Michael Sullivan - The Rose and the Thorn

She ruffled the mop on his head, but when he cringed, she stopped. “I suppose everything is sensitive. That’s the way with burns, but sensitive is better than not. All that pain you feel is good. Means your flesh is still alive. If you didn’t feel nothing, why, you might never feel anything again. So I know you don’t think it now, but later you’ll be happy for the suffering.”

“Water?” he croaked, his voice broken, cracked, and thin.

She raised her eyebrows. “Water, eh? Think you’re up for that? Maybe you should just stick with a weak wine.”

“Water, please.”

She shrugged and stepped aside to a basin to pour him a little cup. Reuben felt he could drink a lake’s worth, but after two mouthfuls he began to vomit over the side of the bed.

“Now what’d I tell you?”

He was shaking. Maybe he always had been and just noticed it then. He had never felt so horrible. He wanted to scream but was scared to, afraid it would hurt. Death would have been better. The pain was overwhelming and a panic set in as if he were drowning, submerged in suffering. Needing to endure even an hour like this was a nightmare, but the horror he knew was that the anguish would last. Reuben recalled the time he burned himself on the kettle and how long it took to heal.

What had become of him? They had a sheet draped lightly over his body. He guessed he was naked. Perhaps his clothes burned away. What was left of his flesh? He feared to look, terrified what he might see. His hands and arms were red and lacked hair, but otherwise they looked fine-just a bad sunburn, a few blisters. He gritted his teeth. It did not seem fair that even crying hurt.

Then a thought outside of himself knocked on his shuttered mind. “The princess…” he said, the words coming out as a coarse whisper. “Is she okay?”

The nurse gave him a quizzical look and then a smile broadened her face. “The princess is fine, I’m told.”

He lay back down. Maybe it was his imagination, but the pain seemed to lessen somehow.

He was in a small room. The rustic wood and stone revealed he was not in the castle or any of the outbuildings. This was some place new. A small cottage perhaps, or a shop. Through the window came the sounds of traffic. He must be in the city.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there, but the rumor is that you ran into a burning castle yesterday.”

“I carried the princess out and then went back for the queen. I couldn’t reach her.”

“Was that all?”

He nodded almost imperceptibly. No added pain. He was surprised.

“Most people say you had a death wish, that you wanted to die because-” She turned back to the basin and took a towel from a rack.

“Because, why?”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “I don’t think it’s true. I can’t imagine it is, especially with you asking about the princess like that. Do you know what I think?” The nurse soaked the towel in a basin and then wrung it out and turned back to him. “I’m Dorothy, by the way. I’m a midwife. They brought you to me instead of a real doctor because I know burns. All those doctors do is leeching, and you don’t need that.” She paused, pursing her lips in thought, working something out. “Yes … I think you are a very brave man, Reuben Hilfred.” She folded the damp towel. “I think everyone is wrong. What you just said makes so much more sense, at least to me. I think … well, it is just noble of you that lying here as you are and you ask about the princess.”

“I’m not noble.”

“Maybe not in name, but certainly in your heart, and if you ask me, that’s where it matters most.”

“If you ask everyone else, they would tell you the opposite. People kill for titles.”

“Maybe, but how many would die for them? How many would throw themselves into a fire? I don’t think it takes much bravery to be greedy.” She laid the towel on his forehead. It stung for a moment, then felt cool, soothing. “You’ll be all right. I know you have your doubts, but I have seen this before. I know it hurts, but you were lucky.”

“What is everyone saying about me?”

She hesitated.

“Tell me-things certainly can’t get worse than they are.”

“I’m not so certain about that, Reuben. Everyone says you and your father set the fire.”

Reuben hadn’t realized he had fallen back asleep until he was awakened by a loud rapping on Dorothy’s door. He was instantly greeted by the pain again. The solid overwhelming wall of agony jolted him awake and made him hate whoever was banging on the door.

“I’m sorry,” Dorothy said as she made her way past his bed. “I’m not expecting anyone. Maybe they found some other poor soul who isn’t fit for a doctor.”

She slipped beyond his vision, around the brick of the chimney that came down through the center of the roof. The rough brick column vented a cooking hearth that was open on two sides and adorned with pots and blackened utensils. Pans, buckets, cups, and bowls dangled from low support beams, and above the archway dividing the rooms-where another person might display a sword or a coat of arms-Dorothy hung a well-worn broom. The home consisted of only three rooms: the kitchen, a small space behind a wooden door where he imagined she slept, and the room he lay in. Reuben noticed shelves of clay pots marked with more flower names along with other disturbing ones like rats feet , and rabbits ears .

Reuben heard the opening of the door. “Your Grace?” Dorothy sounded startled.

“Is he awake?”

“He was sleeping. The lad is sorely hurt. He needs to-”

“But has he regained consciousness since he was delivered?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Boots scuffled on the wood floor and then the door closed. The old man, the bishop who had been at the fire, appeared through the archway, his burgundy and black robes looking as brilliant against the dull walls as a mallard duck on a gray pond.

Why is the bishop visiting me? Does he think he needs to perform last rites? No, it would be a priest, not the bishop.

“How are you feeling, son?”

“Fine,” Reuben said cautiously. The pain was distracting, making it hard to think. The less he said the better.

The bishop looked puzzled. “Fine? You nearly burned to death, my boy. Are you in pain?”

“Yes.”

The bishop waited, expecting more, then frowned. “We need to talk … Reuben, is it?”

“Yes.”

“What do you remember from the night of the fire?”

“I saved the princess.”

“Did you? What about before that? Braga said he found you and your father together. Is this true?”

“Yes, I was trying to stop him.”

The bishop pursed his lips and tilted his head back to look down the length of his long nose at him. “So you say. But you could just as easily have been helping your father.”

“No, I fought him.”

“Again, so you say.” The old man didn’t look at him but stared up at the ceiling. Reuben followed his sight just the same. The bishop had that effect; if he was looking at something, Reuben felt he should too. Perhaps his next question might be about the dried plants.

The bishop dragged the spinning wheel stool over and placed it next to the bed, then sat down.

“Is there something wrong?” Dorothy asked, peeking around the chimney. Reuben guessed they were speaking too softly for her to hear from the kitchen, or she could hear and just didn’t like what was said. The tone of her voice made him think it was the latter, and it was then he realized he liked Dorothy.

“Please leave us,” the old bishop snapped.

Reuben, however, did not like the bishop. He had not cared for how he tried to stop him from saving the princess, and he was not winning any awards by being short with Dorothy. Still, Reuben was too miserable to generate an emotion resembling anything close to hate or anger, and the old bishop didn’t look much better. His eyes were bagged with deep shadows, his face drawn and haunted as if he hadn’t slept in a week.