Author’s Note:  This chapter is a continuation of the previous one and contains more details about wounds, infections, and general medical stuff.  It is potentially skippable if that sort of thing squicks you.  I would, however, recommend reading the opening scene.

As the afternoon begins to wane, there is movement at last.  A Gondorian man enters the courtyard, carrying scrolls, quills, and a large pot of ink.  He is accompanied by two soldiers who bear a small table between them.  Wordlessly, they set up the table in an open corner of the courtyard and step back to allow the scribe to arrange his papers.  The small man clears his throat importantly, and my people fall silent.

“People of Harad,” he intones, “I have come to collect information from you regarding your kinsmen who took up arms against us and to release what details we possess about those who surrendered to King Elessar.  He will pass judgment shortly on those who laid down arms.  I can offer you no assurances of mercy—only the promise that our king’s judgments are just.  Step forward, now, and learn the fate of your sons.”

A ringing silence follows his pronouncement.  I see many blank looks exchanged; the Gondorim have not bothered to bring a translator.

My father, of course, had always thought his children better than our humble upbringing suggested.  He insisted that his son would be educated, and that included an education in Westron, the language of our foes.  As I step forward to translate, as I have a thousand times before, I wonder for the first time whether that education is blessing or curse.  Once I’ve explained the man’s purpose, my countrymen silently file into a ragged line.  One by one, they step forward and repeat their kinsman’s name and company information.  Again and again, the scribe shuffles through his papers, looking for record of that particular soldier.  Far too many times, I have to direct the hopeful family member to a trench grave along the Pelennor.  Even worse, to my mind, are the times when the scribe has no record of a particular man.  The families of these men may never know their sons’ fates.

Slowly—so slowly—the line dwindles.  At last, the scribe and I are standing alone, while my fellows either return to their anxious vigil or step out into the street, their heads bowed in grief.

I feel the scribe’s eyes on me.  After a moment, he clears his throat impatiently.

I swallow past a lump in my throat.  “Ayman, son of Hakim,” I say quietly, “enlisted under threat of conscription to the third company of the Black Serpent’s battalion.”

The man rifles through his papers one last time.  “Yes,” he says at last, “He surrendered to the Grey Company upon the fields.  The king will hear your supplications in due time.”  He starts to gather his papers, but before he can tuck them all away, I lean over his shoulder and catch a glimpse of my son’s name.  Most likely, the Gondorian will never suspect that I can read his language as well as speak it.

There it is in clear, block letters:  “Name:  Ayman, son of Hakim; Position:  Infantry; Company:  3^rd under the Black Serpent Banner; Status:  Surrendered, awaiting judgment in the second camp; Wounds:  None.”

My heart beats a little stronger.  For a moment, I feel almost lightheaded.  My son is alive.  He is not maimed.  There is hope, yet, if the king will be lenient.

I almost don’t notice the small symbol written in the margin next to Ayman’s name.  It is a simple thing—perhaps a letter from an alphabet I am not familiar with.  I see nothing like it next to any of the other names.

But, before I can puzzle out its meaning, the scribe rolls up his scroll and departs, leaving me alone with my fears once more.

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The morning after Kali’s injury, she was awake, alert, and grumpy from the pain but anxious to get out of bed.  Mother had to hover over her all day, lest she move too fast and rip her stitches.

The day after, when Mother told Kali that she must again spend the day abed, the girl pouted for a few seconds, then rolled over and went back to sleep.

On the third day, Kali did not even try to rise.  Her forehead burned and her eyes, when she opened them, were hazy.  Her leg was far more painful.  She screamed at the slightest touch.  Mother abandoned all her housework to spend the day by her daughter’s side, laying cool cloths on her brow and trying to get her to drink a bit of broth and herbal tea. 

I returned from the fields early to find my mother kneeling at Kalima’s side, holding a steaming cup to her lips.  Kali tried weakly to turn her head away.  She coughed and spat out what little tea made it past her lips, moaning quietly all the while.

Mother’s hands trembled.  When she saw me, she stilled them through force of will.

Quietly, I knelt beside her and touched my sister’s hand.  It felt far too hot.  “The wound has gone bad?”

Mother nodded, her face pale and drawn.  “I could control the fever up ‘til now . . . but she’ll no longer take any herbs.  It is getting worse.”

I lifted the blanket away from her leg and nearly recoiled at the sudden stench.  Pus dripped past the neat rows of stitches.  The skin looked red and tight.

