by Wren, M. K.
Mary nearly gave in to the waiting tears. No nightmare could be worse than what Rachel faced waking. The pain was wearing her down like the sea constantly battering its shores. Mary opened the canteen, filled the cup, and added three drops of laudanum. Such a small bottle, so little of the precious fluid left.
Rachel grimaced at the bitter taste, but downed it eagerly, and Mary rose, dug a depression into the soil with her boot heel, and kicked the vomitus into it, then knelt to right the gauze tent over the leg. Had the red shadow tentacles extended so close to the knee earlier this morning? She straightened the sleeping bag and said, “I found some sphagnum, so maybe we’d better try the World War One remedy.”
Rachel winced. “Maybe we’d better just let it be.” Then she studied Mary, finally nodded. “All right. Try it. After that, there’s nothing left but the ax.”
Mary turned away as if she’d been struck, and Rachel sighed. “I’m sorry. Just more gallows humor. I don’t want to die. I want more than anything to live. And I don’t want to die like this.”
“You’re not going to die!”
Rachel laughed briefly. “That would be a very unnatural state of affairs. You didn’t get converted at the Ark, did you?”
Mary rose. “I have to take care of your leg. The sphagnum—I don’t know whether I should try to sterilize it, or if that would—” “Mary, please . . .”
The aching appeal reached through to Mary, and she sank to her knees. She didn’t try to speak.
Rachel said, “If the sphagnum or your friend’s herbal remedies help, no one will be more grateful than I. But I’ve had to face the fact that nothing is likely to help, that I’m dying, and you must face that, too. I have some things to say to you, and I want to say them now while I’m still clearheaded.”
Mary pulled in a deep breath, shifted position until she was sitting cross-legged. “All right, Rachel.”
“First, when you see your friend Bernadette, thank her for the laudanum. That was an act of mercy.”
“But I won’t ever see Bernadette again.”
“Yes, you will, you must. Mary, you must go back to the Ark.”
“What?” Mary stared at her. “No, Rachel. Never!”
“Just until your baby is bom. I’m sure the good Doctor will take you back if you put on a show of penitence. You can’t deliver this baby alone. If I thought I’d forced you into that, into something that could cause you untold pain, that might . . . kill you . . .”
“You didn’t force me into anything, and women have been known to deliver their own babies successfully.”
Rachel shook her head impatiently. “But it’s too much of a risk!”
“If I go back to the Ark, I might never be allowed to leave it.”
“I can’t believe you couldn’t outsmart that man, that you couldn’t manage to escape with your baby. But if you die because of me—Mary, please, promise me you’ll go back to the Ark.”
Mary rested her hands on the curve of her belly, felt a tentative movement there, and wondered if there was any way to make Rachel understand that she would willingly face death—for herself and this child—rather than go back to the Ark. Yet she couldn’t let Rachel suffer even this small additional anxiety. She said, “I promise you, I’ll go back.” A false promise, but that didn’t matter. Rachel was satisfied.
“Thank you.” She took a deep breath and for a moment seemed to be gathering her strength. “There’s something else I must talk to you about. Mary, I always had the advantage in this relationship—what exists between you and me. I’m twice your age, and the odds have always been in my favor that I’d die before you did.”
Mary laced her hands tightly. “Where’s the advantage in that?”
“Only that it was never likely that I’d have to grieve for you. It was always likely that you’d have to grieve for me.”
“I never should’ve left you.” Her eyes squeezed shut against the pain that threatened to escape the dark mantle. “If I’d stayed at Amama . . .”
She felt Rachel’s hand on her clenched fists. “That’s exactly what I must talk to you about. I can’t stop you from grieving for me— that’s a part of love—but I don’t want you to add the salt of guilt to the grief.”
Mary shook her head, but she couldn’t speak. She wanted to say, to shout, You’re not going to die. But she could no longer believe that any more than Rachel did.
