All Heads Turn When the Hunt Goes By (5 page)

"Champ, are you hurt?"

"No. Clumsy. I'm all right."

"Champ—I don't have anything on. Wait—"

Nhora left me sitting there and walked quickly to the other end of the bedroom; I glimpsed her putting on her robe. Then she reached up and turned on a hanging crystal lamp. Even barefoot she was a very tall woman, only a fraction under six feet.

She turned and looked at me and was horrified. She clutched her abdomen and I remembered the appendicitis attack, which perhaps had saved her life today. I could well imagine how I appeared to Nhora as I grimly pulled myself to my feet.

"What—what—there's blood—my God, have you had an accident?"

I made her sit down, in a boudoir rocker that was too small for her. Then I told her the full, appalling story. There was no way to spare either of us, but for Nhora it was like surgery without anesthetic. I suppose I had expected a different reaction, given her size and proportions—Amazonian stoicism. Possibly I had always underestimated the depth of her feeling for Boss. But she cried like a child. She rocked and groaned and finally screamed for me to stop. But she couldn't stop rocking, although she was nearly doubled over in the chair.

There was a decanter half-full of Irish whiskey on the marble pedestal table I was using for support. I was awkward, I spilled it all over both of us, but I got her to drink some of it. It may not have been the best thing for someone with a problem appendix, but the whiskey that went down soon had a restorative effect. She gulped hard a couple of times, looked vaporous, mumbled an apology and hurried into the cabinet-size bathroom. I noticed then that her feet were very dirty, as if she'd been out walking barefoot just before taking to her bed.

A smoked mirror confirmed the worst about my appearance, and I hadn't brought a complete change of uniform with me. For now I would have to endure the mess.

Nhora came out of the bath, her fine green eyes still wide with shock. "Something more happened," she said accusingly, an edge of panic in her voice. "Something you haven't told me about. People just don't go crazy like that!" Then the expression on my face, and the pressure of my hand on her arm, stopped her. Pain flooded her eyes before I realized how tightly I was holding her. I let her go. She took a step back, her own face softening in sympathy. "Oh—Champ, I don't know what I'm saying, I'm sorry."

People just don't go crazy like that
. . . But my scalp was crawling. I smelled blood all over again. I fought a strong, irrational urge to sink down on the spot and fall fast asleep. Movement, action was what I needed; I had to keep my mind off Clipper for now, I told Nhora that.

"What do we do?" she asked me, lips barely moving.

"You'd better stay here. I have things to do, but I'll send one of the colored women to—"

"No! Don't leave me!" She looked fearfully around the opulent bedroom, as if it now suggested a tomb to her.

"Nhora, I don't think you're in any condition to go."

"I'll be okay," she said, earnestly appealing to me, twisting the heavy shock of her light brown hair behind her head and tying it with a scrap of velvet. "I've had these attacks before, since I was a little girl. Ice always works. There's not much pain now. Honest!"

It was at odd moments like this, when she hurried her speech, stumbled charmingly, that the sibilance of her Gallic background became audible. "Please wait. I'll get dressed. There must be
something
I can do. You said people were hurt. Won't they need help at the hospital? Just don't leave me alone, Sshamp! I need you."

I waited outside while she dressed. Jenner appeared unexpectedly with a crutch, the wood gnawed like a dog's bone, the padded crosspiece stained with age and stinking of dried sweats, but it was exactly what I needed.

"I bought it from that World War vet who hangs around the depot. Five dollars. Probably hasn't seen that much money in years."

I repaid Jenner and called Bull Pete for instructions. It had occurred to me that since we were but a two-hour drive from the capital we would soon be under siege by representatives of the world's press; the privacy of our guests, some of whom were of frail constitution, had to be ensured. I wanted to get the train and as many of the wedding party as possible on the way back to the mid-South, preferably before dark. I knew there was going to be a nasty scandal, the family had to be protected. In the meantime it was Bull Pete's job to round up those servants loose on the town. Second Lt. Jenner, for whom I had developed a great deal of respect on short acquaintance, volunteered to stand armed guard at the train to discourage trespassers.

