O Jerusalem - Laurie R. King [82]
I was brought a tall glass of cold, sour lemonade, and it went down my dry and dusty throat like a taste of paradise, a sensation utterly disconnected from all others as I stood in that small bare room watching Channah Goldsmit clean and salve and plaster the raw, beaten, and burnt skin of the half-conscious man who was the centre of my life. The needs of action had been met, leaving me lost, bereft even. I felt, frankly, young and helpless and in confusion, and I did not like it one bit.
Even before this latest episode, I had been aware that I did not really understand my feelings about Holmes. I was nineteen years old and for the last four years this unconscious figure on the bed had been the pillar of sanity and security in my daily life. However, he was also my teacher, he was more than twice my age, and furthermore he had never given me the least indication that his affection for me was anything other than that of a master for a particularly promising student. Five weeks earlier I had been a maturing apprentice who was moving away into another field, but the events of the last month, both at home and here in Palestine, had shaken that comfortable relationship to its core. I had been given little leisure time in which to contemplate the consequences of my change in status from apprentice to full partner, from pupil to… what?
Channah Goldsmit finished an eternity later, tidied up the snippets of gauze and such, and turned to me, to give instructions I suppose. I do not know just what she saw in my face, but it caused her to drop the basin of supplies and push me into the chair beside Holmes’ bed. More gently, she removed the glass from my hands and herself from the room, but in a minute she was back, with a heavy woollen rug she tucked around my shoulders and a glass of the local brandy that she pushed into my hands.
I had not even realised that I was shivering.
I was aware of noise, she was speaking but I did not answer, and she went away. A short while later I was dimly aware that she had returned, standing in the doorway, with Mahmoud’s head towering above hers, and again there was the sound of speech, but eventually they went away and left me alone with Holmes.
The sound of his breathing filled the room. I could tell when he drifted into an unconscious state, when his breathing slowed and deepened. For ten minutes or so all would be well, and then with a guttural sound in the back of his throat his breath would catch, as wakefulness and sensation approached. For a few minutes he would draw only short, shallow breaths, until with a sigh he was again teased away into the depths.
I could not stop shivering. The only warm part of me was my right hand, which covered Holmes’ where it lay on the thin mattress. The left side of his face was against the mattress, and I watched his right nostril move, his right eye twitch from time to time, the right side of his mouth pull and relax beneath the beard and the bruises. I watched him as if willing the very life back into him.
The afternoon wore on and the evening sun slanted through the window before I heard his breathing change again. He did not move, but he was awake, fully awake. I drew my hand away, and waited.
His eyes flared open. He blinked at the sight of my knees, looked sideways without moving his head, and saw my face. His eyes closed, and his throat worked two or three times.
“Russell.” His voice was hoarse and low.
“Holmes,”
“Haven’t we done this once already?”
“What, me sitting in a chair while you lie in bed with bandages on your back? I’m afraid so.”
“It grows tedious.”
A bubble of joy began to expand in my chest, and I felt a stupid grin come onto my face. To hide it from him, I poured a glass of water and attempted to dribble some of it into his mouth, without much success. He closed his eyes for a few minutes, then asked, “What damage is there?”
“Superficial injuries