by Ann Benson
They were both hot and dirty and miserably afraid of being caught, and the dangerous journey back to the surgery would take nearly an hour on the rutted roads. Nevertheless, the boy whined bitterly about the sliver in his hand, which was still throbbing viciously; his plaints and lamentations had the unwelcome effect of further agitating the already skittish mule. Alejandro retrieved a bottle of strong red wine from under the seat and instructed the boy to drink deeply, knowing that the wine’s dulling effect would wear off by the time they were required to move the body again. He got no resistance from the boy, who guzzled the wine down as if it were aqua vitae, and the last he would ever taste. Thereafter they traveled more quietly, depending on the diminishing moonlight to illuminate the path. The nervous mule balked at navigating the dark terrain without benefit of a lantern, and the physician thought many times during the journey that he himself could have pulled the cart faster.
Just before dawn they finally guided the cart into the stable attached to Alejandro’s home and locked the sturdy doors behind them. Leaving their gruesome cargo hidden safely in the stable, they traversed the dark passageway into the house by the light of a lantern. Every step brought an aching reminder of the night’s exertion, but the physician remembered that he had promised to look at the boy’s wound as soon as they were safely in the surgery, and would not allow his aches stop him.
He held the boy’s hand under the light of the lantern and examined it carefully. “I regret that I could not tend to you sooner,” he apologized, his regret deepening when he saw the severity of the wound. The boy squirmed, agitated by the pain in his hand, which even his drunkenness could not completely obliterate. Alejandro tried to hold the hand steady as he prepared to remove the splinter, but every time he touched it, the boy tried to jerk it away.
“Be still, boy—I cannot get a firm purchase on this God-cursed splinter!”
Shocked by Alejandro’s blasphemous order, the boy complied, but the damage was done. The splinter snapped off at the opening to the exit wound, leaving a substantial piece still inside.
Alejandro washed the dirt and blood from the boy’s hand and poured wine over the wound to cleanse it further. He had long known that wounds cleaned with water and treated with wine were more likely to heal without festering, although he had no explanation for the curative powers of the regimen. To numb the pain Alejandro dabbed oil of clove on the wound, which caused the boy to wince and draw a sharp inward breath.
“The sting will subside quickly,” he told him. “Now, stay still while I wrap that hand. And drink more wine now. It will help you to sleep.” The physician prayed silently that the boy would not lose that hand, or even his life, from the festering that would certainly follow.
As the sunlight’s first rays edged over the horizon, Alejandro lay down on his bed, his energies entirely depleted. Vivid dreams of Carlos Alderón shattered his fragile sleep; the nauseating specter in a tattered black shroud chased him relentlessly through the dark treacherous woods. Alejandro was always one step out of the blacksmith’s reach as he plunged forward into the unknown forest, lurching clumsily over endless obstacles, his leaden limbs struggling as if mired in a weed-choked swamp. He wanted only to drag himself out of that swamp and lie down to a long rest.
Jarred by the terrifying dream, the physician’s exhausted body twitched spasmodically, powerless to rouse itself and escape the unsettling pursuit. On and on he fled, Alderón’s ghost racing behind him, with no safe haven ahead. True rest was still far, far away.
The midday sunlight was pouring through cracks in the shutters covering his narrow windows when the exhausted physician finally opened his eyes again. He rose stiffly from his bed, and was instantly reminded of the previous night’s labors with every attempt at movement. His shoulders had never felt such agonizing pain. Fool, he thought, how could you possibly work that hard without suffering later? He went to his chemical cabinet and found a salve of menthol and camphor, which he rubbed onto his shoulders.
The water he splashed over his face refreshed him only slightly; it had been drawn from the well the day before and was unpleasantly tepid. In his current condition of disarray, he thought it unwise to leave his home, even to go to the well, for he was still in his previous day’s mud-caked clothing. He quickly stripped off his wrecked garments, and wiped himself clean with a cloth dipped in the remains of his water. Ordinarily a fastidious man, Alejandro was sincere in his desire to set an example of cleanliness, which he hoped would inspire his patients to maintain a similar state, at great benefit to their health. In his current filthy condition he could hope to be inspirational only to certain barnyard animals.
He tucked his long black hair into a hat, and donned a simple shirt and plain trousers, then grabbed two wooden buckets. When he opened the door, the heat’s intensity assaulted him, reminding him of how truly awful his day’s work was going to be.
The sun was at its highest point in the sky, and its rays poured mercilessly down onto the town square, baking deeper cracks into the already parched earth. Shielding his eyes from the glare, he made his way around a corner to the common well.
He found to his dismay that it was surrounded by Christian women collecting fresh water for their basins and new gossip for their wagging tongues. A small roof shaded the well, providing some relief from the debilitating heat for those gathered under it. Alejandro stood back in the sunlight and waited his turn, making a feeble but unsuccessful attempt to hide his impatience. When they noticed his fidgeting, the women stepped aside reluctantly, wishing to prolong their own shaded stays at the well before returning to the demands of their families.
