The Rusted Scalpel

by Timothy Browne

  Amy knelt to look at his injury. “Thankfully they’re superficial,” she said.

  Robert gave him a hand up. As frightening as the big cat was, the smell reminded them that more horror was inside. Nick brought the top of his torn shirt over his nose and nodded at Robert to enter.

  The common area was pitch black, and the three stood inside the threshold allowing their eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  Robert picked up a kerosene lamp from a table near the door. He found some matches next to it and lit the wick, illuminating the area with an ominous glow. It appeared to be empty except for a crumpled mass near the far end.

  Robert looked at Nick and then at Amy, his eyes wide with fear. Instead of stepping toward the body, Robert pushed the first apartment door open and held the lantern up into the room. It was deserted.

  As was the next and the next.

  They made their way down the row and finally to the end of the common area to the body—a half-eaten pig carcass lying in a bloody mess of bowels and flesh, the leopard’s bloody tracks all around it.

  Robert checked the last room and held the lantern to Nick’s and Amy’s faces.

  “We should leave. It is not safe here,” he said.

  * * *

  The Calcutta Polo Club could have come straight out of Kentucky, Maggie imagined. Horses grazed on rolling hills of lush, green grass. Wooden fences framed them all. She had never been to the Bluegrass State, but she’d seen photos that matched this beauty.

  Their driver followed the tree-lined lane to a massive white wooden barn with copper cupolas topped with weather vanes. This was not the Calcutta that she had pictured. Where were the jammed streets and begging poor—the filth and destitute that Mother Teresa had poured her life out for? There were obviously two sides of the city. A conflict and confusion grew inside of her that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She took a sip of the sweet strawberry lemonade that had awaited them in the Bentley as they exited the hospital.

  “I was surprised that they had Grandmama sitting up in a chair already,” Wright said to her, interrupting her thoughts. “One day after surgery…it seems a little much.”

  “I know it seems harsh, but it is so much better for the patient to get out of bed. It aids in battling complications like blood clots and pneumonia.”

  Wright nodded. “She still seems pretty confused.”

  “Let’s hope that clears up in the next day or so.” She smiled at him.

  The driver pulled into the circular drive of the stables and stopped beside two horses that pulled at their reins. A tall Indian man in a vest held them steady. The driver hopped out and opened Maggie’s door before she could open it herself. Wright had already exited the car. He was anxious to meet his new polo pony. She stood by the fender of the car watching him.

  “Oh, he’s a beaut, mate,” Wright said, walking to the front of the horse.

  The horse genuflected its neck and pawed at the ground. His loud whinny rolled across the field. Apparently the pony was just as anxious to meet his new rider.

  “You’ve got some spirit, boy,” Wright said, not yet touching the horse, letting him examine his human. “He’s a perfect match to Smoothie, the horse I just lost,” he said to Maggie. “Same build, similar coloring.”

  The black-and-white gelding had one white sock up the front right leg and a splash of white along one side. It appeared that an artist had tossed the paint from a bucket, splattering it down its side, giving the appearance that the horse was going fast yet standing still.

  “Where did you find him?” Wright asked the trainer.

  “Argentina. Your friend Poncho suggested him. He’s young, only three, but runs like the wind.”

  The horse thrust its head up and down and whinnied again as though he agreed.

  “How is my friend Poncho?” Wright asked.

  The trainer looked down as if embarrassed. “He told me to tell you that he was going to keep the horse for himself but thought you could use the advantage…sir.” The man added the formality but acted perturbed to be stuck in the middle of the jab.

  Wright put his hand on the man’s shoulder, “Now that sounds like Poncho. Anything else?”

  “Well…he said, maybe the horse can teach you to ride.” He grimaced.

  Wright laughed. “You can tell that young punk that this señor is going to teach him some manners.” He laughed again.

  Wright moved closer to the horse but didn’t touch him. The animal raised his head and flared his nostrils. His ears cupped forward to scan Wright like radar antennae.

