Authors: Naomi Baysinger-Ott
“Get them in their rooms …” the words are half there and half not.
I pay no attention to the order until action is made. They start pulling him back. I feel my heart plummet. He resists against it but they force him back and begin driving him away from me. Now I do not assent it and feel stimulated.
I jerk forward. “Leave him alone!” they grasp me back but also I am guided after. I stop fighting a moment as we go in the same direction. I pull forward wanting to be with him but they once more resist it and I am stopped. I watch as we near the ship and a tingling starts in my throat as I try to think of what they will do to him here…what they will do to me here.
In a minute of uncertain silence from me, we are moving up the platform. I fear it as Nadeje reaches the top and my heart races as I imagine them guiding him a different route through the ship, but I am relieved. Some of the men release him but stay within reaching distance, and one of the holders left draws his sword. I sob out and hurry towards them, but they stop me and I let them as I see them continue to move, only holding the weapon to his back, informing him of their power. I watch their every move as they walk on, and every step they make I feel the need to bolt forward to stop their ferocity against him, though I never have to.
I feel my stomach churn as I watch them stop at the trap door that leads down to the bed chambers, where my room is. We slow until one is down and the other forces Nadeje to comply and follow, still holding the sword down over his head as he climbs. I beg Nadeje silently not to fight, for once, to let them take him down. I try to send him a message promising that I will follow, but I feel the distance and know not why I even try.
They move me and I realize it is our turn. I let them do similar with me, and one goes down and I immediately follow as others wait for me to get down. When I drop to the bottom, the soldier catches me in his grasp and calls up to the other men. I hear one start to climb down and my holder begins to guide me to the left, down the dark passage, to my room. Soft candle lamps hanging from glass jars hooked up to the wooden boards of the walls light the way, but there is still hardly any light at all.
I see Nadeje up ahead and my heart falters as I see them unlock a door and without giving any warning push him through. I do not race after and make myself remain as they continue to guide me steadily in the room’s direction. As we walk, we pass the few doors with numbers carved into the wood. We near his, but the moment I think I will get to be with him again, they lead me off the hallway and towards another open chamber.
I immediately revolt and pull back, but two men had followed us and quickly catch me from behind, urging me on. I cry out and shake my head, turning and pushing against them, but they draw me through the doorway.
“No! No, Nadeje! Stop! Let me go…no! Let go! NO!” I scream out as they force me in, and I desperately grasp at the door frame, but as I do, there is a searing pain and a rip in my palm, and I realize I used the wrong hand.
I scream. They do not understand and rip me back, but I don’t let go, and this only stretches it more. I scream again as the bandage does nothing to help me and without meaning to I trip back and stumble. Before they can catch me I clatter to the floor.
Nadeje must have heard the commotion. I hear the sounds of metal banging to the floor and shouts as he becomes a part of it. I cannot stable myself as they begin to lift me and I feel my head thud to a point of agony. Everything is spinning and I feel that I have hit my head when I fell. I sob out once, but it is weak and a breath that lasts no more than a pant.
“Lyra?” It is one of the men lifting me.
I cannot respond as it all blurs together. I feel blood soak through the cloth as I clench my hand into a fist and darkness envelopes me. I go unconscious.
Chapter 26
The moment I hear her scream, I know it has happened. I jerk towards the door and my holder drops his sword with a bang. He clutches to me and another quickly assists him as I pull for freedom to get to her.
I hear her screaming and my heart batters as I thrash at them. “You hurt her!”
They push me back and before I can stable myself they draw me to the far side of the room. I hear shouts and the soft sound of her voice as she sobs for me. My heart aches and I tear forward. I am restrained, and the door to my room slams shut. I madly rip at my holders but they have full power over me and I am forced back.
Then I hear a thump and the room next door goes quiet.
My head roars in intuition and I feel my blood surge.
“Lyra!” I bellow and fiercely tug at them, but even as they release me I hit the door and find it locked.
I am thrown back and I can’t process anything until I am on the ground. I hear a knock on the door and its unbolting. Before I am back on my feet they slam it shut again. I jump up anyways and race to it. I place my hands to the door and feel the wood. It is solid and
not
unlocked. I pant out a harsh Spanish proverb and feel my skin burning from my fight. I turn away and pace the room as I try to think of a way out, and also try not to think of what they could have done to her.