He hung one of the buckets on the hook and lowered it into the well. How cool the sound of the splash was as the bucket hit the water far below; how stinging the pain in his shoulders as he cranked the bucket, now heavy with water, back up again. I should wake the boy, he thought. Such duties as this are his, not mine! Then he remembered the apprentice’s wounded hand, and decided to let him sleep until his assistance was required for the more demanding dissection. Cursing the bad luck that had led to the splinter, Alejandro stumbled achingly back to his house, teetering under the weight of the water-filled buckets. When he returned to the well again it was with only one bucket. He repeated the task until the large basin in his surgery was completely filled.
He was relieved to be finished, for he dreaded the prying eyes of the Christian women. Each time he returned to the well, a young girl in a rough dress tried to catch his eye, and each time he quickly looked away from her, not wishing to encourage her curiosity. She had been staring at him seductively, showing unmistakable interest in him. He did not acknowledge her attention or return her coy smiles, hoping she would end her silent but obvious advances if he ignored her.
Alejandro had no way of knowing that, dressed as he was in European-looking attire, he might be considered attractive by members of the opposite sex. Among his own people physical beauty was not necessarily considered to be an asset, and he paid little attention to his own. But he was tall, and well muscled despite his wiry slimness, with well-formed, angular features and smooth olive skin. He had a kind face, but his expression was usually serious and pensive. Rarely did he smile or laugh with abandon, for he was usually too busy pondering some weighty medical mystery. When he did smile, his amber eyes would seem to sparkle with dazzling brilliance, for only when he was truly happy would he give up his somber countenance, and the contrast was always startling, even to those who knew him well. And of those intimates, there were not many, for he was shy and kept to himself except when pursuing his profession. He was the sort of mysterious and enigmatic man who might appeal to a young girl lacking the sophistication to appreciate his finer qualities, but his innocence and lack of experience were such that he failed to understand his own allure. He didn’t notice when the girl at the well began to whisper secretively to one of her companions. She had recognized him, despite his unusual attire, and was curious.
Back safe
ly in his surgery, he began to prepare himself for the unsavory task before him, the dissection of Carlos Alderón’s body, which would either confirm his suspicions that the origin of Carlos’ disease was not the presumed imbalance between his lungs and his heart but something more clearly defined and observable, or give rise to a host of new questions. He was both repulsed by the foulness he knew he faced and excited by the prospect of discovery. It was not often that he had such an opportunity to learn. He had seen only four dissections during his entire time in medical school; after succumbing to intense pressure from secular quarters, the Christian pope had reluctantly given permission for each medical school to perform one dissection per year, abrogating the Church’s official ban on such procedures. On those dreadful yearly occasions, the entire student body would gather in an open area to view the procedure as a barber-surgeon opened the cadaver, then took the body apart bit by bit over a period of three days. Putrefied organs were offered to the students for closer observation and detailed study, while the professor remained a safe distance away and described things he could not see firsthand. Quoting Galen, whose written words were to medicine as the holy Torah was to the Jews, professors would pass along what Alejandro had later discovered was frequently erroneous information, for what was taught had been written many centuries before. We have learned so much since then, he would always think as he witnessed the procedures. Surely we can do better than this! He wanted the truth about the human body, and he wanted to see it more closely for himself, to draw his own conclusions based on his own observations. This, he knew, was the only way he would get what he wanted. He would have to steal his knowledge when no one was looking.
Alejandro gathered his tools together, wishing he had an even better knife than the fine one he owned. He also cursed his lack of time, for he would have liked to examine as much of the cadaver as possible. He awakened his apprentice, and together they ate a light meal of bread and cheese before the work should take away all desire for food.
He checked the boy’s wound again, and as expected, it had begun to fester. But the boy could function well enough to be of some value; he would have little choice if they were to make the progress needed. Alejandro applied another drop of clove oil to the wound, and they prepared to dissect the body.
They tied cloth masks filled with aromatic herbs over their mouths and noses, which would delay the inevitable time when they’d be forced to abandon their work because the smell overpowered them. They carefully removed the hay and set it aside for the return trip to the graveyard, then lifted the body with the rough cloth strips and carried it back to the surgery. As the windows were already shuttered against prying eyes, they were forced to light torches to provide serviceable light, which quickly increased the already overwhelming heat. After placing the remains of Carlos Alderón on the table, they carefully removed the layered shroud and set it aside for later rewrapping.
Already shriveled and wasted at burial, the body was now skeletonlike. What remained of the flesh was the color of a fish’s belly. The gnarled fingers and curled toes were tightly clenched as if holding precious jewels, the bones nearly visible through the thin skin. It was gruesome, and Alejandro could not completely escape the grip of nausea. Stinging bile rose up in his throat and he had to turn his head to breathe before his stomach could find peace again. Yet despite the heat, the stench, and his own visceral fear, the young physician could barely contain his excitement. He was astonished by the depth of his own morbid fascination with this dead thing, which no longer bore even a slight resemblance to humanity, and disturbed by his own ungodly eagerness to desecrate it.
