August Ansel - The Attic

He pulled himself up and slid the hatch cover back in place. “Checking,” he said. “A look at the doors, to see if anyone was creeping around.”

“Only you,” she said. “You’re the creeper.” She felt around for the short spear and tucked it back into her belt. She made her way to the work table and lit a tiny stub of candle that was stuck by its own wax onto a plastic plate. She positioned it among shelves and dishes and tools so that it threw only the smallest glimmer of light.

He touched her shoulder. “Sister,” he said.

“Don’t.” Arie took a sideways step so that his hand fell away. The weight and warmth of his fingers was a shock. The kindness in it seemed a threat. She felt invaded from all quarters.

“You were sound asleep. I figured if you woke you’d have to know it was me down there.”

“I’ve only had grubbers and defilers and animals down there for years. And her,” she said, gesturing at Renna, who had slept through everything.

“And now me.” His face was half in shadow, half lit by the candle.

“Why would you be my first thought?” She went to the washstand and splashed her face. “Do you understand, William, that I have a way of being here? It’s my calling.” She stepped into the puddle of candlelight and held out her forearms. The raised scar tissue was deep purple. “You know this?”

“Deaders,” he said. “The voluntary extinction.”

“You wanted to say ‘the heresy.’ Didn’t you?” She could see it on him.

He hesitated. “It’s called that.”

“By some.” She laughed and pushed her silver hair back from her face, retied her apron. She’d been wearing the same clothes all day and longed to change into her night things. “There was an extinction anyway, wasn’t there. And nothing voluntary about it.” She peered at him in the dim light. “Was that one a heresy? I imagine not.” She made a dry little spitting sound. “That one was chalked up to deific punishment, I’ll wager. Though I haven’t heard it called that firsthand.” She swept an arm to indicate the space around them. “I don’t have much chance to hear what’s wagging on tongues these days, eh? What tongues there might be left to wag.”

“Nor do any of us, I guess.”

“I guess.” She sighed. “Let’s us tend this one and have it behind us awhile.” She picked up the plate and little candle stub and knelt beside her. “Renna,” she said. “Are you with us?” She touched her forehead, her neck. “Can you speak?”

Renna rasped something unintelligible and swatted feebly at Arie’s hand.

“There you are,” Arie said. “Talk to us a little.”

“Shouldn’t we let her sleep?” Handy asked.

“She could sleep herself right to death. She’s burning up again,” Arie said. “We need to cool her. Get water and rags.” She pulled back the sheet so that Renna was bare. The poulticed wounds were now sticky, almost gooey to the touch.

Handy brought the water. He kept his face turned partly away.

“Come on,” Arie said. She handed him a wet rag. When he hesitated, she took hold of his wrist. “William,” she said quietly, “she’s your project. I’m not doing all the work for you. Start with her face and neck.” He knelt and wiped tentatively at Renna’s forehead.

“That’s it. Sponge her down, or she’ll cook for sure.” Tiny rivulets of water dripped down the girl’s face. “Keep the cloth wet,” Arie said. “Really soak her. Good. Now work your way down—chest, armpits, inside the elbows and knees.” She stood.

Handy hesitated, the wet rag dripping onto Renna’s neck. “Where are you going?” he said. His face was hard to make out in the low light, but Arie thought he looked next door to terrified. She patted his cheek. A spark of pity lit inside her. “Brother, there is nothing to fash you here. You want to help her. So help her. I’m getting more plantain.”

“Yes,” he whispered. He chewed a corner of his lower lip as though tackling a monumental task, and wetted the cloth again. He lifted one of Renna’s arms to swab into her armpit. Her poor body was so emaciated and torn, Arie was astounded that he could feel anything but pity to see it. An ancient snatch of song flitted through her head: He’s just a poor boy from a poor family. Daddy Mack’s progeny. Son of a quiver-filler and a glassy-eyed breeder. She grabbed a double handful of the plantain from the bag Handy had filled earlier and squeezed, lightly breaking the tough fibers. The bland green smell rose up to her, clean and redolent of the summer just past.

Handy stroked the wet rag down Renna’s front and flanks. Water trickled sideways, making a dark spot on the bedding beneath. She reached up as if to wipe her face, but her hand fell back. “I’m cold,” she said thickly. “Get me a sweater, Kara.”

“Good,” Arie said. “We’ll cover you in a minute, Renna. Squeeze a little over the poultices,” she told Handy. “Easy, just get them damp.” She fetched a kerosene lamp and brought it close enough to show what she was doing. She wetted her fingers and wiped at the edge of one wound. The old poultice was sticky and thickened with draining fluids. She rolled it away, taking care not to touch the wound if she could help it.

The three smaller bitten places looked much better, the swelling having gone down considerably and the puncture wounds already knitting together at the edges. Plantain was good that way, for the mending process. Renna growled a little in her throat, sounding more peeved than pained. Handy ran the damp cloth over her face again. Her skin looked almost translucent, blue veins clearly visible under her pallor. She put out her tongue and pulled a corner of the wet rag into her mouth, sucked on it.

“Give her a little to drink,” Arie said. “Not too much at once.” She laid fresh leaves over the clean wounds while Handy steadied Renna with one hand behind her head and helped her drink. He seemed to have forgotten his own discomfort again, and when he laid her head back, he brushed his thumbs across her brow. “Close your eyes,” he said. “Almost done.” He looked at Arie to confirm it; she nodded.

“This last one now,” Arie said. She touched the edges of the large poultice spread over the mess on Renna’s hip.

“I have her.” He took her wrists, as he had that morning. “Go ahead.”

Once the poultice was cleared away, the large wound was still ghastly, almost harder to look at than it had been. Clean now, no longer oozing blood and pus, the outraged flesh beneath looked like a fresh butchery, meat ready for the cook fire. Long tags of skin, pale as a dead fish, lay useless across the flayed and garish muscle beneath. The central wound looked much deeper now. Arie once more packed the plantain into the hole and covered it all with several damp leaves. There was no more smell of infection, but there was heat and swelling all around the bad spot.

“I don’t know if it’s these bites making her fever up,” Arie said. “It could be something else.” She went to the shelves and felt around in the dark until she found what she wanted: a plastic bottle of aspirin, a little everyday miracle they’d taken so for granted before the world ended. Even past their potency date, they were precious. She crushed two and swirled them in a cup of water. “Renna,” she said, “drink a little more.” She grimaced at the bitter taste, but swallowed it all.

“She needed those sooner, it looks like,” said Handy.

Arie shook her head. “I was worried she might bleed. Help me turn this.”

Together they flipped the sheet and covered Renna again. It clung to her wet skin. Arie gave her another small dose of Indica tincture while Handy cleaned things up. “Let’s put out the lamp,” Arie told him. “Candle, too.”