Authors: Wayne Wightman
“I can't say.” He stared at Winch, his forehead pinched tight, as though if he looked hard enough, he might be able to see what was wrong. “Jan-Louise said this afternoon he felt dizzy and lightheaded.”
“He felt better enough by dinner to have something to eat,” she said. “Then... he got very sick, said strange things, and collapsed.”
“Is he getting worse?” Martin asked.
Solomon squeezed in beside Martin.
Xeng nodded. “Heart rate is very high. Martin,” he said, not taking his eyes off Winch, not even blinking, “I don't know what is wrong, and I am afraid.”
Winch still murmured under his breath.
“Do you know what he's been saying?”
“Once something about Jan-Louise.”
She covered her face with her hands.
Martin knelt beside the bed and said softly, “Winch, this is Martin. Winch, can you tell us what happened? Winch?”
He put his ear close to the sick man's lips and listened.
“... doesn't hurt,” he said. “... so heavy I can't....” Then Martin heard only breath passing through his lips.
“I don't know what medicines to give,” Xeng said. “I think there is no infection. I don't know what to do!” What Martin had thought was sweat running down Xeng's face was tears.
He took Xeng's shoulders and turned him to face him. He moved limply. “Xeng, go rest. Jan-Louise, you too. I'll sit with him and if there's any change, I'll wake you. Go rest.”
Xeng hung his head. Jan-Louise took his hand and led him out of the room.
Solomon stayed with Martin in the candle-lit room, sitting on his lap until he became drowsy and then tottered off to a bedroom.
Every fifteen minutes, Martin took Winch's pulse and respiration and made a note. By the first traces of morning light, Winch's pulse was weak at 135 and his respiration was only eight per minute.
He awakened Xeng and Jan-Louise.
Xeng staggered into the room, knelt and checked Winch's pulse, and a horrified look crossed his face.
“What is it?” Martin asked. “What—”
“I do not want my friend to die....” Xeng stayed kneeling beside Winch's bed. “And Martin, I cannot get up.”
Martin pulled him to his feet. “Xeng, look at me.”
His eyes were wide and the pupils large and black.
“I cannot see well, Martin, and my heart beats very fast.”
They took him into the living room and put him on the sofa. Quickly, Martin looked around the room, in the dining room and kitchen. There were several unwashed plates on the counter.
“I ate bread,” Xeng muttered, “five, six hours ago.”
“Not bread,” Jan-Louise said, “cinnamon rolls. One of Joshua's women traded us some cinnamon rolls this morning for two cans of fruit.”
“And you didn't eat any.”
“No. Winch ate three.”
“Did Solomon or anyone else?”
“I think... oh god. I think Solomon ate one.”
Martin took Jan-Louise's hand and said very distinctly, “Get Xeng into the bathroom, make him throw up till he can't anymore, and then give him water and keep him vomiting till nothing but water comes up. ”
Then Martin ran down the hall to Solomon's bedroom. He lay on the floor, his dark head on the white pillow. Martin scooped him up and carried him into the living room, into the light.
The boy's eyes rolled in his head.
Martin shook him and repeated his name.
Solomon tried to focus on Martin's face.
“Solomon, can you hear me?”
“Yes... what....”
Martin lowered him to the floor to see if he could stand. He wobbled, but he stood alone a moment before reaching for Martin.
“I don't feel good,” he mumbled.
Martin got a bottle of water and a cup from kitchen and took Solomon outside. It probably was too late for vomiting to do any good, but he wasn't going to take the chance. When he explained what he had to do, Solomon nodded.
“Okay, but I only ate part of one. It didn't taste very good, You should see about my other dad. I can do this myself.” He took a breath, opened his mouth, and stuck his fingers down his throat.
“You're a brave boy.”
“I'm scared.”
“Brave people get scared all the time, but they do what they have to do. I'll be right back.”
Martin found Winch pale and still, his skin dry, and he was dead. Martin tried to close his friend's eyes, but they were dry and the lids wouldn't shut.
“My old friend,” Martin said, suddenly overwhelmed and choked by grief. He wept loud and hard into his hands, desperately thinking,
This is a mistake! This must be a mistake!
and feeling that if he could only be home with Catrin and then come over here again, he would find Winch sitting at the table as he had seen him so many times, with his saxophone or his pliers and screwdrivers and wrenches spread around him, tinkering with something he had found. This had to be a mistake.
But then Martin looked up and saw Winch's gray face, his eyes blank and starting to film over, his jaw slack, and the ugliness of his death felt like two strong hands squeezing Martin's heart. Two strong hands squeezing his heart for the second time in his life, taking away something he loved as much as he loved himself.
He took Winch's hand in both of his and felt its callused palm, its rough and scarred knuckles, and thought of the first time he had met the man and had shaken this hand... and all the times Winch had slapped this arm around Martin's shoulders.... And now the hand was cold.
Jan-Louise stood behind him with Solomon clinging to her, his face hidden in her dress. Her face was hollow-eyed and staring.
Martin looked up and said, “Xeng?”
She shook her head. “I don't know. He's....” Her voice caught. “He's still sick.”
Martin stood up and straightened Winch's body, folding his cold hands over his chest. Then he pulled the sheet over his face.
It took all his strength to say, “I'll send Catrin over. Stay inside, don't let anyone else in, don't tell anyone anything.”
Jan-Louise nodded.
....
With several candles lit around the kitchen, Catrin was sitting with Charlie at the counter when Martin came in. “I was about to send Charlie to see what—” One look at his face and she froze in mid-movement, a cup of coffee halfway to her lips. “What—? Winch?”