Lyra…
my head hurts and I turn back to the door and race to it, pounding it once with my fists. I think of my promises to protect her, my swear to be there always when she wanted me…
dearest…
I feel my heart falter and hurry to the wall which is the barrier to her room, pressing against it and putting my ear to the wood. I listen and try to stop breathing so hard.
There is nothing I can make out. A few shuffles over the ground and faint murmurs. There is no sound of my Lyra in the room. I grimace and drop my head against the wooden boards in pain…
If they had harmed her on purpose…
I pull away and start up my pacing again. I look down at the ground as I pace and my head spins with thoughts and unanswered questions. I swallow dryly and try to relax my walk, but there is no hope in it.
This is my fault…
I tear away from my endless path and brush against the wall again. I hear the resonance of people speaking but can’t make out words. It is hushed. I once more break into my pacing…
God let her be alright…
My eyes flicker to the color on my shirt and I halt to a dead stop seeing the dark stain on the worn fabric. My heart pounds as my mind informs me of what it is;
Lyra’s blood.
I suddenly want my shirt off at the thought of her bleeding. My hands start to shake as I reach to unlace my collar, but I find it gone. I stop…
I had tied it around her hurt hand for a bandage…
I clench my hand into a fist and drop it to my side. I begin unbuttoning the shirt’s closing, but stop as I realize this is all I have. I stop and quickly re-button it. I want her close to me. This is the closest I can get.
I pace around in a circle and then back and forth across the room as I think. When I realize thinking isn’t my best confidant I make myself sit down on the bed at the back of the chamber and lower my head into my hands, leaning over my knees.
I must get out of here…
I rest my eyes and try to unwind my body, but it isn’t working. I breathe out and in deeply and listen to it as my breath shakes. I hear something over the breath and stiffen…
murmurs
. They are close to my door. I hear steps creak over the boards as someone nears. I raise my head as the door opens but remain sitting to keep them off of me.
It is two men, one stands at the door and shuts it behind him, and the other steps forward. The one in front examines me, as though scanning my form for any hidden weapons or tricks. I have none. I also have no patience and I cannot stand it any longer. I voice my thoughts.
“What has happened to her?” It is weaker than I had thought it would be, but also firmer than I thought possible.
The man swallows and glances about the room as though viewing things.
I wait, not pushing it.
“She is…” He looks to me, his eyes intense and his voice lowered. “She is bleeding hazardously and is unconscious.”
It hits me hard, harder than it maybe should. I feel my heart falter and before I can stop them the words escape me. “Let me heal her.”
The man’s face is surprisingly grave. “She is tossing constantly when we try to touch her, and her illness, of whatever kind it is, looks dangerous…we cannot dress the wound unless she lets us, but we do not want to put her through shock if…”
I lose him there;
she is sick.
I remember what we went through that night with Grace and Harold. I taste sour spit and force myself not to break out into discomposure.
“We cannot wake her…it would be hurtful…but her vader needs assurance. He has decided that we need something to prompt her to be there, to let us treat her.”
I tune into the last part and the words are filling in some parts and in others not. “Take me.” I am on my feet before I know it.
He watches me carefully. I look at him with a straight and earnest face and I am still. He seems convinced of my one purpose and slowly moves towards the door. The other opens it and I hastily follow. They fold in on me, one in back and one in front to chaperone me out the door and around a corner bend in the hallway. It is too slow for my fast beating heart to take, but I make it remain under control. We reach the door where the one before stops me to open it.
The moment I am through the door my body zones into the environment and within less than two seconds I find her. She is lying on the bed in the middle of the back of the room, and is unmoving. At her feet a low conversation is taking place between three men, none of them her vader.
Without thinking I race forward, and to my unfocused relief (as my attention is all on her) they do not hold me back. The moment I am at her side I drop over the bed and scoop her face with my hands. She is cold and does not respond, and her eyes closed and lips parted. I hurriedly stoop close and put my ear to her lips to listen for any sign of breathing. It is there and soft against my ear, but much too soft. I lift my head away and lightly feel her soft cheek with my hand as I wish to hold her but settle for this much. She isn’t warm, but not frozen or burning, letting me know that she is not in a feverous state.
