The Leper's Blood Page 2
***
In the middle of the yard was a stretcher, the quiet Belka lying beside. The doctor was carrying a ball of hay from the stable on a pitchfork and a bit aside, where the path turned around the house, the lepers stood. There were unexpectedly many—scary, contorted faces beneath the filthy, soaking bandages. Rudnev hesitated for a moment but overcame himself and stepped to them when the doctor called after him. “No, no! Don’t come close. No need.”
Out of the crowd came a figure in a prisoner’s smock, walked up, staring with painful, watering eyes. Shuddering, Rudnev made out the dull yellow of the bone where the flesh had rotten away. Suddenly the leper spat to his feet; the crowd bellowed. Rudnev gave a start and reached for the holster but the doctor stepped ahead, lifting his hand. Everything went quiet.
The doctor stood in silence for a while, gritting his teeth; then, in a sudden deft move, rested his pitchfork against the leper’s back and drove him straight onto the crowd. Rudnev seemed to see the poor wretch’s blood come out. He was not sure, however—it all happened too quickly.
The doctor shoved the ringleader into the ragged lines, snatched the pitchfork with both hands and banged its haft like a staff on the trampled ground. “I know each of you,” he said in a low voice. “You came to me bewildered, in despair…”
The crowd grumbled back. He raised his voice. “Here you found shelter and consolation after your families repulsed you. You were rejected by your children, refused by your closest ones.” (The crowd made a louder noise.) “Now your home is here, and we…”
His last words were drowned by shouts. The crowd gave a menacing sway ahead; the air was ripped by deafening shot. Rudnev, with a smoking Mauser pointed up in his hand, came up to the doctor and stood beside.
“All return to your chores,” the doctor said loudly in the silence that fell. He beckoned someone with a finger, pointing at the stretcher.
The crowd stirred into motion, with a creak of wooden crutches. Badly coughing, limping and swaying, the lepers hobbled away.
“In vain,” the doctor said when the yard was empty. “All in vain.” He stood there with the pitchfork, staring after the leavers. The scared Belka trotted about, squealing plaintively.
Rudnev hid the gun, settled on the stretcher and said—resolutely as before, when he’d commanded the Anarchists from the battleship Saint Mary, prior to being wounded: “Come on, bros. Let’s go.”
Swaying on the go, he kept returning his gaze to the carriers. Their prisoner’s smacks, although filthy, looked strong and durable in this proximity. They were not disfigured; just one—the swarthy and stocky Asian man—had a bandage around his neck. The other one, with his lackluster, indifferent face, was a typical deserter. They did not seem to be starving either; once taking at the handles with a brief sigh, they carried him steadily and surely.
They passed a large, cultivated vegetable garden on the outskirts of the doctor’s house. Reached a well—a plain one, without any decoration, topped with a rough planked lid. Rounded a time-worn fence; what opened to their eyes was a deserted farm but Rudnev at first mistook it for a fair. The rows of sheep pens, once tidy, were now partitioned, curtained with rags in the manner of oriental shops, filled with props and stretched ropes. In this motley disorder, under the canvas clapping in the wind were the cripples—sitting, lying, and walking around.
It was not their destination, though. Instead, they turned to the left and downhill, to a small, smoky fire smoldering on a flat rock that looked like a millstone (goodness knows how they’d got it here). By this fire, the carriers stopped. Rudnev glanced at them—both were sweaty; small wonder after having carried a big man like him for so long. The Asian man waved at the fire, and both walked back.
Staying alone, Rudnev stood up, scattered the hay with his feet, looked around. A steppe breeze was coming from different sides, as though teasing. The smoldering pieces of dry dung blazed up at times, going red as charcoals, then faded again, spitting caustic smoke.
Soon the carriers appeared again. Swaying on their long poles under a big umbrella was a bent-wood chair with a figure wrapped in rags. Silently, they put their burden down across the stone, removed the poles, and stood beside.
“Hey, lads,” Rudnev said. “You may go away.”
The lads gave no reply, just exchanged scowling glances and shifted their feet. Rudnev stepped off the stretcher, put his hand on the wooden Mauser holster. The figure under the umbrella gave a sudden loud laughter. “My grave diggers,” a female voice came from beneath the veil. “Just look at their spades!”