Brakestone drove Mora and me to the community hospital, named for Robert E. Lee. The lawns were extensive and lovingly kept; unfortunately the staff infirmary was not equipped to handle the survivors of a disaster. A detachment of cadets under the direction of staff officers from the institute had begun to establish order, although the approaches to the hospital were badly crowded with vehicles of all types; even a horse-drawn barouche had been pressed into service as an ambulance. The noise—horns blowing, people shouting for assistance—was maddening. The Civil War itself could not have been more disruptive to the town.

I directed Brakestone to leave us and return to the train in case Jenner needed reinforcement. A soft, northerly wind had come up and dogwood petals fluttered in the air as Nhora and I made our way along the brick sidewalk, around makeshift litters and past limping, weeping victims of the silent chapel bell. Tents for emergency first aid were being unloaded from the back of a military transport and hastily erected on the front lawn.

At the hospital gates, guarded by cadets, we were jostled by people congregating in a lump, feeding each other's fears, clamoring for friends or relatives. Nhora, unearthly pale, looked around in bewilderment. I had not prepared her for this scene—my explanation of the chapel's near-collapse had been hurried, incomplete, largely incomprehensible.

"All this," she said. "But
why
?"

"Let us through! Let us through! This boy'll die if you don't let us through!"

The animal terror in the man's voice charged the hairs on the back of my neck. A group of men were lugging a writhing thing in a soiled bedsheet to the hospital. They were all local men, farmers, wearing overalls and cloth caps. As they passed us I had a good look at the boy in the sheet, who carried on unmercifully, like a cat drenched with kerosene and set afire. He was about ten years old, and completely naked. "I'm burning!" he screamed. "Stop it, stop burning me!"

The crowd murmured and gasped and made room by the gates, which were thrown open by the cadets inside. Most of the farmers continued on through with their burden, but one of them, perhaps a brother of the tormented youngster in the sheet, left off and stood staring at me with that peculiar, heart-rending sweetness of someone breaking down emotionally. His face was filmed with perspiration.

"I don't know," he said, as if compelled to explain to both of us. "Found him just the way you see him. No clothes on his body. Running down Railroad Ridge to the home place, falling down, rolling, creaming how he was burning up. Well, you saw him. Not a mark on his skin. That right? He just ain't burnt—nah, ain't burnt no way I can see." Tears rolled down his cheeks. "Can't stand his screaming no more. Tell daddy I'll wait in the truck, please, sir."

"Doctor!" the father called, as his little son flailed and shrieked. "Get me a doctor quick!"

With a look of dread fascination Nhora drifted after them while the gates remained open. I hesitated, then followed. My attention was transferred to Hackaliah, whom I saw striding toward the hospital doors carrying a box of supplies marked with a big red cross. I called to him, but he didn't hear. Nhora had reached the farmers and the frenzied, mysteriously harmed boy. They lowered him to the cool grass. Nhora stared, then bent over the boy and tried to soothe him with her hand. He bucked and kicked. and never stopped screaming. Nhora flinched as if she'd, been hit. One of the farmers shook his head in dismay and kindly led her aside. She was looking at her clenched fist when she returned to me.

"That boy—"

"I know, it's terrible."

"I only wanted to help. But I think I scratched him." Timidly she opened her fist and showed me colorless, neat fingernails. There were a few bloody flecks of skin under one nail. Nhora winced. "I couldn't help it." She looked back suddenly. A doctor had been found for the boy; he came running with his black bag.

"They'll give him morphine," I said. "He'll be all right. I have to find Nancy."

Nhora nodded, preoccupied. "I want to stay with the boy until they know what's wrong with him. I'll catch up."

