Wild Wood (5 page)

Jesse’s left hand moves. She’s surprised to see it write
Yes
.

“However, there was a complication I didn’t tell you about, er, the last time.” He clears his throat. “After you had the seizure, you blacked out. That’s when the bleed was found.”

Jesse writes,
?

“The seizure only happened once and your condition has improved greatly in the last few days.” He hesitates.

The left hand scribbles,
And?

He sits back. “Well, we eliminated the need for further surgery—the bleed was only small, as I said, and further X-rays showed no evidence of a depressed fracture. However, Mr. Bynge, your surgeon, had you transferred to the ICU. He was concerned about the possible severity of the concussion and wanted you very closely monitored. We’ll start some cognitive tests when you’re off the machine, but there’s a very good chance we’ll find all’s well.” He pats the ventilator like a dog. “And
complete rest heals best
.” A faint smile. “Sorry. Drummed into us as students. So, just a day or so more in here, a few more days after that in the neurological ward, and then, with luck . . .” He mimes opening a door and waving good-bye.

She stares at him.
What are you not telling me?

He stands. “So, I’ll see you again tomorrow, Jesse. Rest well.” That professional smile as he goes.

“He’s a brilliant neurologist, Dr. Brandon. Cutting-edge.” The ward nurse is back. She launches into tidying Jesse’s bed, unconscious of the irony. “Yes, you’re lucky to have him on your case.”
By sleight of hand she turns and fluffs the pillows and straightens the blankets. “There, all nice and neat. I’ll give you a sponge bath a bit later, and you can look forward to a real bath quite soon.” A last twitch as she folds the top sheet down and tucks it in, tight as a drumhead.

Shower. I want a shower.

The nurse is about to go. “Has anyone let your parents know what’s happened?”

Which ones?
But Jesse labors
Australia
onto the page.

“They live in Australia? That’s a long way.” An encouraging smile.

Jesse’s sick of smiling but she manages to write,
Doc says me OK. Not worry them.

“If you’re sure? It would be no trouble to drop them a line.”

Nothing they can do.
As the nurse walks away, Jesse puts the pen down and closes her eyes. Conversation over.

But it isn’t. Not inside her head. Will she really recover? Heads are fragile things.

At a pool party for her best friend’s fifteenth birthday, while flirting with the birthday girl’s boyfriend—showing off on the diving board—Jesse overbalanced and fell in. They all shrieked and screamed, laughing, pointing. But she was drowning, and the BF worked it out. He jumped in and dragged her to the surface. Everything seemed fine at first—she fussed over, he praised as the Hero du Jour—and even the headache she suffered seemed like justified punishment to her, weirdly, for her wicked, wicked ways.

But Jesse didn’t make it to school the next day. The headache got worse, and then there was fever, and vomiting, and her neck hurt so much she couldn’t lie down, or stand, or sit. Alarmed, her mum and dad had taken her to the hospital a day later, and the lights were impossible to look at. They sliced her eyes like knives.

No one worked out what the symptoms meant, and after three days and three nights of agony, she’d nearly died. Jesse knew it was happening, she could feel the approaching dark, but just as in this
place, she couldn’t tell anyone, couldn’t speak. But her mum sat beside her bed the whole time. Whenever Jesse opened her eyes, trying to scream, too weak to move or open her mouth, her mum had been there. Later, after the diagnosis of bacterial meningitis, and the antibiotics began to work, she was told her mum had broken all the hospital rules. She’d refused to leave Jesse alone for even a moment, ICU or no ICU. So they’d given in, gowned and gloved her, and let her go on holding her daughter’s hand.

Only I wasn’t, was I? Your daughter.

Slow tears. Jesse can feel them gather and slide down her face.

Mum. Oh, Mum, tell me I’ll get better.

Which mum?

The one she knows. The woman in Sydney.

Hurt, misery. Yearning. And fury. Jesse wants to groan. Tries to.
I can’t bear this.

But she can. She has to.

“Nurse?” A whole day without the ventilator and it still feels novel to hear her own voice. Jesse presses the button on the cord that hangs near her hand.

The curtains flick back. “Yes, Miss Marley?” The ward sister peers through the gap. She doesn’t look pleased.

Jesse remembers to smile. “Sorry, Sister. I’m sure you’re busy. But do you think the television might be turned down?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” A swish and the curtains sway closed.

“Mrs. Darling, may we have the volume a little lower?”

Jesse tries not to listen. It seems rude, somehow; the lady in the next bed is deaf, and touchy.

“What did you say?”

“The television. Could you turn it down.”

“It’s not loud. I can’t hardly hear it.”

Jesse cringes.

The ward sister cracks, “Nurse! Would you take over, please.”

Heels tap, tap away over the linoleum.

“Hello, Mrs. Darling. Can I help?”

Jesse breathes out. This is the nice nurse. Closing her eyes, she hears the morning show fade a notch or two. That’s so good. Yes, the wedding’s exciting, yes, she thinks it’s all a fairy tale—just like everyone else—but really,
do
they have to go on about
the dress
?

“Sorry about that.” The pretty nurse with the Scottish accent bobs in between the curtains.

“I hope Mrs. Darling’s not too upset.”

“Och, she’ll be fine.” The girl picks up Jesse’s chart and studies the figures. “Have you had any more headaches, or . . .?” She wriggles a hand beside her head.

“No. Nothing.” Jesse wriggles her fingers obligingly. “My throat’s still sore, though. And I’m really, really bored.” Another day gone and she’s nowhere closer to doing what she needs to do. And money. What’s she going to do about money?

