Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

Tom Farr’s leg was crushed from the knee down, almost cut in half by the weight of the forge that had struck with quick annihilation and continued to pulverize the bones as he awaited rescue. When the men lifted the forge off his leg, he clamped his mouth shut. He was a massive man with bull-thick shoulders and neck, his broad face as red as the torchlight overhead. He’d had the foresight to wrap a harness rein above his knee and pull it tight to stop the blood flow, which probably saved his life. His foot flopped unnaturally free on the crushed leg. It was obvious the tendons were severed.

Graver tried to thread his way back to where Dulcinea was tying her horse, but the group around the injured man was too tightly packed. She doesn’t need to see this, he repeated in his head, this isn’t necessary. But the crowd briefly opened its ranks for her with Rose following and then closed as if a trap had been sprung.

She staggered for a moment, her hand at her throat, at the sight of the thicket of bone shards bristling out of the torn flesh and dark thickening blood. Rose took her arm to steady her. Silent courtesy descended on the group, and Farr unclenched his jaw and spoke for the first time. “Ma’am? I won’t be any trouble, I’ll be taking a little nap now so you don’t have to worry yourself none.” His eyelids fluttered briefly and he fainted, mouth going slack, head rolling to the side.

“Nothing for it,” Haven Smith declared and began pushing out. “Thought I could bring him to heavenly ground, but sinners go the path they come through this life. Rare’s the day they give up their soiled ways.”

“He’s not fecking dead, Preacher,” Irish Jim said loud enough to raise a laugh from the other men.

Haven Smith stopped and shoved his way back to where Irish Jim and Graver stood. “I’m speaking of his spirit, you fool!”

Irish Jim’s face took on a serious expression, though his blue eyes were too bright. “You’re dead on, Father, and what say we have a toast to the dearly departed?” He pulled a battered tin flask from inside his shirt and, unscrewing the cap, started to drink, thought better of it, and offered it to the preacher for first honors.

Smith shoved the flask out of his face and glared at the crowd until the men separated and let him through.

“Never knew a man of the cloth to turn down a drop,” Irish Jim said and toasted the body again before taking a long drink, only to be interrupted by Dulcinea, who reached over and plucked the flask from his hand.

“We need this.” She gathered her riding skirt out of the way, knelt on the ground beside the injured man, and carefully doused the wounded leg with the whiskey. “Get me a knife,” she said and the man next to Graver pulled a bowie knife from a sheaf on his belt and handed it to her.

Graver stopped himself from stepping forward to take over when she lifted the remains of the pant leg to cut it away clear to the upper thigh. When the cloth was gone, she rocked back on her heels and looked up at their faces.

“Are you certain the doctor isn’t free now?”

A voice from the back of the group called out, “Just checked, ma’am, Omar’s wife’s in bad shape and Omar still hasn’t come round.”

“He’s the lucky one,” a voice commented.

Dulcinea sighed and looked at Tom Farr’s sweaty face gone pale now that he wasn’t fighting the pain. She used the sleeve of her blouse to blot his forehead and cheeks, took a deep breath, and released it slowly. “Here’s what I need, then.”

With Graver kneeling and holding the saw and a man sitting on his other leg and one on each side of the massive arms and Rose at his head holding it steady in case he awoke, Dulcinea directed the removal of the ruined lower leg. At the first bite of the blade below the knee, Graver felt a wave of weakness and wondered if he’d be able to do this. Despite her calm voice, Dulcinea’s hand trembled when she placed it on his arm for encouragement.

“I’m not strong enough to get through the bone quickly,” she said and lifted her hand. Graver pushed the saw forward and back, blocking the sound as it tore through skin, ligament, and bone. The men around him released a collective sigh of horror and fascination. He felt her breath on his ear, on his hair, on his neck and wanted to gather her away from the grisly scene.

“My mother’s father was a surgeon,” she said in a low voice. “I’ve seen this many times. Thought I would follow in his footsteps, you see, until I met J.B. Now take the knife and finish cutting the tendons cleanly.”

Graver tried to imagine haunches of beef and venison, anything but a human leg. Beside him he could hear her breathing in time with his effort and almost felt her hand on the knife as he worked the blade through the ropy tendon.

“Yes, that’s right, thank God that knife is sharp. Ah, there, now we’re done with that part. Now press this cloth over the stump while Rose and I prepare to suture. I only hope this heavy cotton thread is strong enough. Haven Smith isn’t very forthcoming to save a sinner, it seems.” She held up a spool of thick waxed black thread that looked like it could hold a saddle together. Graver kept his mouth shut. It was a damn sight better than he could come up with. She knelt beside him and lifted the rag over the stump, noting how the bleeding was now a slow leak. He wondered if she’d cauterize the wound, but she decided against it when Rose leaned forward and whispered to her. He rocked back on his heels, and then stood to give his aching knees a stretch.

Graver watched the two women, working opposite each other, take neat stitches, tucking the skin in around the stump and closing off the tendons and ligaments. He noticed how strong and efficient their fingers were despite the blood that slickened the needles and thread. Dulcinea swiped at a fly buzzing lazily around her face and left a smear on her cheek. There was no nonsense about her now, no hauteur, and Rose had lost her shyness. They were in charge, the men around them silent as they watched. How was the blacksmith to work now? What would become of him and his business? Graver looked into the shadows, thought he saw the two round frightened eyes of a dog cowering inside the first straight stall.

When it was done, Dulcinea stood and stretched her cramped legs, then rested a hand on Rose’s shoulder, and they stared at the still unconscious man. A tortoiseshell cat rubbed against Dulcinea’s ankle, edging closer still until its head shot out and it began lapping the puddle of congealed blood as if it were milk.

Rose picked up the cat and handed it over her shoulder to one of the men, ignoring the animal’s loud protests. She gathered the ruined limb in one of the rags that had been produced for the operation, wrapped it, and looked up at the men, who had given way somewhat, finally repulsed, made fearful by the spectacle.

“Sometimes a person wants to see the severed limb, make certain of its injury. Can someone pack this in ice for when Mr. Farr awakens?” Dulcinea said.

Haven Smith reappeared, pushing his way forward again. “I’ll take it.”

Dulcinea hesitated. As Rose handed it over, Irish Jim said, “Now you can start converting, you wee bastard,” but there wasn’t much humor in his tone.

The storekeeper blinked furiously behind his dirt-speckled glasses and cradled the leg in his arms like a newborn babe. “And you are a damned sinner, and a nincompoop.” He bowed his head as if he prayed over the baby Jesus, and then walked slowly toward his store. The men around Irish Jim slapped him on the back and nodded.

When Graver offered Dulcinea his arm, she refused, instead linked arms with Rose though she faltered as she turned to face the group. Irish Jim watched her with wonder on his face, as if she had performed a miracle and he was now her servant for all time. He glowed with pride while she looked at the blood caking her hands, filling the tiny cracks and pores and flaking off when she rubbed her palms together. Her fingernails were rimed in black-red, and the gold of her wedding band had disappeared.