Pointed at the sky, the poles actually looked much like diggers’ spades.
“My six and seven of spades.” She laughed again. “And I’m their queen! The queen of trumps.”
From beneath the veil came her leprosy-deformed hands; they looked as though already eaten by worms. “Go,” she told the carriers in a suddenly serious voice. “Or… you know what.”
When they withdrew, casting suspicious looks, the lady asked with interest, “And you? The ace of diamonds, I guess?”
Rudnev looked through the fire separating them. “I don’t think so. I’m not yet the rank to wear diamonds, and I hope I don’t look like a robber either.”
“You’re smart,” she appraised, “And hold your own. Our sweet doctor failed to scare you, I see. You may sit, by the way.”
“Thank you,” Rudnev said. “I’d rather stand. Too much sitting in the saddle.”
“Well then. As you like.”
The skilled thief hooked the window bar, slowly removed the shutter and slipped in as a silent shadow. Froze, still with knife in hand, listened. Nothing changed in the sleepy darkness. His keen ear only caught the rustle of leaves by the window and the dogs’ barking in the Muslim quarter.
His faultless intuition pointed at the cabinet that had valuables when a scary, faceless figure suddenly stepped from the darkness. The thief leapt, desperately and hopelessly, reaching for the throat with his knife but the blade just ripped off the mask. The moonlight fell to the ghost’s face.
Good heavens, a leper! The scary tuberous mug twisted with hatred. Huge and creepy, he roared with the gaping pit of his mouth, his stinky breath burned the thief’s nostrils. The robber’s knife flashed in a brief lunge; the thief dashed for the window but a strong hand seized him by the collar and smashed his temple against the wall.
From the depth of the house came a dancing lamp light. An undressed, bare-headed woman carried the lamp in front in herself, her other hand clutching a small dagger. She screamed at the sight of the blooded body. The leper looked back, said unintelligibly, dripping saliva, “All over. Pack up. In the morning we leave.”
He sat right onto the corpse and, insensitive to pain, began to feel his head in search of the wound. The woman came up, stood behind his back and suddenly stabbed the dagger into the leper’s neck. Rasping, he began to stand. She dropped the lamp and backed in terror; the spilled kerosene blazed up, lighting her hands covered in the leper’s blood.
The lady under the umbrella paused, then asked with a sudden defiance, “I hope you don’t think I fancied myself as Judith.”
“I’m no one to judge you.” Rudnev paused too. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Who are you?—A feathered beast!” she recited suddenly. “What’s your name?—You know it.—Frosty Maiden comes at night With her snow-white ermine.”
The lady removed the veil, opening her white, disease-mutilated face. “That night I ran out of strength to endure it all. He promised to infect me on purpose so many times. His disease made him a monster. And now—I’ve become such a monster myself.”
She closed her eyes; a tear ran down her cheek. With a fast move, the lady put her veil in place. “My husband made a fortune when the oil boom began. He knew nothing of oil mining but was lucky at land speculation. Got infected in some dirty opium den he visited in the port. The disease quickly took o
ver, disfiguring him. He put on a linen mask. The scared neighbors reported to the police; we were subject to deportation. Then he decided to turn his fortune into stones—a collection of precious gems we could easily take along.” From the folds of her clothing appeared a small dagger with a crimson gem topping the hilt. “That’s a very rare stone. Its name is Talion, or retribution. After my husband’s death, I had a jeweler set it into the dagger’s hilt.”
The lady stood heavily, sheathed the blade, and stretched her hand holding it into the flames. Rudnev froze, hearing the crackle of the burning flesh. “The scariest thing is feeling no pain,” she complained. “But there’s no punishment without pain, so I have this pain deep inside. It’s here in me, every single minute. And it’s unbearable.”
The lady tossed the dagger across the stone. “Take when it cools. No more danger for you. Just don’t touch the blade—it has my husband’s blood. The blood of a leper. On it, and in me… I got infected when I killed him with my own hands. That’s the supreme justice.”