“Being bored’s a good sign.” The nurse pronounces it
gude
, which Jesse finds charming. “The sore throat will last a few more days, I’m afraid—it’s from the tube. I can ask the doctor to prescribe something if it’s bothering you.” Moving closer, she murmurs, “Would you like a bit of good news?”

Hope lights up like a sparkler. Jesse says fervently, “Yes, please.”

The nurse looks around. “I shouldn’t be telling you, but if all goes well with your tests today, you might be back in the real world sooner than you think.”

“Cross your heart and hope to die?”

A grin. “Yes. But,
only
if Dr. Brandon thinks you’re well enough. There. Stuck my neck out.”

“Hooray!” Jesse tries to throw her arms up. The sling gets in the way and she yelps as her elbow bumps the bedside table.

The commotion upsets the old lady in the next bed. “What’s going on?”

“Won’t be a moment, Mrs. Darling. Everything’s fine.” The nurse tries to make Jesse comfortable.

“It is not. The way this place is run, it’s a disgrace!” The morning-TV presenters are back to shouting again.

Rolling her eyes, the girl helps Jesse move her right arm back across her body. “Oh. You must have dropped this.” Scooping up the notepad Jesse had in ICU—it’s open on the floor—the nurse goes to hand it back. And pauses. “Is this your drawing?”

Jesse, eyes closed, is slumped against the pillows. “Can’t draw.” She’s drained and abject.

The girl says, “It’s very good, though.”

Jesse opens her eyes.

The nurse is holding the sketch so Jesse can see. “Amazing detail. Just like a photograph.”

Jesse shifts uncomfortably. In the sketch, the massive walls of a castle rise tier after tier above a river that defines the base of a hill; above, a brutal tower dominates the site.

The nurse hands the pad to Jesse. “Try to rest.” She grins. “I know that’s hard. Would you like some earplugs?”

“Might as well get used to the real world.”

Even louder, there’s no avoiding the TV now. “. . . and a source at Buckingham Palace has a tip for us. The soon-to-be Princess of Wales has approved final designs for her wedding dress. Woven from silk thread spun by British silkworms.”

“Silkworms? What’s that?” Juggling the cord on the cumbersome remote, Mrs. Darling presses the volume button with impressive results.

“. . . Lady Diana has been quoted as saying that she hopes this wonderful fabric will help restore the British . . .”

Mrs. Darling shouts over the booming presenter, “I can hear it now.”

Jesse says nothing. She’s staring at the sketch of the castle. Like a tooth that’s loose, she can’t stop worrying the stump of that anxiety one more time. She stares at the picture, really looks at it, as if each detail of the drawing can tell her more than the whole.

Turning the page over, Jesse clutches the pen in her left hand.
Eventually, indecision makes marks on the paper, but the lines are tentative and she screws up her face when she holds the image at a distance. She tries again, but none of her scrawls is anything like the drawing on the other side.

She mutters, “Useless.”

“What?” Mrs. Darling leans over between the beds.

“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.” Jesse rips the page out and drops it in the rubbish bin beside the bed.

4

I
REMEMBER MAUGRIS
calling my name, though his voice was faint, and I had no breath to respond. How he took the ring mail from my body I cannot say, and though he bound my chest with his own shirt, the mouth of the wound was too wide to be closed and I could not ride. All I have left from that night is an image of Rauf trying to light a fire on the snow. I was told later of a litter made from pikes and that Maugris had it slung between Helios and another horse. He tied me in it and wrapped me in his own riding cloak. I do not know why he did not freeze to death.

With little food but snow, Maugris led our men over three days and nights, where two should have done before I was wounded. But Maugris got us back to Hundredfield. He did not lose one man, not even me, though they told him each day I was dying.

If I did not die, when I first opened my eyes there was no sound and no light, and it was hot. Terror stopped my breath. My many, many sins had found me out, since I could feel the fires of hell! But night broke like a bowl and I was surprised by the sun. Somewhere, in the dark, I had given up the thought of life, expecting never to feel Sol’s heat on my face again.

I lay in a curtained bed, and there was Talbot, my coursing hound. He saw me open my eyes and scrambled to lick my face, whimpering. By this I understood I could not be dead; animals are not found in hell, or in heaven, since only men have souls.

Yet at the edge of sight, two figures stood. Against the sun it seemed they had no substance but light. I watched them for a little time. One, the shorter, leaned to the other as if listening, yet I heard no words. And I was again uncertain. Were these angels?

“Is this . . . ?” I swallowed. “Am I . . .?” The words hurt my throat.

The taller figure moved and I saw it was a woman—flesh, not spirit. Sunlight dazzled the silver basin this lady held in her hands and I could not see her face, only that her head was veiled. The other was a girl, her face so pretty and young I almost wept to see such grace, for I had been a long time gone among destruction.

Turning, the girl touched her companion on the sleeve, and the lady came to the bed. Dressed in ruby velvet, the train of her gown held up in in one hand, she bent close and smiled at me. And I saw she outshone the girl as day obliterates night. Christ’s own mother could not have been more beautiful.

I heard a voice. My oldest brother, Godefroi, appeared at the chamber door, and his expression was joyous. Many had called Godefroi de Dieudonné cold, and his hand was hard when I was a child, but today we seemed true kin.

“An honest welcome home at last, dear Bayard. The Lady Flore and I, and Maugris, of course”—I saw him there also—“despaired these many, many days that you might not live. The whole household has prayed for your recovery, and they shall be rewarded by this news. A mass of thanksgiving shall be sung in thanks, but you should know that it was my wife, the Lady Flore, who saved your life. She nursed you devotedly, and without her skill, well . . .” He picked up the red-clad woman’s hand and kissed it. When she
turned toward Godefroi, I saw the beginnings of a proud belly beneath her gown.