And we know what we're up against. We know how to treat her. It's not just a case of keeping the wound clean, but cleaning it with anti-bacterial agents, chemicals that will kill germs. We need to give her body the best chance of winning this war. I need time. I need you to wait.”

“If you’re wrong,” Winters began, “she dies. You know that, right?”

“Why did you place the saw in the fire?” James asked, ignoring him.

“To clean it.”

“Why not just wipe it clean?” he asked. “And why boil the water? If you start with clean water, boiling shouldn't make it any cleaner. No, think about it. What you’re doing is sterilizing both the saw and the water, you’re using heat to kill any microscopic organisms that could lead to infection. You just don’t know it because this knowledge has been lost.”

Winters was silent for a moment. James could see him considering his logic.

“If she gets worse,” Winters began.

“If she gets worse, all bets are off,” James said.

“If she becomes delirious. If fever sets in ...” Winters didn't need to finish his sentence. James didn’t need to respond. He simply nodded and there was an agreement settled between them.

The old man put the saw back by the door and wandered outside, muttering to himself. The two boys released Lisa and followed their father. They avoided eye contact as they shuffled past. Jonathan's head hung low, but Wilbur had an air of defiance. It seemed they didn't agree with each other, let alone with James.

Amelia helped James bathe Lisa's leg, cleaning the wounds while old man Winters and the boys headed out on the farm. Lisa screamed at the pain as the diluted apple cider vinegar bit at her leg. James tried to be tender, but the alternative was worse. Once he was sure the wound was clean, he carefully daubed honey into the exposed flesh.

“I'm sorry,” he said, “but we'll need to do this twice daily.”

That night, Lisa's wounds looked no better, but they hadn't become worse. By noon the next day, the red tinge around the jagged edges of her cuts had turned to a soft pink.

“Your little magic potion is working,” said Winters, sitting down with Amelia at the wooden table for lunch.

He'd been quiet for most of the morning, reshaping a plow over by the barn while the boys had cleaned out the grain silo.

James suspected Winters was as relieved as the rest of them to see Lisa recovering. Lisa, though, was moody, and James could see she couldn't bring herself to be open and warm with a man that almost forcibly cut off her leg.

As they sat there with sunlight streaming in through the open windows, Winters favored his bad leg, resting both hands on one thigh and gently massaging the muscle. James wasn't sure if it was a subconscious reaction to what they'd gone through over the past two days, or if the old man's amputated leg was somewhat tender from the morning’s work. Either way, Winters’ focus on his bad leg was apparent for all to see.

“How did you know?” Winters asked. The two teenaged boys leaned forward, wanting to catch what was said. James felt cornered. Winters had to know he was a reader, there was no other explanation, but the old man didn't seem threatened, he was curious. It was a risk, but James wanted to come clean. Surely not everyone subscribed to the superstitions of the villagers. There had to be trust, there had to be understanding.

“I read about bacteria,” James replied, pulling up a chair next to Winters.

“You're a reader?”

“Yes.”

It was good to be honest. James felt he had nothing to be ashamed of except the superstitions that haunted the valley.

“My father taught me to read. He drummed the written word into me from a child.”

“Old man Dobson,” Winters said, an air of admiration in his voice. “Always was a clever bastard.”

James couldn't help but smile.

“So all this,” Winters said, gesturing at the walls. “You can read all this? You know what all this is?”

“Yes.”

For the next few hours, they sat and talked about the various items displayed within the cabin.

Amelia reminded Winters he was supposed to be plowing the western fields, but he didn't care. The fallow ground could wait. Wilbur and Jonathan were fascinated by the details James could recall as he told them about the Old World and the fall of civilization.

By early evening, Lisa's leg looked healthier. The tissue was visibly pale and the swelling had subsided. James washed her leg again, but she was more tolerant of the pain, taking it in her stride.

As evening fell, Lisa grew restless, saying they should be moving on tomorrow. She asked if one of the boys could take them on to the next town.

Winters said it was foolish to continue traveling, that Lisa needed to allow the bone in her leg time to mend.

Amelia suggested they stay awhile, saying they were welcome to share in their food.

James accepted.

The right side of his chest and back had come out in severe, deep bruising from his fall through the snow. The branches on the pine tree may have broken his fall, but that came at a price. As the days since the bear attack wore on, James was surprised by how sore he felt. The more time transpired, the more his body rebelled against strenuous activity, demanding he rest and recuperate. He could see Lisa was nervous, but she wouldn't tell him why. Having been through so much, he knew they both needed time to recover.

Over the next few days, Lisa's leg improved further. Scabs formed over the deep, jagged tears, hiding the mending tissue beneath a hard outer crust. Her broken leg would take months to heal properly, but Wilbur made a form-fitted brace that strapped to either side of her leg, holding it firmly in place, and she was able to hobble around on her crutch. Lisa was determined not to be a burden and insisted on helping Amelia prepare meals.

For James, those few days were invigorating.

On the fifth day, everything changed.

Sweat dripped from his forehead.

James wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Although he was wearing leather gloves, blisters were forming on his palms as he dug with the spade, loosening a large rock from the ground.

The two boys, Jonathan and Wilbur, were quiet as they kept up a blistering pace, throwing rocks into the cart as old man Winters hobbled along, leading the horse down the field. They were harvesting rocks, at least, that was what his father called it. Village folk used to make fun of the spring harvest, particularly the teens, but it was serious business, as every farmer knew. With the ground thawing during the day and freezing at night, the dirt would expand and contract, forcing rocks up through to the surface. Given the strength of the horses, any rock larger than a man's hand could damage a plow, so the rocks had to be harvested before seed could be sown.

James bent down, dropping his ass so he could pick up a large rock without using his back. He lifted with his legs, driving up with his thighs, gaining a little momentum so he could hurl the rock into the back of the cart.

A hunk of fractured granite flew through the air, catching the edge of the wooden cart and falling back to the hard-packed earth with a thud. James groaned. Despite his best efforts to lift properly, his back ached. Wearily, he stepped over to grab the rock again when Wilbur called out.

“Looks like we've got company.”

A troop of soldiers made its way along the trail toward the farm. Their colorful standards were visible through the deciduous trees still devoid of their leaves. There was an unusual amount of pomp in their scarlet banners, each one trimmed with gold. For a moment, James was in awe.

“Wilbur,” Winters said, his voice low and rough. “Get the women and take them out back. Hide them in the cellar under the hay barn. Pile bales on top of the lid, but don't make it too obvious. Be sure the hay bales are messy, so it looks like a staging area.”

Wilbur didn't have to be told twice, he tossed his long crowbar into the back of the wagon and ran off on foot toward the cabin.