Eifelheim - Michael Flynn [190]
And Gottfried answered, “Could he not have called her more softly?”
KLAUS AND Odo brought Hilde to the hospital on an ambulance that they carried between them. When they had lain her on a pallet in the smithy, near the fire that Dietrich had built in the furnace, Klaus bid Odo return to the house, and the old man nodded distractedly, and said, “Tell Hilde to hurry back and cook my dinner.”
Klaus watched him go. “He sits on the stool before the fireplace, and stares into dry ashes. When I enter the room, he turns his eyes toward me for only a moment before he is drawn back to the fascination of cinders. I think he is already dead—in here.” He beat his breast. “All else is mere ceremony.” He knelt to stroke Hilde’s hair. “The beasts are dying, too,” he said. “Along the roadside I saw dead rats, several cats, and Herwyg’s old hound. One-eye will miss that dog.”
Dear God, Dietrich prayed, will you scour the earth of all living things? “What is this?” he asked, fingering the sleeve of Klaus’s jerkin. “It looks like blood. Has she vomited blood?”
Klaus dropped his eyes to the stains and stared at them as if he had never seen them before. “No,” he said. He touched one of the spots with his fingertip, but it came away with no color, so the blood there was already dried. “No. I … I followed …”
But whatever the miller had been about to say was lost to his hesitation, for Hilde rose from her sickbed and stood suddenly upright. At first, Dietrich thought it a miracle; but the woman began to turn and spin and sing la-la-la, flailing her arms. Klaus clutched at her, but her arm struck him a mighty blow to the cheek that nearly felled him.
Dietrich went to the pallet’s other side and tried to grab one arm while Klaus grabbed the other. He took hold of her wrist and used his own weight to bear her down. Klaus did the same. Hilde continued to twist side to side, singing wordlessly. Then, abruptly, she ceased and lay still. Klaus’s head snapped up. “Has she …?”
“No. No, she breathes.”
“What does it mean? The dancing.”
Dietrich shook his head. “I know not …” Her pustules were grown large, but there were yet no streaks of poison on her arms. “May I see her legs?” Wordlessly, Klaus lifted Hilde’s skirt, and Dietrich studied her groin and thighs and was relieved to see no streaks there, either. “Gottfried,” he called, “bring the old wine.”
Klaus dipped his head. “Ja, ja, I need also a drink. Will she rest now?”
“It’s not to drink. I must wash my lance.”
Klaus laughed suddenly, then reverted to morose silence.
Gottfried brought a pot of vinegar and Dietrich washed the blade in it. Then he held it in the smithy fire until the handle became hot. He would not chance the soporific sponge this time. Those he must save for ones like Everard, where the chance of life and the risk of death were more closely balanced.
“Hold the bowl,” Dietrich said to Gottfried, handing him a clay basin. “When I lance the pustule,” he added to Klaus, “the pus must drain into the bowl. Ulf said that we must not let our flesh contact it, but the Krenkl do not believe it affects them.”
“There is but one way to discover that,” said Gottfried.
“He is a wise demon, then.” Klaus studied the Krenkl. “She took care of them; now they take care of her. I understand the one act no better than the other.” He stared at the knife.
“Fear not,” Dietrich said. “De Chauliac told Manfred that this course was often effective, if not delayed too long.”
“Cut then! I could not bear it should she—”
Dietrich had honed the lance to razor-keenness. He brought it through the pustule with a clean stroke. Hilde gasped and arched her back, though she did not scream as Everard had. Dietrich had firm hold of her arm and the putrescence spilled into Gottfried’s bowl. He looked to see if it contained blood and was relieved to see that it did not.
Though less vile than Everard’s eruptions, the pus stank badly enough. Klaus gulped and retained his stomach by sheer will, though he did recoil.
Soon, the grim effort was over. Dietrich poured