I glance at her hand lying out and limp half off the side of the bed from her position on her back and quickly place my hands around it. I carefully begin to remove the bandage and curse inside as I feel the material stick. I look to her to see if she has stirred, but she is as still as before. I slowly peel the last layer off the wound and, having finished undoing the wrapping, I observe the cut. Seeing its stage in healing I know what must be done.
I turn and, still holding her hand, order to the men who brought me. “I need salted water, clean water, cloths…and lavender for disinfecting…and to compress the bleeding wool for bandages.”
They hesitate a moment, but when they see their company at the foot of the bed, they take the orders and hurry out. I turn back to Lyra and wish to be able to comfort her, in any way to let her know I am here. She looks flushed and frail in the bed, and though I do not put much thought to it, she looks more serene than when I came into the room. I do not release her until I see my need for a chair.
I see one at the other side of the room and gently set her hand down palm up on the sheets. I return with the chair and set it at the bed side, but instead of sitting in it I continue to hold her hand and lean over her, watching her for any change.
Nothing.
There are the sounds of boots stomping over the wood floor and I hear the two men reenter with the supplies. I turn my eyes on them and after quickly seeing what they bring, order the next assistance. “Set them beside me and on the bedside table.” They do as I say and, when finished, step back to the door, guarding it as though I would run off.
Once I have the materials, I instantly sit down and break into my work.
I reach for the bowl of salted water and take a cloth from the stack they brought me. I gently take her hand into mine and, dipping the cloth into the water, I soak it over her palm. I look up to see if she reacted but she lays still and quiet. I take another dip and, holding the bowl beneath her hand, squeeze out the water from the cloth so that it runs over the gash and takes out any further infections. I set aside the bowl with the cloth and take the one full of clean water and a new rag. I steep it in, and then gently move it across the cut to clean off the remaining salt and sting if she feels it.
Setting this part of the job aside, I take up another dry cloth and wipe away the water on her hand. I feel my stomach clench at the cold skin. I reach out for the stem of lavender they brought me, and then take the wool and lay it over my knee. I smooth out the fabric, then rip off the frayed part of it and fold it to fit her hand. I lift the lavender and, with the promptness of practice from training, I dig my nails into the plant and break the stem so that it is wet. The oil bathes my fingers, and I carefully touch it to her cut, drawing it across the raw skin as an ointment and disinfectant. I throw it into the dirtied salt water, now holding her hand and the wool.
I slowly wrap it around the palm and tuck the leftover length into the back folds. I look over the fabric and see to it that I have not tightened it too much or let it go too loose. Neither is the case. I set it down onto the bed and turn and wash my hands in the clean water bowl to get off the blood and salt. I dry it on another rag, and, feeling calm once again begin to flow through me, I breathe slower. I turn back to her and relax as I watch her rest. Her hand is clean and delicate in its wrapped up dressing, and her expression guarded by the soft sleep of her unconsciousness.
I swallow hard as I wish to lie down and cradle her to me; knowing they would end the little liberty I have with her if I did so. I watch her dark lashes and the gentle slope of her jaw, the curve of her brow to her lid, and the smooth wash of color at her lips. I absorb it all at once and wonder how I will be able to sit here and wait for her to wake up without reaching for her first. I reach out a hand and pretend to fix the bandage, but only do it to hold her hand longer. I look down at the ground and think of nothing as I stare at the cracks in the wood and listen to the silence.
Then, I feel it. I look up to my hand as I feel the flicker of her knuckles on my palm as she moves her fingers. The movement aids me and my heart flutters as I beg for more. She stops and continues to lie still. For some reason, this terrifies me and I bolt to my feet and lean over her, balancing my weight on my knee as I settle it against the edge of the bed.
She remains asleep and does nothing, but for some reason I know she knows I am here. I curl my fingers around hers and wish to speak to her but feel her need to rest far above the need to converse. I sigh and make myself move back and sit in the chair again, observing her lying still. I feel a little lost and need something to do, but then it happens and I am found; her fingers tighten around mine.