Abruptly, Mother seemed to compose herself.  “Fetch a taper, Hakim, and light three sticks of incense.  We must keep the bugs away from her wound.”  As I hurried to do as she’d asked, she wetted a cloth from a fresh basin of water and sponged it over Kali’s leg, over and over.  As I returned, she was grinding herbs with a steady hand.  I lit the incense quickly, and soon the fragrant smoke filled the room.  Mother handed me the herbs and gestured to the dwindling honey pot.  “Add the geranium to a bit of honey and drip it over the worst of the wounds.”

While I mixed the herbs and slathered more honey over the weeping wounds, Mother added a leaf to the tea she’d fixed and resumed trying to get Kali to drink it.  We were both so absorbed in the work that we scarcely noticed as evening fell and the sky outside darkened.  I watched my sister closely.  Her skin, it seemed to me, was far too dry, no matter how many damp cloths we laid over it.  Her eyes were half-lidded and bleary.  They barely flickered when Mother tried to rouse her.  Her gaze was nearly fixed, her lips cracked and dry.  Such stillness was altogether unnatural on her usually vibrant face.  It frightened me more than anything else had.

“What is wrong?”

I started at Father’s voice; I’d been so absorbed in tending my sister that I hadn’t heard him approach.  His voice was tight.  It betrayed the same fear that was beginning to overwhelm me.

“The wound is beginning to fester.”  Mother’s tone was terse and clipped.

“I don’t understand.  She was doing well.  She was getting better.”

“It happens, at times.”

“But, she will be alright?”  I was not used to hearing father sound so unsure.

“She has had nothing to drink today.  Her fever burns hot, and then she sweats herself cool again.  Illness is drying her out faster than the desert ever could.”

“But, you can heal her?”

“I’m trying, husband!”  Mother clenched her jaw tight against the outburst.  She drew a deep breath to regain her composure.  “Hakim,” she said at last, “Fetch me a basin of clean water and some more linen.”

I hurried to comply, which meant I caught only snatches of the outbursts that followed.  Still, as I returned with my arms laden, Father’s harsh voice crying “What do you mean there’s nothing more you can do?!” echoed down the hallway.  I eased the door open, and he immediately composed himself.  Mother, too, fell silent, and for long moments, the three of us just stared down at Kalima.  No one suggested running for a healer; there was no one with more knowledge than my mother within two days walk.

Except, perhaps . . .

Mother met my gaze as she lifted the basin from my hands.  Whatever she saw there seemed to harden her resolve.

Kali’s eyes drifted shut.  Her breaths came shallow and quick.  Mother bowed her head briefly, whispering a forbidden prayer under her breath.  Then, her head came up and she turned to spit my father with a hard look.  “Azzam.  Get Dakheel.  Bring him here.”

Father hesitated.  His face paled a shade.  “Surely, you don’t mean to trust that—“

“Azzam!  Bring the foreigner.  Now.”

Father wisely chose not to argue.

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Despite my growing fear, I felt my heart lighten as Dakheel entered the sickroom, a step behind Father.  More than ever before, he seemed to carry with him a sense of unflappable calm.  His face was still, his voice low but not at all tentative.

“When did the fever start?”

Mother’s rudimentary Westron was not up to the task of answering his many questions, so I sat between them, translating.  As we talked, Dakheel examined Kali.  Quickly but gently, he touched her brow, felt her pulses, and lifted an eyelid to check her pupil.  She scarcely seemed aware of him, but when he probed lightly around her wounded leg, her back arched and she let out a hoarse cry.  My father and I flinched and something in Mother seemed to break.  Trembling, she sat back on her heels and lifted her scarf to cover her face.  “I never should have stitched the wounds.”  I could not see her eyes, but her voice held tears enough.  “Scars be damned, I never should have stitched them!”

I looked away, and offered no translation.  Dakheel seemed to understand, all the same.  “Tell your mother it was not her fault,” he said softly, “Wounds go bad, at times, even with the most skilled healer’s care.”  But, even as I translated, he selected a small metal hook from the instruments Mother had brought and began to pick out the stitches, one at a time.  As he worked, the bite wounds opened a little, but neither blood nor fluid leaked from them.  I wondered whether that was a good sign or a bad one.

Slowly, Mother seemed to collect herself.  I heard her breath blow out in one slow sigh, and she used the corner of her headscarf to wipe her face.  Lowering the makeshift veil, she swallowed hard and stared at the wounds.  “It festers,” she said in a voice that was only slightly tremulous, “But, I can find no nidus of swelling under the skin—no pocket of infection.”

