Read The Crimson Ribbon for Free Online Page B
Authors: Katherine Clements
sound startles him and he looks up, his expression blank, as though he does not recognise me. Then he shakes himself from his trance. ‘Ruth?’
I come forward and nod towards the hand that clutches his ribs. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘Aye, at times. It has not healed well.’ His voice catches in his throat.
In the cast of the lantern I notice the hollows under his eyes. ‘What are you doing out here?’ I ask.
‘Cannot sleep with the storm.’
As if in answer, the sky is rent with a crack of white fire and the yard reverberates with thunder. Joseph winces. I duck under the shelter and sit next to him. We watch the rain come down, listening to the slurp and suck of the gutters.
‘I can help.’ The words escape me before I think better of them. Easing the suffering of others was my mother’s way of serving God; it comes to me as naturally as prayer.
He raises a brow, eyes questioning.
‘I have a little of the healer’s knowledge,’ I say. ‘I have tended wounds before . . . If you show me . . .’
He hesitates for a moment, then shrugs off his jacket. He stands, flinching as he straightens, and turns to face me so that we are both held in the circle of lamplight. He tugs his shirt free and lifts it high, looking steadily ahead into the darkness.
The scar is jagged, the colour of a ripened plum. It begins at his chest and runs down his left-hand side, over the flesh of his belly, ending somewhere beneath the ties of his breeches. Even by candle flame I can see where the skin has puckered and knitted together unevenly, and the angry raw welts where it has still not calmed. The cut was not a clean one, and it was deep. I have never seen worse on anyone still living. By rights, he should be dead.
I stay seated, my face level with his hip, and reach my hands up to his chest. Sometimes I can tell more by touch than by sight. As my fingers meet his skin he glances down, surprised. I feel his heart jumping.
I work my fingertips slowly down the length of the scar, feeling the hardened ridge where the wound has come together. I pause where the flesh is soft and the scarring is worse. I can feel a knotted thickening there, as though pebbles are sewn beneath. I press my flattened palm gently and feel his muscles tense. I know this must pain him, though he refuses to show it. Lower down, the scar is smoother and has healed better, its edges seamless and fading to silver, a dusting of dark hair beginning to conceal it. I run my fingers down as far as I can, meeting with the line of his breeches. The skin here is hot to touch. I catch the scent of him, the scent of the road, but sweet and musky.
I look up and find that he is watching me intently, watching my fingers on his skin. For a moment I am snared by his stare. I cannot lift my hands. My mouth is dry; words will not come.
When at last he breaks the silence, his voice is strangled. ‘Have you ever seen a man die?’
I shut my eyes as memories cascade: the faces of Ely townsfolk, marked with the purple bruises of plague, fevered with the pox; infants cramped with colic, wheezing their last feeble breath; Esther Tuttle’s stillborn child; the kicking of muddy ankles and the baying of a bloodthirsty crowd. My stomach turns.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Was it a bad death?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you know how it is. I’ve seen many men die, most of them in blood and pain. Most did not deserve such an end. Many’s the time I’ve asked why I was spared. Better men than I were not.’
I drop my hands to my lap and sit in silence.
He lets his shirt fall and sits back down. ‘Have you family?’ he asks.
I falter before I shake my head. It is the first time I have admitted it.
‘I had a brother. His name was Jude. I lost him at Naseby, the day I got this. Every day since, I’ve had this pain upon me. The wound will not heal until I’ve put his soul to rest.’
‘There is much that may be done,’ I say. ‘A poultice will help the healing and a dose of
I come forward and nod towards the hand that clutches his ribs. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘Aye, at times. It has not healed well.’ His voice catches in his throat.
In the cast of the lantern I notice the hollows under his eyes. ‘What are you doing out here?’ I ask.
‘Cannot sleep with the storm.’
As if in answer, the sky is rent with a crack of white fire and the yard reverberates with thunder. Joseph winces. I duck under the shelter and sit next to him. We watch the rain come down, listening to the slurp and suck of the gutters.
‘I can help.’ The words escape me before I think better of them. Easing the suffering of others was my mother’s way of serving God; it comes to me as naturally as prayer.
He raises a brow, eyes questioning.
‘I have a little of the healer’s knowledge,’ I say. ‘I have tended wounds before . . . If you show me . . .’
He hesitates for a moment, then shrugs off his jacket. He stands, flinching as he straightens, and turns to face me so that we are both held in the circle of lamplight. He tugs his shirt free and lifts it high, looking steadily ahead into the darkness.
The scar is jagged, the colour of a ripened plum. It begins at his chest and runs down his left-hand side, over the flesh of his belly, ending somewhere beneath the ties of his breeches. Even by candle flame I can see where the skin has puckered and knitted together unevenly, and the angry raw welts where it has still not calmed. The cut was not a clean one, and it was deep. I have never seen worse on anyone still living. By rights, he should be dead.
I stay seated, my face level with his hip, and reach my hands up to his chest. Sometimes I can tell more by touch than by sight. As my fingers meet his skin he glances down, surprised. I feel his heart jumping.
I work my fingertips slowly down the length of the scar, feeling the hardened ridge where the wound has come together. I pause where the flesh is soft and the scarring is worse. I can feel a knotted thickening there, as though pebbles are sewn beneath. I press my flattened palm gently and feel his muscles tense. I know this must pain him, though he refuses to show it. Lower down, the scar is smoother and has healed better, its edges seamless and fading to silver, a dusting of dark hair beginning to conceal it. I run my fingers down as far as I can, meeting with the line of his breeches. The skin here is hot to touch. I catch the scent of him, the scent of the road, but sweet and musky.
I look up and find that he is watching me intently, watching my fingers on his skin. For a moment I am snared by his stare. I cannot lift my hands. My mouth is dry; words will not come.
When at last he breaks the silence, his voice is strangled. ‘Have you ever seen a man die?’
I shut my eyes as memories cascade: the faces of Ely townsfolk, marked with the purple bruises of plague, fevered with the pox; infants cramped with colic, wheezing their last feeble breath; Esther Tuttle’s stillborn child; the kicking of muddy ankles and the baying of a bloodthirsty crowd. My stomach turns.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Was it a bad death?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you know how it is. I’ve seen many men die, most of them in blood and pain. Most did not deserve such an end. Many’s the time I’ve asked why I was spared. Better men than I were not.’
I drop my hands to my lap and sit in silence.
He lets his shirt fall and sits back down. ‘Have you family?’ he asks.
I falter before I shake my head. It is the first time I have admitted it.
‘I had a brother. His name was Jude. I lost him at Naseby, the day I got this. Every day since, I’ve had this pain upon me. The wound will not heal until I’ve put his soul to rest.’
‘There is much that may be done,’ I say. ‘A poultice will help the healing and a dose of