  “It’s okay, boy, don’t let a little banter frighten you,” Wright said softly. “What do they call him?” he asked the trainer.

  “King Commit…they call him King.”

  “King, what a royal name for you, boy.” He stepped closer. The horse huffed air in and out of his nostrils and then nudged Wright with his nose. The muscle in the horse’s neck relaxed, and Wright stepped alongside and ran his hand across his neck. “Oh, you’re beautiful.”

  He turned and smiled at Maggie. “You up for a gallop?”

  “I haven’t ridden for over fifteen years,” she said.

  She hadn’t considered until now why there were two horses saddled. She assumed the trainer was riding the buckskin mare with the groomed tan coat and black mane. The mare stood contentedly like a well-seasoned horse. “How about a slow trot?”

  The trainer gave Wright a foot up to his saddle and then boosted Maggie to hers. The trainer must have been informed of her height beforehand because the stirrups fit perfectly.

  Wright’s horse danced side to side but soon calmed. Wright looked back at her. “How’s that feel?”

  “Fun,” she said. “Lead on.”

  Wright urged King through an open gate and onto one of the green fields, and Maggie’s horse followed without command. It looked like they were walking on a groomed golf course, and Maggie’s buckskin came apace with King in a smooth gait.

  “Wow, I miss this. I grew up with horses.” She reached over and patted her horse’s neck and ran her fingers through the black mane. “She’s beautiful.”

  “We call her Sandie. She was a tremendous polo pony years ago, but now I’m afraid she can’t keep up with the big boys.”

  “Sandie, that’s okay. We girls will stick together.” She patted the horse’s neck again. “I’d forgotten how amazing these creatures are. I had a horse growing up that was afraid of its own shadow. One day I was riding her, and a couple of ducks flew out from the stream next to us. You would have thought she’d seen a grizzly bear. She almost tossed me and headed for the barn.”

  Wright laughed. “Yes, they can be big sissies. That’s why they need us. As the horse comes into alignment with its master, the two can become one. But it is a battle of wills…the more the horse resists, the more struggle it will have.”

  Maggie didn’t agree and said nothing.

  “You don’t agree?” Wright looked at her.

  “Uh…”

  “It’s okay, Maggie. You can speak your mind.”

  “I think God has made the horse one of the most commanding creatures on earth…you have to wonder what they would really be like if they only knew how powerful they are,” she said.

  She watched him process her words before continuing. “It’s kind of like us. Most people I know don’t understand how God has made them.” She looked at his face to judge his reaction. “Now you don’t seem to agree.”

  “Yes, powerful is right. I consider horses as beasts of burden, and I’m just not sure of the whole God thing. I have been all around the world, and all I see is a lot of bad things happening in the name of some god.”

  “Then maybe you need to come down to Guatemala and see God doing some good things.”

  “Maybe I should do that,” Wright said.

  “Do you believe in God?”

  Wright pursed his lips. “I don’t know. I guess I believe in the human spirit and what it can do. I haven’t had much n
eed for God in my life.” He seemed to grow agitated with the conversation. “You ready to give them some gas?” he asked her, then gave King a sharp kick in his side.

  CHAPTER 28

  CURSED

  Nick didn’t feel much like eating breakfast. The mystery of the deserted longhouse with the images and stench of rotting swine was enough to addle his brain and turn his stomach. Neither Robert nor Amy had an explanation, and the trio, filled with trepidation, headed to another longhouse the next morning. They had gotten an early start, and the sun was beginning to warm the rainforest. Three boats of fishermen floated at the confluence of the main river and the tributary leading to the second longhouse.

  Robert turned off the motor and drifted among the fishermen, causing them to pull their nets out of the river. They seemed friendly enough and greeted the trio with smiles and waves. Robert and the men had a lengthy discussion in Iban. It wasn’t until Robert pointed upriver that the fishermen looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “These men are from a longhouse downstream and have heard nothing about the deserted house we visited yesterday,” Robert said.

