Thirty-eight
Bane climbed...one handhold, one foothold after the next, slow and methodical, his face only an inch from the cool wall, his eyes always focused on the next outcropping. His blanket roll scraped against the wall, making him wish he had left it behind.
"Deshi basara!"
The chant gained volume, rose up toward him like a wave, pushing him on, giving him strength, singular voices now joined together in a rare moment of unity among the condemned. How many times had he been among those below? How many times had he lent his own voice to that chant? How many times had he watched men rise up only to crash back down again?
The first fifty feet, the first one hundred feet...behind him now. He paused, closed his eyes for a moment and pressed his warm cheek against the rock. The spacing of some of the outcroppings taxed his reach, and he wished once again that he were older, taller, stronger. He focused on his breathing, struggled to regulate it, keep the fear out of his lungs.
Upward. Fifty more feet. Fatigue already fought for command of his muscles. The trembling had worsened. He quietly cursed, pressed on. Even with his body tight against the rock, he had begun to sweat, forcing him to wipe one hand at a time against his shirt to keep his grip sure. The roughness of the outcroppings had abraded the thin leather of his shoes and would no doubt soon abrade the flesh beneath it.
"Deshi basara!"
The chant sounded frustratingly close, tempting him to look down to better gauge his progress, but he managed to refuse the urge and struggle onward.
He counted each foothold, tried to focus only on that, on the ever rising total, on reducing the space between himself and the sky. The immensity of the shaft made him feel like nothing more than a fly trapped upon an enormous web, each movement more difficult than the previous. How many minutes had it been since he had started? It seemed like hours. He grunted and groaned with the effort now, his breathing coming hard, his lungs burning. His growing weakness seemed to feed the relentless pull of gravity, as if he carried a heavy pack that threatened to pull him off the wall.
Another thirty feet. He was not even halfway. Doubts came streaming in. His knees felt like rubber, losing their ability to push upward. He was forced to stop again and cling to the wall, eyes closed. Desperate, he pictured his mother, pictured Melisande. Their images gave him strength, calmed him, allowed him to wait then to move on.
He had lost count of his footholds and so started fresh, though now his progress had slowed so much that the chant had lost some of the will to continue. The voices reflected discouragement, the chant's volume lowering instead of rising, no longer providing fuel to the blood pumping through him and now drumming in his ears, muffling all sound. Perhaps it was the fault of this dampening that made the chant seem deadened. Perhaps, in truth, their voices were as fervent as ever. Surely no one wanted him to fail.
Bane thought again of the Vulture, of his harsh words and the coldness behind them. He thought of the blood pouring from the man, of his plea for help, of the light leaving his eyes. Again he heard the disparaging comments, the venom behind them. Perhaps the Vulture was right after all.
His muscles screamed at him, mocked him, halted his progress once again. Closing his eyes, he fought the desire to look back, to beg Hans to lower him, for he knew he did not even have the strength left to climb back down. No, there was only one way to go. But how?
Finally he opened his eyes and looked for the next handhold. The jutting rock taunted him, for it was just beyond his reach, a distance that only allowed his outstretched fingers to graze it. Dear God, he would have to somehow jump those few inches in order to reach it. In vain his eyes searched the nearby wall for any other handhold. If he could move just to the left, the line of outcroppings that spiraled upward there could be reached. Tentatively his left foot slid along the curving wall, his toes feeling for another rock yet finding none. But there had to be one, he thought in desperation as panic fought to control him. He needed to look...just a quick glance to find it...it had to be there...
His gaze dropped to his left foot, but instead of finding that which he sought all he saw was the yawning chasm below. His breath caught, his eyes widened, drawn down to the inmates chanting below, to the pool...how different it looked from here...not like water at all but a mirror...a mirror in which he appeared like a deformity against the circle of sky above, protruding from the wall. The image hypnotized him. His weight shifted as if attracted by a magnet. His left foot came down before he realized he had found no place to put it. He gasped and grabbed wildly for the outcropping to the left, but it was too far above him. His fingernails scratched against the wall, a pitiful sound, and then he was gone.
He screamed; there was no denying the terror as he plunged downward, close to the wall. Wildly he tried to catch himself on the blurred rocks, struck one with his foot, bounced away from the wall and any hope. Then the rope caught him, slammed him to a halt, bit hard beneath his arms. Pain shot through his right shoulder, tore away his breath and killed his outcry. His other hand clung to the rope where it stretched away above him. Desperate to escape the burning agony in his shoulder, he tried in vain to pull himself slightly up, to slacken the pressure beneath his armpits and thus his injured limb. He hung there, helpless, hopeless, gently swinging.
Then the face of the shaft—obscure in his fall—began to slip slowly past with torturous detail as Hans lowered him with care lest the rope looped around him should slip upward. The chant had died, and all Bane heard were distant, disgruntled voices, some calling up to him in derision, but the pain in his shoulder overrode any ability or desire to hear detail. All he wanted was to touch solid ground again.
By the time he reached the rim above the stepwell, his shoulder's throbbing had brought tears to his eyes. Most of the prisoners had collected or paid their wagers and left the shaft or returned to the pool. As he crawled to the edge of the rim, his entire body burning with exhaustion, he caught Ramzi's eye. The Arab stood next to Omar Alam. Both men grinned at one another and laughed at him before turning away.