I struggled a bit with that translation, but Dakheel seemed to understand better than I.  He placed a hand on either side of the wounds and pressed down gently.  Kalima cried out and he nodded, his face grim.  “I believe there is such a pocket, nonetheless,” he said, “Perhaps lying between the planes of muscle.”  He hesitated.  His mouth tightened.  “I have need of a knife,” he said at last.

“You need what?!”  My father’s outburst came before I could translate the request for Mother.  Dakheel remained impassive.

“Infection is collecting deep within her leg, poisoning her blood.  The pocket must be opened so that air can dispel it.”

I reached past Mother, fumbling for the blades, but she stopped me with a hand on my wrist.  Deftly, she selected two small knives—a lancet and a shorter, single-edged blade—and passed them to Dakheel.  He drew a basin of water to him, along with the still-lit taper, and began to pass the smaller blade through the flames.

“What are you doing?”  There was now a definite note of panic in Father’s voice.

“Cleaning the blade.”  Dakheel’s voice was unperturbed.

“No!  You’ll burn her!”

“Malik, your daughter is very ill.  I will do what I can, but I haven’t the time to explain every step.”  Kali stirred slightly.  Dakheel stilled her with a soft word and a hand on her ankle.

“No . . .” The tension in Father’s voice was nearing its peak.  Had I turned, I would have seen him running a finger over the hilt of his belt knife.  “NO!”

My eyes widened at the sudden sound of steel scraping leather, but before I could so much as turn my head, Dakheel twisted.  Dropping the small knife, he caught my father’s dagger on crossed wrists.  “Drop the knife.”  His voice was suddenly sharp, though still almost impossibly calm.  Rather than wait for my father to comply, he sprang up from his half crouch, still trapping Father’s wrist in a grip that twisted.  After a moment, Father had no choice, and the blade fell to the flagstones with a clatter.

Dakheel’s face hadn’t changed.  Apparently, it took more than attempted murder to rattle him.  “Wait outside, Azzam,” he ordered in a tone that brooked no argument.  It was the first time I’d ever heard him use my father’s name.  Once again, he didn’t give Father the chance to even consider disobedience.  Keeping a firm grip on his wrist, he spun the man, marched him out the door, and shoved him down to sit, with little ceremony, on a low stool that sat in the hallway.  Turning from the stunned man, Dakheel returned to us, closed the door, and propped a chair under the knob to wedge it shut.

Mother watched silently as Dakheel kicked the dagger aside and knelt to pick up the small knife once more.  With a wet cloth and steady hands, he wiped the blade clean and passed it through the candle’s flame once more.  After a moment, he withdrew it and dipped it into the basin, where it hissed slightly.  “Hold her leg,” he said, his voice slightly terse for the first time, as he lifted the blade and checked for heat by tapping with a finger.  I moved to obey, but Mother got there first.  Her face set, she gripped her daughter’s leg with one hand above and one below the knee.

Kali’s face screwed up and she made a weak sound in the back of her throat as Dakheel pressed lightly around her wounds, feeling for something.  I held my breath as he lifted the blade to her unmarked skin.  She cried out at the touch of the knife, but Dakheel worked quickly, making a small cut—perhaps an inch long—in the skin just below the largest wound.  The cut bled sluggishly, and Dakheel gestured for me to staunch it with a rag.  As I did so, he picked up the pointed lancet and began to clean it as he had the smaller blade.

From behind us came a sudden pounding on the door and an angry voice crying “Dakheel!”

He did not look away from his instruments.  “Hold the door, Hakim,” he said quietly, “Do not let him in.”

Forcing myself not to tremble, I scrambled to my feet and turned away, but not before I saw Dakheel lift the tip of the lancet to the new wound he had made and adjust the angle slightly.  I swallowed hard and pressed my shoulder against the door.  Not a moment too soon, it turned out; no sooner had I set myself than I glimpsed Dakheel’s hand move in one quick motion.  Kalima screamed, the cry holding more strength than I’d thought she had left.  Mother made a strangled, croaking sound of distress.  The pounding and cries from beyond the door redoubled.

Slowly, Kali’s high pitched wail subsided into a pained whimper.  I risked a glance over my shoulder.  Dakheel had set the lancet aside.  Pus, white and putrid, trickled from the new wound.  Dakheel was probing her leg, trying to squeeze out more and more of the foul substance.  My stomach rolled, but I locked my jaw.  Though Dakheel kept pressing against the surrounding skin, as the trickle of pus slowed, so did Kali’s cries.  I’m not sure whether relieving the pressure eased her pain, or if she had simply screamed herself out.  After what felt like an eternity, Dakheel lifted a wet rag and began to scrub out the wounds once more.

