Chapter Two: Heavy Metal
They persisted onward, delving past the thousands of anonymous graves.
The journey was long and demanding. Her weary fingers ached to lay down the cold handle of the heavy lantern. The Sister's legs were near collapse, but she remained staunchly silent. Sixty odd years of mortal life had fortified her will while draining the strength from her body. Resisting the impulse to take a moment's rest, she continued her silent prayers. She knew that the woman in front of her would not stop, would not realize it if she were to fall. It was doubtful that even the lack of light would slow the frantic pace she set. Following the tense pair ahead of her, Sister Inez poured out her worries to the only one who was listening.
Lord, is this the day of her reckoning? We all knew she would have troubles, but this? Who is this woman, Padre? Surely it can't be the same little girl that I welcomed all those years ago.
She kept her eyes on the floor in front of her. With so much debris cluttering the path, a misstep could prove very painful.
Or perhaps it is more painful to look upon the scene in front of you, coward. She berated herself. She was like a daughter to you! Look up and see what you have allowed to happen to her.
Sister Inez looked up with heartbroken eyes at the gun in her child's slender hand.
How could I have missed it? She must have shown some signs of … what? Madness? Never in a hundred years would we have expected violence from any of the girls, much less her! Myra of all people! What have I done, Padre? How could I have allowed this to happen? Is this my fault?
She again forced herself to look up. The poor man, really no more than an overgrown boy, was terrified. His eyes were skittish, searching in every direction for an escape from the cold muzzle in his lower back. He stole quick backwards glances at Sister Inez whenever he could. His luminous amber eyes pleaded with her to restrain his captor.
The gunwoman appeared to be unmoved by his sentiments. The sister again lamented for her young friend. What had tipped her over this precipice of aggression?
Myra's shoulders remained stiff, like those of the wild animals that were caged in the Royal Zoo. So few of those animals still lived, most having died at the hands of starving Parisians the month before. Those that remained, the dangerous cats, had a sinister appearance. That same murderous air hung over every taught muscle of Myra's body, save those grasping the trigger. Her hand shook almost imperceptibly, each finger lean and bony from the famine of the Prussian siege.
Padre, steady her hand! Dios mio, don't let her hit the trigger by mistake! Bring her to her senses. She doesn't know what she's doing. Surely she doesn't know.
Does she?
•ψ•
Unaware of the Sister's inner war, Myra forged ahead with only one objective. All other thoughts, emotions, and physical sensations had been brushed aside the moment she discovered that her patient's bed was empty. There was only the driving need to rescue him. It overruled every impulse, every moral that had ever been ingrained in her. She was prepared to do whatever it required to reclaim him.
Even kill.
In her state of obsession, she was willing to take this man's life in order to secure her goal. It was an ironic twist of fate that such a gentle woman could so easily resort to violence and anger, especially a woman with Myra's terrible past.
"Ordures! I don't care who he is! Why did they take him?" She fumed silently, her pistol nudging Ghislain to continue his duties.
Flames of anger licked the edges of her consciousness, but they barely left an impression on her thoughts. She was consumed by her fixation. Still, occasional thoughts skittered across the perimeters of the mind. The rage she felt for the men who had defiled the sanctuary of the hospital slowly became self loathing.
"They took him because I failed. I didn't protect him. He is my patient, and I am his doctor. It's my job to heal and shelter the weak. I have failed, as I fail in everything. And not only have I failed, I've failed miserably! They were all right, I don't deserve my license."
Years of verbal abuse had taken their toll on Myra. As one of the first female doctors to be recognized in Paris, she had borne a heavy load of judgment and mockery for trying to enter such a field. Only the convent that had sponsored her education had been willing to hire her. Self doubt had been ingrained into every fiber of her being.
"Unless I can get him back to the hospital. Could I face myself then? If I save him, can I begin to call myself a real physician?"
Hope, fear, and anger danced a painful web around the vacuum of her mania. The only real thought in her head was finding Lutenent Kolenka. His telltale surname lit another tiny ember of emotion in her already warring breast. Doubt.
"Why should I save him? He is the enemy. His army starved my people. They killed Cordell and Ferdi. And look at what I have done! Why should I care so much for his fate?"
Though the questions were legitimate, none would reach her inside the bubble she had formed, expelling every previous notion of right and wrong. This was her duty, to save the weak. Their names and faces were inconsequential. That lesson had been a harsh one for her in the rigorous years of medical school, and it had now become all important.
The gun that would have seemed so heavy in her hands at any other time was now light and trivial.
Another crossroad loomed ahead of them in the impenetrable darkness of the Populaire's cellars. Two tunnels forked out into eternity.
