Three months later . . . I finally get around to addressing a minor plot hole and working on the next chapter. No promises as to timeline but I swear this story will be finished.
The only silver lining that I could see was that if Holmes could feel pain enough to scream it was clear that at least his nervous system was repaired enough to conduct sensations. Far more crucial at the moment, he could feel enough pain to warrant screaming. I remembered the relief I had felt during Holmes's first exam when he said he was in no pain; I could not imagine then the agony his injuries would cause. I could imagine it now, all too clearly.
"My bag, quickly!" I ordered, then paused. Morphine would be of no use if Holmes did not yet have a heartbeat to circulate the drug through his body. But Mycroft was gone up the stairs with astonishing speed before I could call him back.
Tentatively I felt for a pulse along the jugular vein and found one. It was slower and weaker than I would have liked but that it was there at all was a vast improvement over the past few months. The drawback to this was that his blood could flow freely through the various wounds. Already the soft house slippers Mycroft had put on him were growing crimson, as were the splints and rough bandages I had put around his shattered right shoulder and thigh. I was no detective but even I could deduce what had happened to cause Holmes to collapse as he had: upon fully returning to life, he had no longer been able to stand on the tattered stubs of his feet and when Mycroft moved to break his fall, he had wrenched Holmes's broken shoulder. Then there was what must be devastating thirst from prolonged and deliberate dehydration. I could only be thankful we had foregone formaldehyde and arsenic.
The only water I had at hand was full of salt; I could not give him a mouthful of that. Nor could I ease his pain until Mycroft returned with my supplies. The best I could do was seize the linen cloth from the second altar and try to stem the worst of the bleeding. That, and brush away the curious steaks of dirt on his face and hands until I saw his torn fingertips were also starting to bleed. By then the blood was mingling with dirt and creating a sticky sort of mud I did not dare use salt water to wash away. Holmes took no notice of me or my meager ministrations, too distracted by his pain to answer my calls.
By the time Mycroft reappeared, Holmes had dwindled in desperate, ragged gasps that were no less terrible in their own way than the screams. I struggled for a time to find a spot in his vein that had not been ravaged by either death or old puncture scars. At last I was able to make the injection successfully though it would take some time for the narcotic to take effect. Meanwhile I bandaged his fingers and feet, unwilling to do more until I was sure his pain was lessened enough to tolerate more drastic treatment.
"Is there a room upstairs we can put him in?" I asked after about ten minutes. Space, I knew, was not the only consideration. Somehow – I knew not how – the servants had been kept in ignorance of Holmes's presence. But a docile zombie essentially free of bodily needs was one thing; a badly injured man in need of careful tending was another.
"My bedroom," said Mycroft after a moment's consideration. "I trust we cannot have him walk? Then I hope Pól nor any other Ghede will be offended if we put this to another use." So saying, he pulled down the worn purple altar cloth to create a makeshift stretcher. Holmes made a worryingly light burden as we carried him; with each step I found myself second-guessing every course of treatment I had recommended.
At last we had him carefully laid out on Mycroft's bed and I could re-set and re-bind the broken bones. Neither of us could get Holmes to respond although his pulse and respiration were improved and his eyes, although glazed and half shut from the morphine, were already losing milky film of death. He swallowed a little of the water I offered but the danger of choking was too great to continue.
"What happened?" I asked once I was assured Holmes was resting as comfortably as possible. "Obviously the ritual worked but . . . . I suppose it was foolish of me but I had thought he would be restored to full health immediately."
Mycroft nodded. "No more foolish than I for I had the same idea. But there are more components to a man's being than just his soul or his body. There is also the n'ame, the spirit that allows the body to function during life. This passes into the earth upon death. It is not recallable."
"Is that why his body must heal on its own?" I asked.
"As I understand it, yes."
I hesitated, thinking aloud as I worked through my confusion. "But if the n'ame is not recallable, and it is what allows the body to function during life, then how is it possible for him to heal at all?"
"The lady in question endowed him with hers. That is, most likely, the disruption of natural law that resulted in the fatal Atlantic storm."
I shook my head, both in disbelief and at the meddling in unnatural affairs. "But how can you know that?"
"Because the lady in question told me. You were, as you may have already determined, possessed by her. I am sorry you were subjected to it unawares but it worked out for the best. We – that is, the lady and I – were able to converse rather well in French. Your efforts would have been hampered by the barrier of language had she possessed me instead. She also mentioned it was more fitting, since you are a healer. She likes you."
"I am glad to hear it," I faltered. Fortuitous or no, it is a disconcerting thing to know your spirit has been displaced by another within one's own body. And though I was quite sure the lady meant no harm, I was not anxious to repeat the experience.
Mycroft smiled understandingly. "I do not think she will be revisiting either of us. From what I could gather, she ought not to have begun the ritual in the first place. Doing so violated nearly every natural law known to man or spirit. She implied there would be punishment but I did not enquire. Oh! She did ask me to pass a message on to you: contrary to what Pól said, Sherlock was not responsible. She said you would understand her meaning."
"Yes. I do." I had never wavered in my conviction that Holmes had not brought about Mary's death but hearing my defense validated brought me no end of peace. "But what exactly did this unnatural ritual entail?"
"That, Doctor, I shall not tell you. If it were within my power, I should forget it entirely. As it is, I would prefer not to dwell on it." Mycroft shifted somewhat and I realized he meant to have me leave.
"Can you at least tell me how Holmes came to be covered in dirt?" If nothing else, I would have an answer to that puzzle.
The large man hesitated, gaze fixed upon Holmes upon the bed, heavily bandaged and sunk into a narcotic-induced haze. "In the death-ritual of dessounin," said he at last, "the ti-bon-ange part of the soul may be captured in a clay jar or vessel. My brother's body was the vessel; the dirt was meant to simulate the clay."
"I see." My curiosity was both peaked and deterred by this scant information but I also saw that pressing Mycroft further would yield nothing but irritation on his part. "I suppose, then, we should turn our attentions toward the future. Your brother will need a great deal of care for long time, I fear."
"Yes, I suspected as much. Can you determine if there will be any long-term repercussions?"
It was my turn to hesitate. "Given proper treatment, I shouldn't think there would be. The wounds seem fresh enough, relatively speaking."
"What of his mind?"
My heart sank. What of his mind indeed. Surely there had been head trauma in the fall. That, on top of physical death for a week and subsequent zombification for a year, made it impossible to tell. Perhaps Holmes would recover his intellect and personality through time. Perhaps he would have to be re-taught everything he had ever learned. And perhaps my friend had truly perished for good more than a year ago in Switzerland.
I shrugged helplessly. "I don't know."
SOURCES:
"Self-Ascription Without Qualia: A Case Study" by David Chalmers (available online as a pdf, check out pg 11 for the description of a dessounin)
The Haitian Vodou Handbook by Kenaz Filan
Voodoo Rituals: A User's Guide by Heike Owusa
Vodou Shaman: The Haitian Way of Healing and Power by Ross Heaven
A/N: Yet again, no offense is meant to any practitioners of Vodou.