“Mary, what if Luke had never come to Amarna? I still could’ve cut myself badly, and you’d be with me, but what could you do? There’s no medicine available at Amarna to cure blood poisoning or gangrene, and for you to try an amputation would be futile. Whether you were with me or not, the outcome would be the same. And these last ten years have been a bonus of sorts. We kept each other alive. And living. I’m grateful for those years. I’ve had good company and even accomplished something for posterity. What more can a human being ask?”
Mary accepted the forgiveness she saw in Rachel’s eyes as she had promised to return to the Ark. She accepted it for Rachel’s sake, because it was an extraordinary gift, and to refuse it would be to deny the love Mary felt for her and to burden her with more pain.
“That’s all I have to say, Mary.” Rachel let her eyes close. The laudanum was beginning to slur her words, slow her breathing. “So, now . . . you’d better try the sphagnum. And fix me some herb tea. I’ll try to keep down some food later.”
Mary rose, looked around dazedly. Things to do. Yes, she had things to do. The sphagnum for Rachel’s leg, the fire—it was down to embers—and tea and the stew. Oh, yes, things to do . . .
In the long reaches of the night Mary was wakened by Rachel’s nightmare. Another dose of laudanum let her return to quiet sleep, and Mary added more wood to the fire, huddled over it to warm herself, then went to the bank to look out at the moon-silvered sea.
I have even accomplished something for posterity.
The books.
Rachel hadn’t mentioned them. Perhaps she didn’t consider it necessary.
She couldn’t have finished the Herculean task of sealing and storing all the remaining books in the last six months, but enough to make her feel she could die satisfied with her contribution to posterity.
Mary thought of the books with a kind of hunger, a longing for words and their boundless range of expression. And she remembered how in another era she had ached and sweated over words, how she had hammered at them, molded them, cast them into harmonies that would ring in a reader’s mind like a struck bell.
Mary Hope had been a writer.
She had forgotten that, and it should not be forgotten.
Rachel Morrow had been an artist. She had shaped insight into images, and that should not be forgotten. That it was possible for a gifted human being to perform such metamorphoses should not be forgotten. That it was possible for any human being to reach for the potential within the mind, to reach for understanding, for a new metaphor, a new image, a new harmony, to reach for the spectrum of emotion and conviction called love—that should not be forgotten.
Grief is a part of love.
Mary watched the ghosts of breakers tumbling onto the sand and felt the impatient stirrings of life within her.
This child would remember.
The day began in fog that obliterated the sea, yet when Mary looked straight up, the fog had a blue cast from the sky beyond. She knew that if she were standing a hundred feet higher, she’d be in full sunlight, looking down on clouds snugged into the contours of the shoreline. But she found an equivocal satisfaction in being submerged in the silent fog that made watercolor-wash patterns of the trees, that drew the limits of her world close and centered them on a crackling fire.
And on Rachel.
This was the last day.
Mary knew that as she busied herself warming the stew and boiling the d
ried apples into a sauce for Rachel—if she could keep it down. Mary put a pot of water on the grate to make herb tea, for fever, for vitamin C, for B12. She fed Yorick and wished she could do more for Epona, who hung about the campsite, no doubt hoping for hay. Mary ate heartily—for two—and couldn’t remember minutes later whether she had eaten or not. She was intensely aware of her surroundings, of every nuance of sensation, of her pain. Yet it seemed her nerves only functioned on the surface. Beyond a certain level was that impermeable mantle of numbness.
When at length Rachel woke, panting and crying out with pain, Mary offered her a cup of water laced with laudanum and waited until it took effect before tending her leg.
She hoped for a miracle still, but didn’t find it. The sphagnum that she had yesterday bound loosely against the wound with strips of gauze had had no effect, nor had exposure to air, not on clostridia entrenched in its airless pockets beneath the skin. Today the red tentacles reached above the knee. The lower leg and foot were nearly black. Mary simply covered the leg with clean bandages as quickly as possible. Rachel couldn’t face the broth or applesauce. Only a little tea.