“He died about twenty minutes ago. Has one of Joshua's people brought us anything to eat or drink?”
“No, why?”
“I think one of them traded some food that poisoned Winch. Xeng is sick now. Very sick. Solomon ate—”
“No!” Catrin was on her feet now. “Not—”
Martin leaned forward, elbows on his knees, with his hands around his face. He wanted it to be yesterday... or any other day. But he knew he couldn't hide. He sat up.
“Charlie, go around to all the others and tell them that a couple of people got sick eating food from Joshua — food poisoning — likely cinnamon rolls. Tell them if anyone's sick, to let me know as fast as possible.”
Charlie was out the door and gone in an instant.
“I have to see Solomon,” Catrin was saying, her face a mask of dread and disgust, “and for them to do that to us....”
He looked up at her, not sure he could speak. “I'm too angry to think straight.”
On her way out, she kissed his cheek. “Thank god you're all right.”
Martin sat in their house with Isha at his feet. She looked up at him, quiet, her eyes doubtful as he stroked her head. From across the room, out of a shadow, Mona came toward Isha and lay against her and closed her eyes.
In the midst of savagery, they were at peace.
Chapter 76
Twenty minutes later, at the edge of daybreak, Charlie returned with Roy, who wanted to know if there was anything he could do. “Like go up and kill those guys,” he said in a low, even voice. “They don't care if we die — they have a mission — something that's more important than a simple person's life. You want me to go with you, say the word. I've got a teflon conscience on this one. Winch was my friend.”
“Charlie, how's Xeng doing?”
“Jan-Louise said worse.”
“Just tell us when,” Roy said quietly.
As it turned over in Martin's mind, priorities had begun to arrange themselves. First, primarily, he wanted to deal with this as much as possible himself — if there was going to be any subsequent guilt, he would take it upon himself and spare the others. Letting the situation deteriorate this far was, after all, the result of his hesitation and trusting a psychopath to keep his word.
“I'm going to invite Joshua and a few of his people here, to clarify the issues. I want to talk to them myself, alone.”
“What do you want us to do?”
“I don't know how this is going to turn out. So arm yourselves. Wait for me over at Jan-Louise's.”
“Don't do anything stupid,” Roy said.
“If I do, I'm sure someone will point it out.”
....
Dora answered her door wearing a fine black dress. Martin wanted to ask about Rusty and Christie but restrained himself. It was probably too late... she was wearing a black dress.
“What can I do for you?” she said. She stood away from the locked screen door and sounded a little defensive. Her hair was also neatly pinned back.
“Is Rusty dead?”
“My grief is my own.”
That was probably an answer. “Christie?”
“Haven't seen her. She left.”
“I'd like you to take a message to Joshua.”
She nodded.
“Tell him, from me, that I now see the curse that lies upon us. Tell him that I request he bring himself and witnesses of his leadership to my home at noon. Our people need his help.”
Dora nodded and Martin could almost see a faint smile on her lips.
“I'll take the message.”
“Thank you,” Martin said. “Bless you.” It hurt, but he said it. Psychopaths were always eager to hear confirmation of their genius and success.
....
With Isha trotting along behind him wagging her tail, Martin walked down the road toward the ocean. Gulls rode the incoming winds and circled over the river. Beside him, he saw Mona, her eyes two disks of rich yellow in the featureless black of her shape. Martin would be like Mona. Quiet inside and out, all senses open, no anger — just simple elemental devotion to purpose.
Maybe consciousness developed to the human extent was an evolutionary dead end, a lethal adaptation that caused humans to die for their unreasoned beliefs. Only one kind of animal died for ideas, or made others die for them.
In the river, a dozen yards up from the shore, a small pool had formed, and there Martin undressed and washed. He scooped up handfuls of fine sand and rubbed it over his skin. Finally, he swam out into the middle, dropped beneath the surface and rinsed. When he opened his eyes underwater, he saw that he was swimming in shafts of sunlight that shimmered through the ripples of the surface.
After wiping the water off his body and dressing, he walked back to Jan-Louise's house and checked on Xeng, who was now far worse. Solomon stood next to the bed holding Xeng's cold and sweaty hand. Xeng's mouth hung open and his breathing was slow and shallow.
“I'm okay now, but I think Xeng is going to die,” Solomon said quietly. “They poisoned us, didn't they.”
“Yes, they did.”
“How come? He could've been their doctor too.”
“They think some things are more important than keeping people alive.”
Solomon turned his eyes from Xeng's paper-yellow face and stared at Martin as though he didn't believe him. Light from the window made round highlights on his brown face. “What's more important than that?”
“Nothing I can think of. But to them, believing what they believe is the most important thing in the world. They think after you die you'll be tortured forever if you don't believe what they believe.”
Solomon looked back at Catrin to see if her expression confirmed what Martin was telling him. She nodded. “It's true,” she said.
Solomon turned back to Xeng. “We're not like them.”
....
Through the rest of the morning, Martin sat with Solomon and Jan-Louise while Xeng died. At the end, Xeng's lips moved and Solomon held his ear close to hear.
“He said, 'friends,'” Solomon repeated in a whisper. Half an hour later, Xeng's breathing stopped.
After a silence, Martin said, “He was our friend.”
“He was my teacher,” Solomon said.
When they covered him with a sheet, he looked very small beneath it, as though most of him had already left.
....
Martin kissed Solomon and then kissed Catrin and Land and Missa and told them that he would be back soon to help with the burials. “After I meet with Joshua,” he said.
When he went out the door, Charlie and Roy went out and stood on the porch with him. “Let us go with you,” Charlie said.