“I shall need salt.”

His voice was quiet, and for a moment I forgot that he needed me to translate.  When I remembered myself, Mother’s face clouded with sudden doubt; brine might be an effective treatment for some wounds, but everyone knew it was also among the most painful.  Dakheel met her gaze and smiled reassuringly.  “Do not fear.  It will not cause her more pain.  I require only a tiny amount.”

Something in his face must have convinced her; before I could even translate his words, she was reaching into her kit and pulling out a small box of salt.  He took it with a word of thanks.

On the other side of the door, Father had fallen silent.  I stepped back cautiously and turned to watch Dakheel.  He was carefully tipping a bit of salt onto his hand.  After a moment, he brushed the fine grains into an empty bowl, picked up a pitcher, and poured water after it, his face intent as if he was carefully measuring.  As I squatted cautiously at his side, he picked up the bowl and swirled it to mix the salt.  When no grains floated at the bottom of the clay bowl, he touched a finger to the surface and raised it to his lips to taste.  Seeming satisfied, he dipped a pad of linen in the mixture, soaking it before wringing it out.

As he’d promised, Kali let out no cry of pain when he pressed the damp bandage against her leg.  Her face stayed relaxed—though tear-streaked and drenched in sweat—even as he wrapped dry linen around her leg, holding the bandage in place.  “This dressing must be changed frequently,” he said, “As it dries, it will draw the sickness from the wound.”  He sat back and felt for something along the inside of her wrist.  Whatever he felt seemed to trouble him.  “She will not drink?”  Once I had translated, Mother shook her head.  Dakheel frowned.  “The leg, I think, will mend,” he said slowly, “But the blood poisoning is far more serious.  She has weakened and has not the strength to fight it.  That can be remedied.  Perhaps.”

He dragged his hand slowly across his face.  Then, he reached for the leather pouch at his belt.  “Water,” he instructed, “As hot as you can get it.”  I drew a few ladles from the large kettle Mother had brought, though it had stopped steaming.  He seemed not altogether pleased, but after a moment he nodded.  “It will suffice.”

Gently, Dakheel placed Kali’s hand in both of Mother’s, and then moved to sit by her head.  Taking the fresh basin of water and a clean cloth, he sponged her face, wiping the sweat and tears away.  For long moments, he just sat there staring down at her, his lips moving silently, as if in prayer.  Mother and I exchanged an uncomfortable look.  Witch-doctors were common among our people, though Mother despised them.  Had we placed all our trust in Dakheel only to be treated to foreign superstitions?

But, then he reached into his pouch and drew out a dried leaf—one identical to the leaf Mother had crumbled into his tea so many weeks ago.  My breath caught as I remembered how quickly that herb had dispelled his Mordor-fever.  But, I also remembered his words from only days ago:  “I’ve run out of all but athelas . . . We can only hope that Kalima does not grow weak enough that it would aid her.”

His lips still moving soundlessly, he lifted the leaf to his mouth in cupped hands and breathed on it.  Slowly and solemnly, he stretched his hand out over the bowl and crumbled the leaf between his fingers.  It fell, in tiny flakes of dark green, to float on the surface of the warm water.

And then I smelled it again:  that incredible freshness, like rain on the thirsty ground.  Somehow, the scent seemed stronger than it had when Dakheel lay delirious.  For one wild moment, it struck me that this must be because he was stronger.  I shook off the foolish thought; even young and untrained as I was then, I knew that herbalism didn’t work like that.

But, there was no denying that the scent was strong.  It filled the room, seeming to dispel even the pungent scent of the incense that still smoked in the corners.  I could see the smoke well enough, as it danced in the candlelight and wrapped around Kali, keeping insects at bay, but even it seemed infused with the wet scent of rain and life.

Dakheel dipped a rag in the fragrant water and laid it over Kali’s forehead.  “Kalima . . .” he called softly, “Kalima . . .”  His face was drawn in concentration.

Her eyes opened.  It happened so suddenly, I nearly missed it.  One moment, I was marveling at how Kali’s breath was evening and deepening, wondering if she would sleep, and the next I glanced at her face and saw bright eyes staring up at Dakheel, much clearer than they had been before.  He murmured something to her and lifted her head to raise a cup of cool water to her lips.  She drank thirstily, and when the cup was empty, I hurried to refill it.  A remarkable sense of peace had descended over the room, making the fear and confusion of the past hour seem like no more than a dark dream.