The fog burned off by midmorning. Mary stood on the bank and watched the breakers emerge, the rocky point to the south, the cape in the distance to the north, finally the horizon. The vanishing fog seemed to take with it some of her protective numbness. She returned to Rachel, spread the blanket next to her, sat cross-legged on it, waiting. Yorick held vigil with her. Occasionally he went sniffing out his surroundings, but he always returned after a few minutes to lie close to Rachel, head on his front paws, eyes shifting from her to Mary.
Sometimes when Rachel woke she was lucid, although her conversation was disjointed, following her skipping thoughts with no transitions. “Can’t overcome instincts with persuasion. Draconian measures. China. They tried, at least. You know, they killed millions of swallows because they thought they ate grain. The pope went to Africa and told the faithful to multiply and be fruitful. Damn fool . . .”
At other awakenings she was confused and vague. She thought Mary was her mother or Connie Acres. Once she woke complaining that she had lost the right color of blue. “Cobalt won’t do. No blue can take the place of ultramarine. Lapis lazuli . . .” Mary assured her she’d find her lost ultramarine, held her hand until she sank into sleep.
Sometimes she woke weeping in pain. At such times, when she came fully awake, she was most lucid. She would try to put off taking more laudanum, asking Mary to support her so she could see the ocean, commenting on every detail as if she were memorizing it. Yet the pain always overwhelmed her finally. Panting, her pulse fast and erratic, yet so faint, Mary could barely feel it, Rachel would finally surrender to another cupful of water made bitter by the few drops of laudanum.
In the afternoon Mary went to the beach and gathered wood while Rachel slept. She kept a small fire burning all day. And she watched the sun moving in the sky with a solid sense of the Earth moving under her. She watched the shadows of the spruce trees move across hummocks of scaled roots, through drifts of fallen needles, red brown, the color of dried blood. Time was inexorable. It did not exist in static form, yet it was integral to the universe and life. She considered time and whether she would, if it were possible, stop time on this vernal afternoon. But perception depended on time. It came to her that death and the cessation of time were one and the same. And the Earth turned, and the shadows moved, and the tide that was at low ebb at noon moved up the beach, each wave leaving its serpentine mark in the sand.
High clouds began sweeping over the horizon late in the afternoon, and when the sun sank behind them, they caught fire, but it was the red fire of embers, barred with radiating shadows of gray. The wet sand burned with reflections, the water was dappled with the red and pale blue green of the sky. Mary knelt by Rachel, supporting her so she could see this phenomenon of light. She watched until the colors faded, but as the fire in the sky waned, so did her strength. She was shivering violently when Mary tucked the sleeping bag around her, and pain tripped up every breath. She asked, “Is there more laudanum?”
Mary shook her head, the word catching in her throat. “No.”
Rachel nodded. “Then it’s nearly time. I want to see the stars first. I can wait that long, I think. Shadow? Where are you, love?” Yorick nuzzled her hand. “No, not my Shadow. She’s dead, Mary, mercifully at my hand. So hard, mercy . . . for the merciful.”
Mary didn’t try to answer that.
When Rachel closed her eyes, Mary rose and built up the fire again. Its flames shimmered and blurred. Then she whistled for Epona, waited until the mare appeared, took her to another campsite, and tied her there. She stroked the massive, silken curve of her neck, her fingers finding the exquisite folds under her jaw, while Epona nervously rubbed her head against Mary’s shoulder.
She returned to their campsite, where the fire flickered in an echo of the fires that had faded from the sky, leaving only a glow on the horizon. Rachel still lay with her eyes closed, but she wasn’t asleep. Every breath ended in a soft moan, and the firelight glinted on the perspiration sheening her face. Mary sat down beside her, held her hand, while the night closed in like a tide around the island of firelight.
Finally Mary looked up through the branches, lace-patterned black on black, and saw stars shining out of the dark web.
The last day dwindled to the last minutes.
She felt Rachel’s hand tighten on hers, heard her say, “There . . . that ancient light. I lived in a golden age, Mary, when we began to learn the real dimensions of the universe. I hope it doesn’t shrink again in the human mind until those stars are only holes in a dome. What a small, cramped world it was. . . .” The words sighed into shallow panting, then: “It’s time. Bring the first-aid box. The morphine.”
