August Ansel - The Attic

“First thing is to make sure he’s not ready to die anyway,” said Arie. She got down near him and looked over the gash on his head. His hair was clumped with gouts of drying blood. She used a rag to push it away from the cut, wanting to avoid getting too much of his blood on her. The rock had done damage—the scalp had a cut at least three inches long and the flesh all around it was swelling, a dark red-and-purple mess. The laceration still actively bled but was clearly beginning to clot over. “He’ll live,” she said. “Though he’ll have a hell of a headache when he wakes.”

“Good,” said Renna. “I hope his brain is scrambled.”

At the work table and shelves, Arie gathered several items into her pockets. “That’s an evil thing to wish on another with the world as it is,” she said mildly. The light of early afternoon was pale and soft. She hated to shut them inside already, but it had to be done. Handy’s movements were barely audible above them.

Renna made a small sound of derision. “Worse than what he had planned a minute ago? And I doubt he was going to make it quick.”

“Hard to say unless he tells us so,” said Arie. “I don’t believe I saw murder on his face. If he meant to kill us, we’d likely be dead.” She gave a little half-shrug. “A mercy, maybe.”

“You’re pretty anxious to die, aren’t you.”

“My life is a gift,” Arie said, “but it’s a finite one, and I’ve already had more of it than most.” She settled herself next to the intruder, spread a clean cloth, and laid the items from her pocket in a neat row: small scissors, thread, needle, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“We’d probably both be dead already if he was.”

Arie used the scissors and cut sticky wads of hair away from the gash in his scalp, laying the bloody bundles in a neat pile in his lap. With a wet cloth, she wiped around the long cut to get a good look what she was doing. The man’s steady breathing faltered a couple of times as she worked. “He’ll be awake before I’m done with him,” Arie said.

“Why are you helping him?” Renna said. “Let him sit there and bleed. That’s what he did to you. His life is his own, right?”

Arie was dampening a fresh cloth with alcohol. She paused when Renna said this. “Well,” she said. “Look who’s paying attention.” She examined Renna’s angry face. “You’re right. His life is his own.” She cocked her head and looked speculatively at the intruder. His breathing was steady again. The gash was white and naked where she had snipped the hair away and wiped the skin clean. A fine tendril of blood spilled over the lip of the cut and trickled toward his beard. “But he’s here, Renna. He’s in here with me, just like you are.” She smiled wanly. “You’re here. Handy’s here. Now him. I don’t like it, but here you all are.” She put a little more alcohol on the cloth and steadied herself next to the man. “You’ve all run riot into my life, and something’s being required of me. Don’t expect me to explain what I don’t yet understand. Now let me see to this trouble.”

She knew she needed to do this part quickly. She braced his head with one hand and laid the alcohol-dampened cloth directly over the wound, holding it there under the flat of her hand. Just as she expected, this revived the intruder. He uttered a groan that trailed up into a thin, breathy squeal. He tried to move his head away from her, but she held him firmly between her two hands. Handy had wrapped a few turns of the rope around his chest, and there was little room for him to maneuver. He struggled to open his eyes, still making noise through gritted teeth.

“Hurts like hell, I reckon,” Arie said.

He squinted hard, one eye marking her, one squeezed shut. He tried again to pull away, but it was obvious that the effort caused him even more pain. “You’re not getting out from under me, so you may just as well save yourself some hurt and hold still.” She could feel it in the palms of her hands, how the muscles in his jaw and neck relaxed. He closed his eyes again, but his breathing was still quick and disturbed. “Better,” she said. “You can’t see it, but you’re laid open good on your melon. I’m going to stitch it.” He chuffed once, like a dog will do when it’s thinking of barking, but he remained still. Arie was threading her needle when Handy came inside.

“He awake?” He made his way slowly down the ladder, one hand clutching the bulging tow sack.

“More or less,” said Arie, “but he’s trying to behave. What did you bring?”

He opened the bag and held up his catch. “No way,” Renna said, and laughed. Arie glanced around at him. In the uncertain light she could just make out a pile of dark feathers.

“Caught a bird, did you?”

“Bird, my foot,” said Handy.

“Looks like bird from here, unless fish have gotten feathers,” she said, turning attention back to her needle. She’d chosen a small one and thought for a moment she might have to ask Handy to help her. But she managed to get the thread—a brilliant shade of turquoise, as it happened—into the tiny eye.

“You’re teasing us,” said Renna. “That’s a chicken.”

“That’s two chickens,” said Handy. “I couldn’t believe it. I was stoked when I found one in the first trap, but when I went to the next trap and found a second, I thought I might be having a dream. What are the odds?”

“Slim to none,” said Arie. She dipped the length of thread into the bottle of alcohol and gave it a second to wet through. “I’ve heard cockcrow now and then, but haven’t ever seen one when I’m out. You think they’re fit to eat?”

“Damn right they’re edible,” said Handy. “Sister, these girls were still breathing when I found them. They hadn’t even been caught long enough to stop thrashing.”

“Oh my gosh, we’re going to have a chicken dinner,” Renna said. “Doesn’t that make your mouth water just to think about it?”

“I guess you’d better get to pulling feathers,” said Arie. “Hand those to her,” she told Handy, “and after you bolt the sky panel I need some help with this job.” She pulled the dripping thread out of the alcohol and capped the bottle securely.

Handy picked up both chickens by their feet and brought them to Renna. “Ever done this?”

“Kind of,” she said. “If you count a blue jay and two pigeons.”

“Close enough,” said Handy. “Some of the feathers will get hard to pull because the muscles are tightening up. I didn’t get much of a chance to bleed them. Try not to tear the meat. I’ll yank out whatever you can’t manage.” He spread the rough tow sack and laid the birds atop it. Renna scooted off the car seat. She pulled the birds between her knees and went to work.

Arie turned her attention back to the intruder. “I’m going to sew up your head,” she said. She spoke quietly. “I’m not trying to hurt you on purpose, and it will go better for both of us if you don’t fight me.”

The man turned his head, a small slow movement, and he opened both eyes. “Do it,” he said. His speech was thickly slurred but understandable.

“Shall I have my brother hold your head?”

Handy was standing next to Arie, holding one of the kerosene lamps. The man looked up at him, moving only his eyes. “No thanks,” he said, voice a husky whisper.

Arie patted him on the shoulder. “Hang on, then, and let’s be done here.” She motioned for Handy to bring the light close, and she got up on her knees, leaning against the man’s shoulder for balance. When she took the first stitch, he flinched and squeezed his eyes closed again but did not try to pull away from her.

Arie worked methodically, pulling the edges of skin together with her left hand and making as careful a job with the needle as she could. “I don’t know if you’ll win any beauty contests when I’m done here,” she said. “My main practice has been keeping the pockets in my clothes and adding patches to the elbows of my shirts.” Near the end of the gash the skin got ragged. “I’m going to have to trim a little flap you have hanging,” she said, still using the same low, soothing voice. She let the needle dangle a moment so she could wipe the blades of her scissors, and she snipped the problem piece away. The man winced harder and made a surprised sound. There was a fresh trickle of blood; Arie pressed the rag to it. “Almost done,” she said.