  Robert turned back to the men, and his tone grew solemn. When he made a slashing motion across his neck, there was an audible gasp from two of the men, one making the sign of the cross over his chest. The men used a phrase that Nick recognized, antu gerasi, the devil.

  The men questioned Robert, but the discussion seemed to disturb the fishermen, and they folded their nets and motored down the river.

  Robert pulled the starter rope on the engine, and it leaped to life. He turned the boat up the tributary.

  “I don’t know, Robert, the mystery of it all is freaking me out,” Dr. Amy said. “What in the world is this all about?”

  Robert only shook his head, but his fearful eyes searched the jungle watching as if the evil Huntsman might leap out at any moment.

  Around the bend, a canoe filled to capacity was heading downstream. Water lapped at the edge of the vessel. An old man steered the craft, and a middle-aged woman supported the head of someone wrapped in a blanket and lying in the bottom of the boat. An old woman sat at the very front of the boat, and six children squeezed between the adults. The passengers appeared to be a family of three generations. The old Iban driving the boat used a paddle to bring their canoe alongside, then stood to talk with Robert.

  Nick feared that the body wrapped in the blanket was dead until the two boats bumped together. The person under wraps murmured something and shook as if suffering tremendous chills and fever.

  Robert listened to the old man’s story and interpreted for Amy and Nick.

  “This family is from the longhouse where we are headed. A curse has fallen over them.”

  The old man told another long story until Robert held up his hand to stop him.

  “You must understand something about my people,” Robert said to Nick and Amy. “They believe in the seven omen birds. Their god of war and headhunting lived on earth as a man. They call him sengalang burong, or the bird chief.”

  “Yes, we saw that magnificent bird with Wright when we first got into the rainforest,” Nick said.

  “Yes, it is quite beautiful. Iban legend says that sengalang burong and his wife had seven daughters. Their sons-in-law all manifested themselves into omen birds. To this day, the people watch and listen carefully for them. The people who believe in such things find direction based on where the birds are seen, or what actions they’re doing, or from which direction their call is heard. The birds affect many aspects of life—hunting, farming and health. The man is telling me that they have encountered the Embuas, the Banded Kingfisher. It is a beautiful bird with a bright red beak, a neon-blue striped body, and an orange chest, but despite its bright colors, it is known as the bird of mourning.”

  Robert encouraged the old man to continue his story, and as he did, the middle-aged woman covered her mouth and wept. After a few minutes, Robert stopped him again.

  “They found a Kingfisher nesting outside the wall of their apartment. When this happens, it’s called a burong tau enda. The occurrence is a mixed blessing as it indicates that the family will accumulate much property, but later, the child who should inherit it will die,” Robert said.

  The old man indicated the body wrapped in the blanket and continued with his story.

  “This is his son, and he’s been deathly ill,” Robert interpreted. “When they tried to shoo the Kingfisher away, it circled inside their house and perched on the old man.”

  Robert pointed to the old man, who understood and patted his shoulder to show where the bird had landed.

  “That is a very bad omen for the Iban. It foretells of great distress by the deaths of many close relatives.”

  Dr. Amy leaned across the boat. “May I examine your son?”

  Robert asked the man. Amy’s request created tension between the old man and the woman who cradled the body. The old man finally relented, and Robert interpreted, “He and his wife worry that the curse would fall on you.”

  “Tell him I’m a doctor, and I am immune to these curses,” Amy said.

  The old man looked skeptical but yielded.

  Dr. Amy pulled the blanket away from the sick man’s face, but he jerked it back over his head, shouting and screaming, causing his entire body to seize. Amy tried to feel his forehead and take his pulse at the wrist, but the patient became agitated. She looked at Nick. “He doesn’t appear to be feverish, but his pulse is quite tachycardic.”

  “What is he yelling?” Nick asked.