She spoke in a dry, businesslike tone. “Once the unrest began, I entrusted all I had to the man who sent you here. He’s a high rank of yours, I know. This gentleman was terribly scared but could not resist gems. In return, we should’ve had all our needs provided for. But he turned out to be too stingy to keep his promise. It was careless of me to remind him. You’ve been surprised by this rite, haven’t you?” She pointed at the stretcher. “It were them who invented it. Poor, lost men who fear life more than leprosy. The two of them are healthy. You’ve guessed it, haven’t you? The doctor didn’t want you to know.”
Rudnev nodded.
“Don’t touch them,” she begged. “They’re our only link to the outer world. Nikolai Alexejevich is a true devotee but he can’t cope alone. Everyone else ran away. Even the deaf-and-dumb old man who kept the house. What have you done to the country that even those who have no place to go are leaving their homes? No, no! Don’t reply.” She raised her hand. “I’m sort of an otherworldly creature now. A feathered beast. But in the name of all those doomed and dying I call to you—let the retribution be done!”
Rudnev pulled out the rag he wore as a neckerchief and wrapped the dagger in it. “Where can I find your squires?”
“They live over there, beyond that hill, but spend most time among us. The danger is not that great whatever the doctor told you. Of course if you are not going to spill anyone’s blood.” She raised the veil and stared at him intently. “Remember, our worlds have Talion—requital and retribution!”
“By your leave, I’ll go,” Rudnev put his hand to his peaky cap.
“Farewell.” The lady put the veil down and heavily sank to the chair. “Send them to me afterwards.”
***
“Why stoking in this heat, lads?” he called to the deserters squatting by a rough fireplace.
“Frying the susliks,” one answered reluctantly, standing up. The other, Asian man stayed as he was, squinting at the fire.
“Deserters?” Rudnev asked straightforwardly.
The standing one said nothing, scowling at him. The Asian man stood. “Don’t shoot, supremo!”
“Shut up, Ahmet,” his fellow silenced him.
“No shooting,” Rudnev said almost merrily. “As long,” he shook his fist, “as you take care to be good helpers to the doctor!”
They nodded desperately. Rudnev said, lowering his voice, “And now, lads, tell me. Whom did you visit?”
When he looked back, hanging over the white houses was a leaden cloud. It became dark, stormy waves running over the feather grass. From afar came the first, weak peal of the thunder; a few big drops fell to the dust as the thunderstorm stirred up over the horizon, flashing up with lilac. The sky came closer, pressed to the ground, and the rain lashed down on the steppe.
The inlay work parquet gave delicate creaks as Rudnev walked from the tall paneled door to the desk. A good office. A significant one. So spacious the furniture at the walls was barely discernible in the semi-dark.
Dancing in the cone of light from the desk lamp were the stirred particles of dust, and living their own life on the desk’s cloth were plump white fingers. They rustled through the papers squeamishly, crossed with the ink pencil, indifferent in their command of human lives.
“Back, Comrade Rudnev?” the official spoke. “Sit. Report what sort of an ultimatum to the Soviet government you’ve received.”
“The White Yard settlement has famine. No provisions at all. The patients are desperate. The situation’s critical.”
The fingers stopped for a moment and went stirring over the papers again. “Are the ringleaders shot?”
Rudnev moved his neck as if the collar was strangling him.
“What’s the matter? I’ve been told you’re a seasoned man, a soldier. Take as many soldiers as needed, and restore order.”
“I have a proposal.” Rudnev put a bundle on the table with a dull thud.
“What’s that?” The fingers froze.
“It’ll help provide the colony with food.”
“Really?” The hands reached, unwrapped the kerchief, felt the topping stone, ran down the twisted hilt, moved the sheath. “Ouch!” The finger had a swelling blood drop; the official hastily put it into his mouth. “Where you’ve got this rubbish?” He pushed the dagger away with irritation.
“In the leper colony.” Rudnev folded the kerchief carefully and stood. “May I leave?”
The official, barely visible beyond the lamp’s light, was silent, watching the scratch in terror. Talion, Rudnev recalled, closing the door. Requital and retribution.
The next day the high-ranking official reported himself sick, then vanished as if he’d never been there. Three days later there came news that a large gang on a fighting retreat had burned the White Yard down and destroyed all its inhabitants—the patients, the deserters, the doctor and his dog Belka.