There was not the pandemonium I'd expected inside the hospital. Apparently at least five physicians had been guests at the wedding, and those who were able had pitched in to supplement the hospital staff. And there was no shortage of volunteer nurses or nigras, such as Hackaliah, to fetch and carry and clean up. Looking around, I saw familiar faces from home: aunts, uncles and cousins several times removed. They sat huddled in groups, some with bandaged hands and heads, and appraised me tentatively as I went by on my crutch. "Is that you, Charles?"

"My, my you've filled out so I didn't hardly know you."

"Charles, what do we do now? Do you think we can all go home?" I asked them to be patient while I spoke to Tyrone, who was in the hallway checking names on a list of our wedding guests.

"Your wife is in a ward on the third floor," Tyrone said. "Knocked out, but peaceful. Aunt Clary Gene's with her."

"Aunt Clary Gene? Boss brought her along? She's half-blind herself."

"Nobody I'd rather have by my bed if I took sick," Tyrone said sternly.

Nhora had come in the door; she was crying but calm. A group of kinfolk formed slowly around her. Without commotion they embraced and kissed Nhora. This show of sympathy and affection obviously gave her strength. She stood a head taller than the others and, although I'd never found her particularly beautiful, she seemed stunning in her grief. Tyrone was looking at Nhora too. He could be so quiet at times you'd swear his heart had stopped beating.

"Tyrone—the bodies—" I said.

"Oh," he said, his voice distant, his pale eyes still trained on Nhora, "here already. Come with a military escort." He looked at me. "I wrote down the number of the local funeral home."

"I have a lot of people to see before I—and Nancy comes first."

"Better take it easy, captain. You look about all used up yourself."

I disregarded his advice and found room on the single busy elevator.

The eight-bed ward on the third floor was full, and there were occupied beds in the hall outside. Nancy was at the end of the ward, under a north window so brilliant her body seemed to give off blurred light in return, like a saint wrapped for burial in some Florentine oil masterpiece.

Aunt Clary Gene, who had been nursemaid to the lot of us—Beau, Clipper and me—sat in a straight-back chair wearing the prim black hat with the lace veil she wore for all "gettin' out" occasions, baptism, wedding or funeral. She held her limp Bible in her hand, unopened because she couldn't read it anymore. But the old colored woman had committed long passages of Scripture to memory. She raised her head at my approach; the crutch squeaked like holy hell. Behind the veil the round lenses of her spectacles, catching the light stream from the window, were like milk glass rimmed in fiery red.

"Oh, Champ, you're not killed after all. Praise God!"

Nancy stirred and muttered on the bed. She was wearing a flimsy cotton hospital gown. I took her hand, looked at her small mute face. Her lips had pulled away from her teeth in a bloodless gash. There was a long streak of eye makeup down one cheek. Her hair was dusty. Too many bones seemed visible through her skin. She had never been very strong. A gleam of life in the slit of an eye seemed a light-year beyond apprehension of my presence, my voice. I tried anyway.

"I'm here, Nancy," I said. I told her that she was safe now, and that I loved her. Her hand lay cold and unmoving in mine.

"There is a plague on our house," Aunt Clary Gene said in her light, clear voice. "Beau. Clipper. And Boss. Is it true, about Boss?"

"Aunt Clary, don't."

"I'm praying
you
will be spared, Champ. May the Lord be satisfied with His tithe in blood. Let peace descend on our house."

She was just an old woman, thoughts loose as straws in her windy belfry, yet the notion that we Bradwins were formidably cursed struck me like a body blow. Again I was forced to grapple with the matter of the silent bell, the tortured chapel, the merciless slaughter—and again I reeled, shaken, numbed, unable to cope with the demands of reason, a simple yearning for purchase in the difficult flow of life. If it could have happened, then how was I safe from a fate as vile and unreckonable as my brother had suffered? If madness would be common, and all of nature in a fit, why shouldn't this building collapse beneath my feet, a tree fall on me from a windless sky, a tiger tear me from my bed some mild and dreaming night?

"Champ?" I barely heard him the first time he spoke. Then I felt his hand tighten on my free arm and looked around.

"Oh, boy, you damn well look like you've had it."