  “Most of it doesn’t make sense,” Robert said, “but he thinks we are antu…ghosts.”

  Amy turned to Robert. “Ask the old man how long his son has been sick.”

  Robert asked and then repeated what the man said. “Ever since the bird.”

  “How many days?” Amy asked.

  The old man discussed the question with his wife and held up four fingers.

  “Four days,” Amy said. “Ask if he was taking the heart medicine.”

  While Robert, the old man, and his wife conferred, Amy turned to Nick. “We call Welltrex heart medicine because the pill is heart-shaped.”

  “Yes, he was part of the trial,” Robert said.

  “Has he stopped it and if so, how many days ago did he stop it?” Amy asked.

  Robert interpreted, and the old man shook his head, conferred with the wife again and held up six fingers.

  “Where were you taking him?” she asked.

  Robert answered for the old man. “They were taking him to the research center for care.”

  “Is there anyone else sick in your village?” Nick asked.

  Robert and the couple discussed the question, and Robert finally said, “There are two other men that became ill, but they recovered after two days and are now fine.”

  The old man said something to Robert who translated, “He says that those men did not have the Kingfisher visit them.”

  Nick turned his hands up to Amy, wondering what she was thinking.

  Amy shrugged. “I don’t know, could be viral encephalitis or another infection. Maybe even something unpleasant they ate or some psychedelic plant. We won’t know until we do a complete work-up.”

  Nick nodded and looked at the six children crammed around the sick man. They appeared to range in age from five to fifteen. The oldest had her head wrapped in a scarf; she held an edge of the scarf over her nose and mouth and stared at him through sad eyes.

  “Is something wrong with her?” Nick asked Amy, nodding at the child. They looked to Robert for an answer, and Robert asked the old man.

  “This child is menawa, deformed. She has been that way since birth,” Robert interpreted. “Her father slaughtered a pig during the seventh month of his wife’s pregnancy. How do you say…she had an open lip?” Robert pointed to his own upper lip.

  “A cleft palate?” Nick said. “May we look at her?”

  The girl’s mother said something to the child, who covered her
face and turned away.

  “What is her name?” Nick asked.

  Robert answered without asking the old man. “She is nameless. She is only known as menawa.”

  Nick’s eyebrows went up.

  “Children with congenital deformities are often thought of as cursed…the living dead,” Amy said.

  The old man was talking to Robert.

  “He said that when she was young, they made it to Brunei, and a doctor did surgery on her in his clinic. It was all they could afford.”

  Robert grimaced at the old man’s next statement and hesitated to translate. Finally he said, “They tried to sell the girl in Brunei, but no one would buy her.”

  Nick’s heart lay heavy in his chest, and he blew out a long sigh. “You’ve never seen this child during your visits to the longhouse?” he asked Amy.

  “Never. It’s pretty buggered, aye. But a lot of these kids are hidden away in shame. She’s probably only out because the whole family is here. Tell the mum the only way we may be able to help her is if we can examine her.”

  Robert had no sooner interpreted Dr. Amy’s request than the girl’s mother forcibly grabbed the child’s arm and pushed her toward them, removing the scarf from her face.

  Nick was shocked. Whatever surgery she had was plainly botched. The surgeon had crudely closed the cleft in her upper lip and done it at the expense of the skin that extended from her cheeks and up to her lower eyelids. It looked horrendous. No wonder the poor thing kept her face covered. The girl’s lower eyelids were scarred down. It was the face a child would make in jest by pinching her cheeks hard enough to show the undersides of her eyelids and the whites of her eyes. But in this case, there was no humor.

  As Nick studied the unfortunate face, he saw an even more critical issue—the girl could not close her eyes. With no tears to moisten her eyes, corneal scarring was already advanced.

  Anger raged in his belly. How could someone do this to a child? The surgeon obviously had no idea what he was doing and probably charged them a year or two of their income.

  He looked at Amy. A tear was rolling down her cheek. “What do you think?” he asked her.