"Bane," Hans called. "Swing your legs over the side and I'll help you."
"My shoulder is dislocated," he said through gritted teeth.
"Ja, I can see that. Just do the best you can. I'll catch you."
There was no easy or painless way down. On his belly, he swung his legs over the edge, his bruised feet feeling along the face of the ledge. With the aid of his left hand he slid cautiously backward and down until his feet dangled just below the ledge. He hung there for a moment, afraid to let go, but then what little strength remained in his left arm gave way, and he scraped down the ledge facing and fell into Hans's grasp.
The jarring of his shoulder strangled an outcry from him and made breathing difficult. Hans carefully set him on his feet, but Bane's knees gave way, and he slumped to the stone pavement.
"It's all right," Hans said in a quiet, sympathetic voice. "Rest easy while I take off this rope."
Bane could barely hold his head up, could barely think of anything except the throbbing of his deformed shoulder. Someone drew near; Bane saw only his feet, too tired to look up. But he knew it was the doctor. Shame kept his gaze downward.
"Let's get him back to his cell," Assad said flatly. "I'll reduce the dislocation there."
Hans slipped a hand beneath Bane's left arm to help him up. Grinding his teeth together to keep from crying out again, Bane somehow made his feet move, thankful that Hans kept a hold on him as they circled the shaft.
"Not bad, kid."
At the sound of Abrams's voice, Bane looked up. Abrams leaned against a pillar not far from their cells, picking his teeth with a blunt fingernail. The man paused long enough to display a small grin.
"At least you're in one piece." He winked and tossed a bruised mango up in the air and caught it. "And you won me this. I suppose I should share it with you, considering."
Bane did not respond, for he took no pleasure in knowing Abrams's fruit was gained through his very public failure.
Melisande was standing at the front of her cell, fingers wrapped around the bars, her knuckles drained white, wide eyes upon Bane. He glanced up only for an instant, too humiliated to do otherwise.
Gola called from his cell, "Knew you wouldn't make it, boy. Serves you right. Too bad you didn't break your neck instead. Maybe next time...if you have the balls to try again."
Ignoring Gola, Melisande reached through her bars, saying, "I have his key," as she handed it to the doctor.
Wordlessly Assad opened his door, and Bane stumbled in with Hans's aid. The big German eased him down to his charpoy.
"Lie on your back," the doctor instructed, his tone still frigid with displeasure.
Melisande hurried to her own charpoy. "Is there anything I can do, Doctor?"
"You have done enough."
If not for the overpowering pain, Bane would have admonished Assad, although to do so might be foolhardy considering the man was the only one who could fix his shoulder. So instead he glanced at Melisande to impart solidarity, but her gaze was diverted, her face red with embarrassment.
Assad knelt next to him and took hold of his right wrist with one hand. "Try to relax. Keep your elbow against the charpoy."
As he gradually bent Bane's arm to a ninety degree angle, his left hand slowly massaged his shoulder. Then carefully he manipulated the arm and shoulder. Bane squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, praying it would soon be over.
"Relax," the doctor breathed.
Melisande took his left hand in her gentle grip, giving him strength and consolation, though he still could not look at her.
His shoulder made a small popping sound, and the pain lifted as Assad successfully completed the reduction. Bane freed a long sigh, his whole body relaxing. As the doctor folded his arm against his chest, he opened his eyes. Hans smiled at him.
"I will make you a sling," the doctor said. "Keep it immobilized at least until tomorrow. I will check you then. You have some abrasions as well. You will want to clean them. Do you have soap?"
"Yes."
"Well," Hans said, "I'll be on my way now that the doc has you fixed up. Come over for a game of backgammon if you feel up to it later, Bane."
"Thanks, Hans...for everything."
His gratitude brought uncharacteristic color to the German's rawboned face. Hans simply nodded once in acknowledgement before leaving.
Doctor Assad followed Hans out. "I'll be back with the sling," he said.
Apathy toward his abrasions would have kept Bane on his charpoy, but cleaning them gave him an excuse to further avoid Melisande. He poured water from his pitcher onto a rag and rubbed soap against it.
"There's nothing to be ashamed of," Melisande said.
Bane did not respond. He expected her to say more but was relieved when she refrained.
Soon Assad returned with a sling made from what appeared to be an old tunic. He helped Bane into it and knotted it behind his neck. Then he checked the abrasions on Bane's cheek, hands, and feet as well as the burn left by the rope beneath his arms.
"Leave your shirt off for a bit to let those dry," Assad ordered after daubing antiseptic and a thin layer of aloe on the burns.
Bane, seated on his charpoy once again, was troubled by how much he suddenly wished Assad would forgive him for his transgressions. He blamed this weakness on his low spirits. Tomorrow he would accompany Assad on his rounds; perhaps that would help put him back in the doctor's good graces. He did not want the man resenting Melisande for what he had done on her behalf; no one would need medical care more than Melisande now and in the months to come. So perhaps if Assad could forgive him, he would also forgive her, and things could return to normal.
"Here is your key back."
Bane draped the rawhide string around his neck and forced himself to meet Assad's gaze. He murmured, "Thank you for treating me."
Assad grunted and turned for the door, but before he did Bane thought he caught a softening in the man's eyes.