Chapter 2

Hurt

Lucía counted about fifty two things that could go wrong, among which stood out: one, the knife stuck in his arm; had she made the wound wider, deeper, worse, with all of the budging, plus the trotting of the horse? Two, they might stumble upon someone; it was unlikely because this wasn't a main road, it wasn't even a road at all, but how would she explain the unconscious man in black she was carrying around on an equally black horse? Three, fever meant infection, and she wasn't sure she had all of the roots and plants needed to treat such a thing at home. Four, maybe he wouldn't even make it home; maybe he'd die on the way and then, what would she do?

"Don't you die, Zorro. Don't die on me, please. Hang in there."

Tornado advanced steady and smooth, with no rush and certainly no pause, like he knew well that a sudden movement would only make matters worse. They were back around the berries area; she'd have to come back for them later.

Again, she heard him say something, but couldn't make out what it was.

"It's all right, don't you worry, you'll be just fine. I'm Lucía by the way, I live nearby. I'll get you home and you'll get to rest and…" There was blood in her shawl. She kept on pressing the fabric against his head, on the spot where she assumed the wound was, making him wince. It wasn't an easy operation, being on the move and all. "You'll get to rest and you'll be just like new, dear God, I hope I'm not finishing you off, no, forget I said that, you'll be fine, just a little more, home's pretty much around the corner."

She led Tornado to the entrance of the cabin where, smart boy, he sat down again. And now came another dilemma: should she try to wake him up, make him walk those few meters to the bed? Should she…?

"Don't move."

Well, he sure didn't, as she rushed into the house and came back a minute later dragging a bare, worn out mattress, that looked more like the discarded skin of some giant fruit.

"Now you'll have to cooperate with me, Zorro, can you do that?" There was no answer, but he was still breathing, so that was good enough for now. Some of the scenarios of doom had already been left behind, only to open the way to new ones.

A hand holding his head, the other one making efforts to pull and push him by the shoulder, by the good arm, damn cape getting in the way, until he finally rolled off the horse's back and landed on the mattress with a thump. She gently let go of his head and straightened his legs, so all of his tall persona could be on the improvised stretcher.

"We're almost there, amigo. Just a bit more."

It was now only a matter of grabbing the top edges and pull, pull in, into the cabin, as Tornado got back on its feet and saw them from outside, kept its big, equine eyes on his master and on the girl it'd entrusted to save him.

Inside, it smelled like spices and seeds, like flowers and wood. Lucía didn't notice, of course, used to it as she was, and Zorro was too deep asleep to notice anything at all. She went and closed the door to the house/living room/kitchen/bedroom, the only room of the house, that is. More light would be necessary, so she tore opened the rustic curtains.

And turned to look at him.

That old pang of fear hit her again.

The image of that little boy she couldn't save, despite applying the best concoctions and brewings her abuela had taught her. After that, she'd sworn she'd never again pretend to know how to deal with the rough edges between life and death. That was almost a year ago.

"Why do you make me do this?" she exhaled, gathering stuff from here and there: the shelf, the trunk, that dusty old crate over there. "I don't know how to do this, Zorro, I'm not… good. My abuela was but not me, I…" She plumped down by his side. His chest was going up and down with every faint breath.

"You just do that. Keep breathing, that´s your job."

First off, she untied the bloody shawl and could finally get a good look at it, carefully checking through his dark hair: the wound was about three centimeters long, and it was tore open like someone made a slash on a watermelon with a single stroke.

It wasn't pretty.

"Oh, honey… but no worries. I do remember what's good for this."

Her abuela used to call it la pomada contra el diablo or the ointment against the devil, because according to her, it could cure even the meanest cuts, the ones perpetrated by the devil himself. So she picked up a large spoonful and plastered it there, adding up a stinking, greenish gooey to the mess of hair, grime and blood.

"It smells like the devil's toes, that's where the name comes from, if you ask me, but it'll help, I promise."

Now, there was that other thing.

The mask. There was blood on it. She could see his closed eyes and his eyelashes behind those sort of oval shaped triangles cut off in the black fabric.

"You wouldn't mind if I…? Maybe you would. But I can't just leave it there." Her abuela's trusty scissors: the things they'd seen and done. "Well, we'll take care of that later."

She cut a slit in the sleeve of his shirt, cuff to neck.

The knife was still stuck in his arm, very close to the shoulder. The wound, plus the stuff around it, was a thing of colorful nightmares.

"Guess we found the infected one, didn't we? Jesus, how long were you there? Must have been a couple days at least." Her monologue was now mostly a way to distract herself from what she knew she had to do. "I saw my abuela do it many times. Well, five or six times. Fine, maybe twice, but that qualifies me to do it myself, wouldn't you think so? And she'd always say it: if it doesn't belong, rip it off. The sooner the better. Snap! Just like that. All right."

With one shaky hand, she pinned his arm against the mattress. With the other one, she clenched the knife's handle. Tight.

Then, she let go.

"I can't do this."

The light that came in through the window got more orangey with every second. It'd soon get dark.

Being responsible for a life was too much, she didn't miss it at all. Her heart was pumping hard, blasting in her ears, every beat forcing her to stare at him, at the ugly wound, at his parted lips and his inert hands lying there, the hands that day to day fought for justice and helped so many, and now he was the helpless one.

So, back to it. This time, she wouldn't let go of the knife without having ripped it out first.

"You're a tough guy, aren't you? You're Zorro, for Chris sake and me, I wouldn't say I'm a tough girl but… we can do this together. On three. One…"

Her fingers clutched firmly, all of her strength focused in her hand.

"…two…"

She pinned his arm even harder.

Snap! Just like that.

"…three!"

He jolted but didn't make a sound. Next, started to breathe harder and half opened two brown, glassy eyes:

"Bernardo, bring me Tornado!"

"Lie down! Tornado is fine, I promise, please lie down."

He did, then tried to hang on to something, to her, with his bad arm but pain stroke again.

"You're hurt, just stay still."

He half sat up again, looked all around and nowhere at the same time, then finally fixated his stare on something. On her:

"Your eyes are green" and fell back right away, into obscurity again.

Lucía stayed there, still hanging on to the knife for dear life.

(…)

Note: hey guys, I wanna remind you that I know nothing about medicine and that who knows if ripping out a knife like it was explained here, would be a good idea. But hey, this is the 1820's and Lucía's abuela (gradma) was no licensed physician, so let's go with the flow. Also, I read that horses can sit down if they are trained to do so, and Tornado is a very smart cookie, so he knows how to do it. Thanks for reading and reviewing!