The Twins of Noremway Parish (24 page)

“
Who’s there?” he asked. The quiver in his voice betrayed his nervousness. The voice in the darkness didn’t answer. “I said who’s there?”

Perhaps its owner was shy about identifying itself; or perhaps it was thinking of the most appropriate response; or, perhaps, it was attempting to raise the level of anxiety in the room.

Whoever it was in here now wanted to scare him; he was sure of it. If this last were the reason for the silence, Plague could verify that it was working. Either way, the voice eventually
did
respond, but only by repeating its original cryptic statement: “the doctor’s dilemma.”

“
Excuse me?”

“
A doctor always has a choice. Choices confront all of us every day, but the choices a doctor confronts are never inconsequential like they are for the rest of us. Isn’t that right?”

“
You seem to know. Who are you?” He thought about Nora in the living quarters reading her schoolwork. Whoever this demon was, it reminded him of the wolves, of the demons he and Decon had encountered at the Waterman House. Was his daughter safe?

“
Of course she’s safe, Bart. What do you think I am?”

“
You hurt her, you’re dead.”

“
Threats do not become you, Doctor. Don’t resort to them–they don’t suit you well.”

“
Who are you?”

“
I’ve lived a long time, and as my memories become clearer I’m getting a better idea of just how long I’ve lived. Aren’t memories funny things? I initially thought my experiences a few days ago were my first. Such a silly child I was. I know my memories go back an unimaginable number of years, and the memories keep flooding in. Who knows how far back they go? How many life times I have lived?”

“
I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to make an appointment to see me in the morning. I’m busy right now. I can help you with any memory problems you have, but you’ll have to come back another time.”

“
He mocks me! You make me laugh, but two can play at that game, Bartholomew Plague. Ha, I laugh at the thought! A doctor named ‘Plague,’ the disease that wiped out a third of Europe in the Middle Ages!”

“
Europe? Middle Ages?”

“
Oh: words from a bygone era; epochs long forgotten.” The voice paused as if to think of what to say next. “Ah, the doctor’s dilemma, something you face now. It is a dilemma as old as time and seen in many variants throughout history. But your dilemma is far more complicated than those dealt with by all doctors before you. Am I right?”

“
What dilemma?”

“
To save a patient, a sacrifice must be made; basic economics; the scarcity of resources! Listen to this story, and listen well, my friend, for I believe you will find an important lesson within. This happened many years ago: two patients arrived at a doctor’s office on the same rainy night. The first one arrived in old, tattered clothing with no other possessions about him, and no identification of any kind. He didn’t even know who he was, but he was most likely a hobo, or perhaps what you would call a nomad. He’d managed to make it to the doctor’s office through the stormy night by blind luck.

“
The other patient was a son carried in by his father, who happened to be a well-respected person in that society; perhaps the mayor. This man was unconscious and dying. ‘Is there anything you can do, Doctor, to save my son?’

“
Upon closer examination, he found that both patients were suffering from the same illness—only the hobo suffered it to a far lesser degree.

“
The doctor had medication to cure the illness. However, he only had enough to treat one of the patients. The hobo would almost certainly recover after receiving treatment. The mayor’s son would likely die whether or not he got treatment due to the advanced stage of the illness.

“
The doctor’s dilemma: does he do what he knows is right? Or does he do what society expects?”

Plague didn’t respond. He didn’t know how.

Suddenly, the chancellor came rushing in. “Come quick! Gool’s dying! He’s bleeding to death in his cell. Hurry!”

Plague gave one last look into the shadows, seeing nothing in them but a faint disembodied smile.

***

Could this be what the dark voice had referred to? Could this be one of those moments which proved something was going on that was beyond the random chance of normal human experience?

Gool was dying. What if Plague didn’t save him; what if he just let him die? Could
this
be the opportunity he had been waiting for?

These thoughts rushed through his mind in a flash, but the delay only prompted the chancellor to prod him to hurry. “Are you or aren’t you coming, Doctor?” Of course he would come; and of course he would hurry. “Gool is bleeding pretty badly. He’s lost a lot of blood, and I hope to God you have extra blood stores, because if not, this patient is going to die.”

It was a curious fact that the chancellor would ask about extra blood stores. It was just like the doctor’s dilemma the dark voice had described. Except instead of medicine, the lifesaving chemical was blood. In order to have
any
hope of separating the twins, he would need all the blood stores they currently had. Would he need to use them all? That remained to be seen, but he would refuse to do the operation without at least that many on hand.

What was even more curious, as would come out later, was how Ortega Gool seemed to do alright despite losing most of the blood in his body.

“
Do you have the extra stores or not?”

“
Look, Urey, I’ve been spending the past two days studying these twins and trying to figure out how to separate them so that they both will live. Now you’re telling me that I must use the only real biological resources I have to save a prisoner–a man who for all I know will be put to death tomorrow anyway?”

“
He isn’t going to be put to death, Plague. That’s just Franz Phoenix running that damn mouth of his.” Was this true? Urey wasn’t sure; in fact, he knew the only way Gool was going to avoid hanging would be if he bled to death before Plague could save him.

“
Even so…look, I’ll do what I can to save him, but I will not dip into our already short supply of resources. He will either live, or he will die. That is the best I can do.”

“
And that is all I expect.”

The chancellor’s words were calm and sincere, yet Plague knew the purpose behind them:
if he dies, no one will suspect that you just let it happen
. It was comforting, because he already had the twins to contend with, and Rita Morgan stirring up a storm about them. The last thing he needed to deal with was an accusation that he sacrificed an innocent (innocent in the sense that he hadn’t been formerly charged or convicted of the crime of which he was accused) person for the sake of saving the lives of a couple of “devils.”