He made a long incision down the center of the corpse’s chest. At the top and bottom of this incision he made two more cuts, then pulled aside the flaps of skin and muscle to reveal the rib cage. Grateful that his work was not hampered by the blood that would have flowed from such cuts had the patient been alive (but, oh, he thought, what he would give for that experience if it could be painless!), he cracked open the breastbone with a chisel, taking care not to spoil what lay beneath it, then pulled the breastbone completely apart at the center. A new blast of foul odor rushed out. Ignoring his returning nausea, he peered into the body cavity and looked closely at the lungs. Their size was noticeably different. I knew it! he thought, his excitement building. He palpated the large lung; his fingers slid around on the slimy surface. But he could feel that it was hard and firm, and he wondered how air could be absorbed through such an apparently immovable mass. In contrast, the smaller one was soft and pliable and, despite the grayish color, resembled a dried apricot in shape and texture.
He cut open the larger lung, and was reminded of slicing meat; when he cut into the smaller one, he found the texture to be quite different. Instead of being firm and unyielding, it was still somewhat pliable. This made absolutely no sense to him; he had always assumed that as both sides of the chest rose in unison, so both lungs should be the same. So despite the abomination that lay before him, Alejandro smiled behind his mask, and his eyes sparkled with excitement. It was one of those rare times when he was truly happy, because he knew he had discovered what caused the death of Carlos Alderón.
The inside surface of the smaller lung was dark and almost sooty in appearance, in keeping with the popular medical theory that poisoned air could be responsible for creating certain imbalances. He wondered what dark poison had invaded Carlos Alderón’s lung, causing it to muster its own defense by throwing up a large shield. He did not understand why this hard armor should lead to the body’s death.
Puzzled, he pressed the lungs aside to reveal the dark brown heart, still firm to the touch, covered with patches of a white greasy matter that pulled away easily, not unlike the suet farmers added to their chickens’ feed to fatten them. This heart was very much like those he had seen in the open chests of living animals. Señor Alderón had lived a peaceful life, and Alejandro therefore assumed that his heart would not be diseased, because he would logically have displayed some indication of foul temperament while alive. Despite their huge differences, and the difficult secrecy of the treatments, Carlos had never said an unkind word to him. Alejandro deplored his lack of experience with human hearts, but thought anyway that this one looked rather large, which was consistent with its owner’s pleasant demeanor.
He wiped his befouled hands on a cloth and then rinsed them in water. After drying them carefully Alejandro sat down at a nearby table and took out his writing materials—a fine quill and a small bottle of blackish ink, and a leather-bound journal of parchment pages, his “book of wisdom,” as he had taken to calling it. It was a gift he had carried with him to medical school in Montpellier, a last blessing from his father before he had sent his only son into the hands of Christians for an education he did not really want his son to have. Alejandro had always sworn to himself that he would make his family proud of him despite their objections to letting him enter the Christian world; he was determined to show them that his endeavors were worthy. The book now contained many careful sketches and pages of precise notes, to which he referred constantly in his work. He turned to a fresh page and carefully inscribed the words and images that would allow him to recall his observations of the inside of Carlos’ chest at a later time, when that knowledge might be beneficial in the treatment of another patient.
His deep concentration was interrupted by the boy’s insistent tapping on his shoulder, reminding him of their need to be brief. He finished his writings and set the book aside, then went about the grisly work of replacing each lung in its original position while the boy repositioned the limbs so the remnants of the cut shroud could be gathered around them again.
He went to the window and peered out through a crack to determine the hour. “The sun will set in a short while,” he said to the boy. “We will be able to rebury the corpse tonight.” He was immensely relieved that his self-imposed ordeal would soon end. “Soon we will be able to open these shutters and let this evil smell escape into the darkness,” h
e added. The boy said nothing, but nodded his agreement.
They changed back into the traveling clothes they’d worn on the previous night, even though the garments were indescribably filthy. The clothing they had worn during their examination of the corpse reeked of death and decay, smells that could not be removed by even the strongest soap. They bundled it up in the corner of the stable for later burning, for it would draw curious attention to do so on such a hot night.
They brought the rewrapped corpse back through the passageway into the stable, and placed it in the rear of the cart. When they had carefully arranged the hay over it as before, Alejandro opened the stable door and brought the mule around to the front of the cart to be hitched up, only to discover by its refusal to cooperate that the mule’s tempestuous temperament had not improved in the day that had passed. Surely this beast does not have an overly large heart, thought the doctor in disgust, for its disposition is small and mean. With some stroking and soft words the mule was finally gentled. Alejandro quickly tightened the leather cinches around its belly while he had the opportunity.
After their hours of work the boy’s hand was once again throbbing, and he began to snivel and complain, moaning that his pain was intolerable.
Though he was impatient to be off again, Alejandro sent him back into the surgery for a bottle of wine. While he waited for the boy to rejoin him, he led the mule out of the stable onto the path leading to the road.
The cooler evening air was ambrosia to his seared lungs. He felt as if his throat and chest were on fire from the cloying stench of the surgery and the hot air he had been forced to breathe over the long course of the day. He gulped in great loud lungfuls of the sweet night air. Hearing only his own rasping breath, he failed to hear a movement nearby.