When the cup was emptied a second time, Dakheel gently lowered Kali’s head to the pillow.  Her face was relaxed.  As she drifted off to sleep, I saw her fingers tighten ever so slightly around Mother’s hand.

My mother and I were left in bafflement and in wonder.

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Kalima began to sweat not much later.  Dakheel stayed with her—waking her occasionally to drink more water—until her fever broke fully.  When she drifted at last into a deep and untroubled sleep, he sat back slowly and rubbed his eyes.  The night had grown late indeed.  Mother still sat by Kali’s side, with her daughter’s hand in hers—still as a statue and just as immovable.  The man stood, his joints creaking as he rose and then creaking some more as he stooped to pick up Father’s discarded dagger.  I hovered near the door, unsure of where to go or what to do.  Dakheel offered me a quick clasp on the shoulder as he stepped past.

In the corridor outside, Father sat slumped against the wall, the stool overturned and apparently forgotten.  He looked up with empty eyes as Dakheel approached and knelt at his side.  For long moments, the two men studied each other in silence.  Then, Dakheel reached out.  With one hand, he clasped my father’s shoulder.  With the other, he pressed the hilt of the dagger back into his hands.

“Her fever has broken,” Dakheel said.  Soft as his voice was, I could not help overhearing—the room was too small and they were too near.  “She will wake in the morning.  She will want to see you then.”

Father stared at the foreigner.  His voice was a whisper—almost a plea.  “She’s my only daughter.”

Dakheel squeezed his shoulder gently.  “She is strong.  I believe she will live.”

And, no more was said between them.

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Dakheel’s prophesies held true; Kalima’s fever did not return.  In the morning, she awoke and would cling to anyone who came near enough.  By the end of the week, she was back on her feet and only a little shaken by the experience.

The same could not be said of my parents.  Nearly losing their daughter to a simple animal attack had apparently awoken the long-dormant disciplinarians in them.  They resolved, at last, to do something to curb her impulsiveness.  So, as soon as Mother and Dakheel agreed that she was strong enough to walk, Father took her outside and made her practice with her sling until she could hit a target no larger than her hand from twenty paces away.  While she practiced, he delivered the first of many lectures on how not to deal with dangerous beasts.

As her strength returned, she took to ranting at me about these lessons.  “’Don’t approach a predator,’ ‘Don’t go into a cave,’ ‘Stay away from the sick goats,’ ‘Stay away from the kids,’ ‘Don’t forget your sling,’ ‘No, don’t provoke a predator.’  They won’t be happy unless I just sit there and knit all day!”

“Yes, they’re clearly overreacting,” I responded dryly, “After all, all you did was charge three wild dogs and practically get yourself killed.”

At that, she stormed off in a huff, searching for more sympathetic ears.  But, even Dakheel, who understood only a few words of Haradric, knew what she meant when she came to him with that whining note in her voice.  He simply gave her a cool look until she despaired of him, too.  In her wake, he caught my eye and smiled.

Outwardly, Dakheel’s position in our household did not seem to change.  As soon as Kalima was out of danger, he returned to his pallet in the barn and slept for nearly a day.  When he woke, he went back to work with Father as though nothing had happened.

Father, though, put the sword away in a storage room and never wore it again.  When he spoke to Dakheel, his voice held true respect, rather than just its imitation.  Ever after, Dakheel addressed my father by name, abandoning the honorific “malik.”

Kalima’s wounds closed, leaving dark scabs that eventually peeled away to reveal lighter scars.  For years thereafter, whenever the wind caught her dress or she scrambled up a tree, our eyes would alight on those scars—a reminder.

Author’s (copious medical) Notes:

Honey has antiseptic properties that make it a good wound dressing.  Rose geranium, a plant native to Africa, has antiseptic and anti-inflammatory properties.  Both, however, are better at preventing an infection than treating one.

Abscesses (“pockets of infection”) are often found under the skin after trauma, but can also occur within or between muscles or even within bones.  Today, deep abscesses are usually located by CT scan and drained with the patient under anesthesia.  Aragorn is relying on luck and his knowledge of anatomy to predict where one was most likely to form.  Don’t try this at home.

Aragorn’s trick with the salt resembles a real life technique called wet-to-dry bandaging wherein a dressing is soaked in saline and placed against an infected wound.  As the water evaporates, the salt draws moisture out of the wound, leaving an environment that’s less favorable for bacterial growth.

Actually, “don’t try this at home” is good advice for any medical content that appears in my stories.

Thanks for reading!  Reviews and concrit make the author very happy.