Mary couldn’t move. She stared into Rachel’s pain-ravaged face, and she had no intention of denying her the relief she sought, that in sound mind she asked for now. The paralysis was both physical and mental, and it was total. Only when Rachel repeated in an anguished whisper, “It’s time,” did the paralysis release her. Mary forced herself to rise, made her way to the table, and returned with the first-aid box.
Rachel had managed to brace herself on one elbow, and the fire shone full on her face. In her eyes, past the pain, was a transcendent light that Mary didn’t understand and knew she wouldn’t until she stood at the same point looking over the rim of time to timelessness.
Mary knelt and opened the box, found the morphine. A golden age, and this was an artifact of it. Mercy in amber glass. There was more of it at Amarna, she knew. She wondered if it would still be viable when the time for mercy came for her. She offered Rachel the vial and syringe.
Rachel reached for them, but her trembling muscles betrayed her. The vial and syringe clattered together, then slipped out of her grasp. With a groan, she fell back against the bearskin. When she didn’t speak, but lay staring hopelessly up at the stars, the transcendent light quenched, Mary said, “I’ll do it, Rachel.”
“No . . . oh, Mary, I can’t . . . ask that. . . .”
“You didn’t ask.”
Rachel caught her hand, looked fixedly into Mary’s eyes for what seemed a long time. Then her frail hand slipped away from Mary’s. “It has to be given intravenously. It’ll take . . . all of it. The full vial.”
No doubt this had also been thoroughly researched. Mary picked up the vial and syringe, felt her equilibrium shifting dangerously, and realized the calm that surrounded her now was a fragile thing.
“Fill the syringe first. . . .”
Mary peeled the metal cap off the vial to expose the rubber seal, then broke off the plastic cap on the syringe, slipped it out of its sheath, pulled off the smaller sheath that protected the needle. She stabbed through the seal with the steel point, drew the plunger back against the pull of vacuum, holding the syringe so that the firelight was b
ehind it, and she could see the liquid fill the tube. It was as benignly clear as water. She emptied the vial into the syringe.
Rachel began fumbling at her sleeve. “That cord in the box . . . use that as a tourniquet.” Mary propped the syringe against the side of the first-aid box, then unbuttoned Rachel’s sleeve, rolled it above her elbow.
The braided cord—she looked in the box and at first couldn’t see it. She paused to get herself under control. And found the cord.
Rachel nodded. “Tie it around my arm . . . yes, that’s right. . . .”
Mary followed Rachel’s instructions without allowing herself to think past them, only aware of the monumental effort behind those quiet commands. “Tighten the cord. . . .” Rachel squeezed her hand into a fist, an effort that quickened her panting breaths. “Can you see the vein?” It was there, a small, blue wheal. “All right . . . the syringe . . .”
Mary picked up the syringe, held it tightly when she wanted to throw it, to do anything to rid herself of it.
But Rachel was waiting.
Mary angled the needle nearly parallel with the blue wheal. A moment’s resistance, then the needle slid under the skin, into the vein.
“Now . . .” Rachel loosened the tourniquet with her free hand. And Mary pressed the plunger slowly, steadily, inexorably. She emptied the water-clear liquid into Rachel’s vein, and never once trembled or faltered until the syringe was empty, and she tossed it away from her, a silent cry shrieking in her mind, as tangible as the pain that bore her down, gasping for air, into Rachel’s arms.
Rachel whispered, “Oh, my Mary, my friend, don’t ever regret this . . . no greater love . . .”
Mary lay shivering with her head on Rachel’s shoulder, holding on to her and the vanishing moments, while the stars faded in the light of the rising moon.
And the sea sang softly, endlessly, I am here. . . .
Mary had all the long night to weep.
She didn’t have to constrain herself now for Rachel’s sake. There was no one to hear her sobbing, no one to know her anguish.