He didn’t know for sure if he would be able to save Gool’s life. That much was certain because he had no idea the extent of his injuries. Either way, arriving on the scene as quickly as possible would be ideal. Ethically, he needed to put in a good, solid effort no matter what, barring wasting scarce resources. As a doctor one cannot discriminate. Everyone deserves care from the parish doctor, but when resources were as scarce as theirs, rights had to give way to practicality.

If Gool didn’t make it, at least he would be right there with the body to easily retrieve it and subsequently put it in the cooling chamber to slow decomposition until the twins were prepped for surgery.

“
You coming, Plague?” the chancellor asked anxiously.

“
Aye, I’m coming. Just let me get my things.” The “twin notes” had been in a relatively neat pile on his desk, but as he had proceeded to sift through them, they had grown less organized. He debated briefly with himself about whether he should take a second to reorganize them before leaving but concluded the move would seem callous–almost heartless.

***

Sheriff Franz Phoenix was amazed that his deputy could be so gullible. He reminded himself a firing was in order when all of this was over…or maybe not. The deputy’s job in Noremway Parish consisted mainly of walking around and saying “Howdy-do.” Other than that, there was only an empty jailhouse to guard. Well, it was empty most of the time.

Right now the deputy was hard at work trying to bandage up Gool’s arm, or what was left of it. It had never really occurred to Franz that an arm could just tear off like that. He wasn’t as disgusted by this event as the chancellor had been. He certainly had a stronger stomach than the deputy had.

“
Oooh,” Gool moaned. “My arm. It hurts.”
Of course it hurts, fool
, Franz thought with a snicker.

The deputy looked up at Franz for support.
What do I say?
Franz tried his best to hide his smile. He would just let the deputy dither a while if for no other reason than to see what he did.

Finally, the deputy spoke. His attempt at comfort was comical at best, highly insensitive and stupid at worst. He said, “Ortega, those must be phantom pains because your arm is laying right there on the floor.” That was most definitely not the right thing to say, not then, not ever.

Franz not only smiled but also burst out laughing in a stomach-seizing guffaw. His laughing only intensified when the deputy, startled by Franz’s reaction, slipped in the blood, sprawling on his back in the slick mess. The sheriff was too busy laughing to help his partner, so he just let him soak up the mess on the floor.

Gool seized the moment to enact revenge against parish authority; he grabbed the severed part of his arm and held it with the bloody end—with sharp broken bones jutting out of it—pointed downwards, and he thrust it in a large arc. Down, up, down, up, pulverizing the deputy’s face as the jagged end of the broken bones plunged into his eyes, nose, cheeks, and neck.

Franz just stayed back by his desk looking on in amusement. He had another loud bout of laughter; he actually thought about cheering on this deadly attack, but he held his tongue. The prisoner didn’t need a cheerleader. If Franz just sat back and laughed, things would turn out just fine.

The deputy cried out, pleaded, and begged with Gool to stop. Both eyes were already punctured, and blood spilled from the sockets like water spraying from a fountain after the harvest rains. Blood also flowed freely from the other punctures on his face and neck.

The prisoner was a monster. Despite the heavy blood loss, he was strong. He had always been built like an ox, and now with his muscular good arm, he shoved the severed limb down the deputy’s throat. “Eat it, eat it! Bastard!”

At that moment, the chancellor entered with Plague following closely behind. “My God, what’s going on?” he cried.

“
What? What is it?” Plague asked. He couldn’t yet see what was happening, but he could certainly hear the deputy’s gurgling cries, and the prisoner’s orders to “eat it!” in addition to the sheriff’s unrelenting laughter.

The chancellor glanced at the sheriff as he rushed by. The deputy was being killed by a one armed man, with the amputated arm, in the prison cell where he was currently bleeding to death, and the sheriff just stood there laughing about the whole thing. It was a circumstance of infinite improbability, yet there it was.

“
Franz, stop that howling or get out of here!” Urey ordered. Franz’s smile momentarily faltered, but then widened, spreading from ear to ear. His bright white teeth flashed in the dim light. “Get that stupid grin off your face.”

“
I think I’ll step outside, Urey. Get me some fresh air. See what the sun has to say for itself on this fine day.” He turned and pranced out of the jailhouse as if it was just any other day in the parish. He offered Plague a mocking bow as he passed by him on the way out the door. The doctor didn’t react. How could he? He was still trying to figure out what was going on.

***

The afternoon air smacked his face with the scent of sand and horse manure from the nearby stables. Jasper was eating, enjoying the grain harvested from the Waterman farm at some point during the past day or so. Johnny, the stable boy, must have gone by himself to pick the grain.

Speaking of Johnny, he was there dividing an armful of the yellow grass between the three horses. Noremway Parish was down to three good public horses these days: Jasper, Haman, and Rhizo. When riding together they were sometimes referred as “the three mares.” The nickname found its way back to Johnny, who thought it was fitting for the stable too.

Coming up behind the boy, Phoenix made a deliberate show of being loud: his step, the clanging of the ornaments on his cloak. He wanted Johnny to know he was right behind him, watching as he dispelled the grass in front of each of the horses; grass that he may or may not have had permission to take.

“
Boy!” the sheriff said in a deep authoritative drawl. Johnny jumped. He almost hit his head on the awning overhanging the stable. Franz smiled. In fact, he had never stopped.

“
Aye, Sheriff?” the boy said nervously.

“
Where’d you get that grain? From the Waterman farm?”

“
Aye. I did. ‘Twas two days ago that I went. Mayor Waterman gave it to me himself with his very hand. You see, to feed the horses. He gave me enough to last a week. These horses don’t eat very much. No sir, they don’t eat very much at all.”