August Ansel - The Attic

“Better put the bucket here by me,” she told Handy. “Get ready to hold her.” He did as she said, setting the bowl next to Arie’s knee. He had spread the plantain leaves out across the edges of the old margarine container so that it was easy to see how large each one was. Positioning himself next to Renna’s head, he crossed her arms over her chest and held each wrist lightly.

“Ready,” he said.

This time, before tearing it free, Arie tested the edges of the dampened shred of trousers stuck to Renna’s thigh. The area was hot to the touch and stank. She poured more tea over the place and patted until the whole thing was saturated. Then she grasped the fabric in two places and yanked. Renna lifted her head from the floor and howled.

“Yes, I know,” Arie said. “That must hurt like hell. Hold her,” she told Handy. The dog had been able to set a deeper bite here, and the flesh was badly torn. The sticky yellow scab that had grown into the fabric of Renna’s pants had pulled mostly away, and the wound bled freely. Strands of the cotton pants clung in the edges of the mess. All around the bite, the skin was humped and swollen red. She tipped the pitcher; cool tea drizzled over everything. Tendrils of blood traced down the girl’s white thigh. Arie looked at Handy.

“Do you have a good hold?”

He braced his feet and snugged his grip on Renna’s wrists. She cried steadily now, sounding like a child who has lost all hope of comfort. “I have her,” Handy said.

Arie didn’t hesitate. She laid her fingers flat on either side of the wound and pressed down. Renna’s chin tipped at the roof, and she loosed another guttural cry that petered out into soft sobs. She couldn’t move under Handy’s grasp, though, and seemed not to even try to break loose. White-yellow pus oozed from the ragged edges; Arie rinsed it away with tea—once, twice, three times, until only clear fluid and traces of blood filled the gashes. She did her best to pull free the random strands of fabric that stuck fast, like coarse hairs. Finally she was able to cover the spot with plantain. She layered three large leaves there, patting, thinning, spreading them so no part of the wound was left uncovered.

“Here,” Arie said. She handed over a plastic water bottle. Renna panted now in gasping little whimpers. “Give her a drink. That tincture’s helping, but she’s got dry-mouth.” She drank greedily, coughed a little, drank more.

“That’s enough,” Handy murmured. “Hold on to me. Almost done.”

Renna belched loudly. “Sorry,” she croaked. “That was rude.”

Arie laughed. “Aren’t you polite,” she said. “Not to worry, girl. More room out than in.” She was already wetting the last and largest wound, this one straddling Renna’s lower right hip and buttock. She set her jaw against what she would see underneath. “Almost done,” she said. “Ready?” She held Handy’s eye; this was actually a question for him, because there was no earthly way Renna could be ready for what came next. He nodded once and set his grip again on her.

It was awful. Getting the last gash uncovered seemed to take forever, so embedded was the cloth and dirt in the places where the dog’s teeth had sunk deepest. This time the pain broke all the way through the effects of the weed tincture. Renna screamed herself hoarse and tried desperately to writhe away from Handy and Arie, threatening, promising, begging. Arie finally straddled her knees, doing her best not to dislodge the already-poulticed places. Handy knelt right at Renna’s crown, cradling her head snugly between his thighs while maintaining his hold on her arms and hands. It was no good trying to verbally calm her—she couldn’t have heard them over her own howls, even if they’d been speaking directly into her ear.

The gash in Renna’s hip told its own story. There the dog had struck more than once and torn a plug of flesh right out. Under the muck of half-scab and filthy fabric, the skin and fat layers were flayed down to muscle in grisly striations. It was a miracle she had been even marginally ambulatory. The smell was awful. Arie tried not to hurry this, even though the cries bouncing wall-to-wall in the attic room were shockingly harsh after so many months of solitude. Sweat trickled between her breasts and down her lower back. By rights this wound should have been stitched up. Arie had the means, but closing the wound now would trap the incipient infection. So she prodded and pressed and rinsed, while Renna yelled and pleaded for her to stop.

Then Arie realized she was hearing another sound, this one even louder than Renna, coming from downstairs. Harsh, hysterical barking.

“Damn.” She elbowed sweat off her forehead and tossed a look at Handy. “We have to shut that thing up.”

“You almost done? I can go down.” The barking was deep and chesty, breaking on a high note. Bull terrier in its voice—favorite pet of the time just prior to the Pink, and well suited to the new world.

“Give her some of that,” Arie said, gesturing at the bottle of moonshine. “Not too much. A sip, or she’ll puke it.” Handy shifted his grip to hold Renna’s wrists with one hand, and he uncorked the bottle. “Pour a little in here,” Arie said, holding out the plantain container. “Hold on now.” She tore one of the smaller leaves and chewed it vigorously, pulled a chunk from her mouth and rolled it into a plug. This she dipped into the moonshine and then pushed the dripping mass into one of the deep punctures that ringed the edges of the wound like a ghastly bracelet.

“God,” Renna screamed. “Fuck you. God will fuck you!” Down in the rooms of ruin, the dog redoubled its frantic barking. It seemed to be carrying on directly under the heating grate.

Arie spit another hunk of chewed plantain into her palm. “It’ll be worse than a fucking,” she shouted above Renna’s howls, and the dog’s. “God will ignore us entirely. Elvis has left the building, is what my grandmother liked to say.” She packed four more punctures with the plant material, working as quickly as she could, then rinsed with tea and spread the last of the bruised leaves onto the red and wretched mess.

“All right,” she said to Handy. “Get rid of it.” He released Renna. She put her hands over her face, weeping, but had quit bucking about. “I have her,” Arie said. “Hurry, before more show up.”

She thought he would go down the inside way, but instead he crossed soundlessly to the sky panel, up the ladder and out. “Easy now,” she told Renna. “Hard part is over but for healing.” Below, the dog had paused in its barking and was pacing beneath the grate, whining and growling. Arie stood, stiff from crouching over Renna for so long. She purposely stamped first one foot then the other on the attic floor. The dog immediately threw itself at the wall under her, snarling and digging at the rotting drywall.

“It’s here,” Renna wailed. She lifted her head and stared around the attic with huge and frantic eyes, as if the dog were about to leap out of the shadows under the eaves. Arie didn’t try to quiet her now. Instead, she started singing at the top of her lungs. “Bye low baby, bye low baby, bye. Papa still loves you, still loves you. Bye low, baby bye.” The dog whirled in a fury below them, and Renna moaned.

There was a sudden shift in sound, a surprised snarl that ended in an abrupt yelp of pain. Then quiet.

“What is it?” Renna whispered. “Did it go?”

“Shh,” Arie said. “William has sent it away.”

“William?” Renna rubbed at her eyes.

“Yes. Are you thirsty again?” She lifted Renna’s head and helped her drink. “That’s the herb at work. Here—a little more.” Down in the house, something large slid across the floor, then thudding sounds came from near the front door.