The Devil in Green (33 page)

Apprehensively, he peeled open his shirt.
A
gaping wound ran across
his stomach, filled with blood. Other gashes lay open on his chest and
arms, and for the first time he was thankful for the classes the Church
authorities had inflicted on him during his training. Moving as carefully as
he could, though still punctuated with devastating bursts of pain, he
managed to free his haversack.
At
the bottom of it was the small medical
kit they all carried with them for basic treatment on the road. First, he
removed the small jar of antiseptic salve created in the medicines quarter
that lay off the cathedral's herb garden. Unscrewing the lid, he recoiled
from the potent odour, as strong as any smelling salts. Then he removed
the tin that contained the large needle and sturdy thread. This was going to
test his willpower.

Dipping three fingers into the jar of salve, he gingerly dabbed it on the
stomach wound. The pain made him cry out, but he could instantly feel
the area numbing. He left it a couple of minutes before threading the
needle. He didn't have anything to sterilise it with, so he hoped the salve
would do its job.

The first stitch was agony. His stomach turned as he watched it pulling
the two flaps of flesh together. By the fourth stitch, the sight was not so
disturbing and he learned to cope with the pain by chewing on the end of
his leather belt. When he had finished, he tied a knot as he had been taught,
then rested for five minutes before moving on to the next wound.

It
took him an hour to finish the entire job. By then he felt like a shadow;
he didn't want to guess how much blood he had lost. He really needed a
transfusion, a few days' bed rest. Instead, he was lying on wet ground in
the middle of the countryside. He just hoped he had the strength to mount
his horse and reach one of the villages that bordered the Plain.

It
took him fifteen minutes to get to his feet using a tree trunk as
support, and even then he felt as if he was going to collapse with every step
he took. At first, he lurched from tree to tree, pausing every now and then
to dry-retch, but after a while he found it in himself to stagger unsupported. Even so, he lost his footing several times before he reached the
bottom of the hill. There he found the remains of the horses; it looked as if
they had been hacked to pieces by a chainsaw. He fought back the despair;
it wouldn't help him. He'd just have to walk.

The day was a little brighter than the previous one, with no sign of rain,
but it was still windy. He remembered where they had seen the church
steeple poking above the trees and thought he would use that as a marker
and head for it. Yet when he eventually skirted the foot of the hill there was
no sign of the steeple anywhere. It made no sense to him at all, but he
didn't have the energy to consider what it meant. Using the occasional
glimpses of the sun as a guide, he set off in what was undoubtedly the right
direction. In his weakened state he could barely keep his eyes on the
horizon; his concentration was mainly occupied with staying on his feet,
staying alive. Many times, his consciousness slipped sideways so that he
was moving in a dream-state, observing his surroundings without being
aware of them; this condition became more and more the norm, and the
remaining rational part of him knew that he was dying.

He should have reached the neighbouring village within the half-hour; it
never materialised, nor did any of the roads he knew skirted that edge of
the Plain. He wondered if he had somehow got turned around and was
heading back into the wilderness, but the surrounding landscape told him
otherwise. Rolling grassland lay all around, rich and fertile, punctuated by
copses and small woods. The trees were oddly fully leafed as if it were
midsummer rather than crisp autumn, and there was an abundance of wild
flowers scattered across the area in blues, reds and yellows.

He slept regularly, usually where he stumbled, and on one occasion he
attempted to eat some of the travel biscuits, but he immediately vomited
them straight back up. In his daze, time slopped in haste. He would close
his eyes in a moment's thought and clouds would have scudded across the
sky, or the quality of the light would have changed.

He came to a small, winding track of well-trodden earth and without
thinking began to follow it. It eventually led to a quaintly constructed small
stone bridge over a tinkling brook where he was suddenly overcome with a
tremendous thirst. He made his way tentatively down the side of the
bridge, through the thick brookside vegetation, and scooped up handfuls
of water, splashing it into his mouth and across his burning face. He was
stunned at how wonderful it tasted, vibrant, with complex flavours, like no
water he had ever sampled before. He immediately felt a little better, his
thoughts sharper, his limbs a tad more energised. He continued along the
track beyond the bridge with a little more vigour.

Twilight came sooner than he anticipated, the trees growing ghostly as the
grassland turned grey. Most of the clouds had disappeared, so he could
clearly see a crescent moon gleaming among myriad glittering stars. It was
surprisingly balmy, with moths fluttering above the grass.

Where am I?
he thought, without really giving the question much weight.

A little further on, he noticed a light glowing amongst the trees away to
his left. Hope filled him that at last he might be able to find somewhere to
rest. The path forked and he took the track that led directly towards the
light, the other branch heading in a near-straight line across the landscape.

As he approached the trees, other lights became visible, like golden
fireflies in the growing gloom. Lanterns had been strung amongst the
branches and from their vicinity he could now hear voices, some raised
though not threatening, others lower in conversation. It brought his
consciousness another step back from the misty region where it had
retreated, so that he was alert enough to experience surprise when he saw
what lay ahead.

Amongst the trees, illuminated by the hanging lanterns, lay a large
market stretching far into die depths of the wood. On the periphery there
were only a few stalls and browsers, but further into the depths he could
see that it was bustling. The air was filled with the aroma of smoke
and barbecued meat, along with unusual perfumes and spices he couldn't
quite identify. The raised voices were the traders encouraging people to
examine their wares, and somewhere there was music, singing voices
accompanying some stringed instrument that set his spirits soaring.

Obliquely, he knew how strange it was for a market to be held at that
time of evening in such an isolated location, but he was so attracted by the
sights and sounds it barely registered. Nor did he truly notice how unusual
some of the market-goers were. They were dressed in ancient attire that
echoed a range of periods - medieval robes and Elizabethan doublets,
wide-brimmed hats, long cloaks, broad belts and thigh-high boots - while
some were unusually tall and thin, and others uncommonly short. Their
features were the most striking. Every face was filled with character,
eyebrows too bushy, noses too pointed, eyes astonishingly bright or beady,
so that they resembled pictures of people from another time rather than
the familiar blandly modern features he was used to. Indeed, some of them
were almost cartoonish in appearance, and if Mallory had looked closely,
he would have seen that their skin had a strange waxy sheen, as if they
were wearing masks over their true faces.

His attention wandered as he entered the market. The detail of his
surroundings was almost hallucinogenic, the sights, sounds and smells
miasmic after the tranquillity of the countryside. But while he was lost in
the swirl of life, he was unaware that many of those around watched him
carefully and curiously, with only a hint of suspicion, and occasionally a
hint of threat.