"Which way?" Myra snapped coldly when Ghislain halted before them. She thrust the pistol unforgivingly into his back to speed his memory.
"Left … the left one." He barely managed to choke out, pointing with a shaking finger.
"Then walk." She barked.
Sister Inez balked at the dead metallic sound of her voice, nearly weeping for the emptiness that was so painfully evident in it.
•ψ•
Her sharp tone and ruthless actions only served to further rile the man who observed them from a distance.
His routine had been horrendously upset when this little chit had taken Ghislain hostage.
When she had attacked the soldier and used his own weapon to bind him, the watcher had been mildly amused. His days were normally spent trailing the young Marquis de Laramie during his rounds on the guard and while he rested below.
At least today had brought about some interesting change.
Intrigued, the man in the shadows had trailed them silently and effortlessly into the damp basements. He had remained silent as she forced the boy to lead herself and her companion to the rebel infirmary. But when she came dangerously close to taking Ghislain's life, irritation quickly replaced curiosity.
The watcher was not especially concerned for the life of the man he was stalking, but he could not allow her to take the boy's life yet.
Frustrated in the darkness, he growled softly in the back of his throat. The sound was almost lupine, a fitting match for his eyes. They almost appeared to glow in the darkness, hard flecks of bronze striating his coffee colored irises.
"She'll just have to wait till I've had my little chat with him." He muttered to himself. "Then she can have her fun."
He fingered the bit of knotted rope in his pocket, pondering what to do. The twisted strands of cord weighed as much to him as Myra's gun once had. Many memories were plaited into its fibers, most painful and haunting. Though their lives were insignificant, he was reluctant to use it again for any reason. Part of him still deeply feared the man that he had become back in the dessert when the little string had wakened demons in his soul. Frustration and apprehension fought for control, and he finally made an end to it.
"I won't allow my plans to be unraveled by a silly little girl and a nun."
•ψ•
Below them all, a handful of men conversed quietly over a game of whist whilst taking watch over the sick bay. Beyond them lay forty three men in various stages of recuperation and decline, each covered by a patched comforter and a blanket of darkness.
The artificial night was broken only by the soldiers' lantern and a lone flickering candle.
This candle stood witness at the bedside of the Populaire's newest occupant, one Edik Kolenka. Over him stood a thin man with crooked spectacles and an unshaven face. Dr. Merlion Gaétan pressed his cold, worn stethoscope to the pulsing chest of his unwilling patient, examining the many injuries through the glasses perched on his beak-like nose.
"How do they expect me to work in this infernal cave?" He quietly asked the unconscious man.
"I don't even have any supplies for this type of situation! You, my dear Monsieur, require immediate surgery." Dismissing despair from his voice, the doctor removed the silver instrument from the wounded man and continued with his usual warm tone. Such an attitude had gained him the reputation of an impeccable bedside manner. He patted his patient's arm and reassured him.
"Don't worry, I will convince them to find me a place to work. And some sterile tools as well. Never fear."
Standing up from his seat, Dr. Gaétan felt a morose pang of sardonic humor run through him.
"Why should he be afraid? What could he possibly have to fear?" He mulled internally with sarcasm. "Besides the fact that he's dying of a gunshot wound. And the fact that he's a Prussian officer in the heart of the Parisian rebels."
Merlion walked away in search of a makeshift operating room for their hostage, taking his candle with him.
The stethoscope around his neck was heavy with decisions and the fragility of life.
Author's Note:
♪The character that I had originally named 'Laurent' (The man with the pistol in his backside :D) has had a name change. He is now Ghislain. I have gone back and changed his name in the prologue as well. Sorry for the inconvenience, but its one of those crazy authoress things. Actually, the name change is because, as a rule, most of my character's names have symbolic meaning. In Ghislain's case, or Lain as we shall probably come to know him, I found that this name was a much better match for his role in the grand scheme of the story. And since I put you through all that confusion, I'll let you in on what it means. (Don't expect this to be a normal thing, most of the time I leave explaining the symbolism until my final author's note.) Ghislain is a French name that means 'hostage' or 'pledge'. That's going to be interpreted a few different ways in this story, so wait and guess.
♫ Ordure is French for bastard. Sorry about the swearing, but this piece will probably have quite a bit. I want to portray the depth of the anguish in my characters.
Responses: My darling reviewers! Oh, it is SO nice to hear from people after only putting out my prologue! You should all be kissed, and I hope you are (just not by me). Sorry, that would be a bit odd. Instead, I offer you cheesecake. And not just any cheescake. No, you are the first (virtual at least) recipiants of cheesecake suprise, trial no. 1. It involves vanilla batter, with caramel and ghram crackers. Enjoy.