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Boiling oil? What are they planning to do?
I push past the gathered villagers, men and women, and force my way into Alesoun’s home. Patrick is lying on the table, groaning. Blood covers his shirt, face, and arms, dripping onto the floor. Alesoun is leaning over, probing him with her fingers. He cries out in pain as she presses around his shoulder.
“God!” Patrick screams. “Can ya nae be a bit gentler?”
“Can ya nae learn to duck?” Alesoun asks. “You’ve a bullet in your shoulder. I need to know if you’ve broken the bone or not.”
“If I ’ave?”
“You’ll probably lose the arm.”
“No,” Patrick says, shaking his head. He tries to rise, but James and Johnne force him down onto the table and hold him there.
My stomach turns over and bile rises in my throat. Amputating an arm, no antiseptic, no anesthesia. I can’t imagine anything worse.
“Lie still, lad,” Johnne orders. “She’ll fix ya right up. Now come on, don’t be weak.”
“Let me see,” I say, my former, if incomplete, training as a doctor kicking in.
I may not have finished a degree, but I am sure I know more than Alesoun about the structure of the human body and how to treat wounds. James and Johnne look askance to Alesoun before letting me in.
“Have a look while I get the oil,” Alesoun says, moving aside.
Patrick grimaces as I step into his field of view. “Ach, don’t need a pretty lass to be seeing me all banged up like this.”
“You’re fine,” I say, inspecting the hole in his shoulder.
It’s jagged and rough. Gently, I run my hands over his shoulder and feel behind, looking for an exit wound.
“Well, you’re a might gentler than Alesoun,” he says. “I’d right enjoy your touch in friendlier—agh!”
I push my finger into the wound when I don’t find an exit. The tip of my finger touches cold steel. Exactly what I feared. The bullet is lodged deep in his shoulder, close to the bone.
“Good news is I don’t think you’ve broken any bones,” I say.
“Ach, that does sound right good, doesn’t it?”
“Bad news is, that bullet has to come out. Do any of you have whiskey?”
“Here,” James says, pulling out a flask.
I take it, uncap it, then pour it into Patrick’s open mouth. He sputters then swallows.
“Gah, you’re trying to drown me?”
“You’re going to want it,” I say, then pour some over his wound.
He screams in surprised pain. I finish off the last swallow myself to steel my nerves. It burns its way down my esophagus and ignites a boiling fire in my stomach.
“Make way,” Alesoun says behind me.
The house always smells, which I’ve gotten used to, but the scent of blood, piss, and now Alesoun walking in with boiling oil is enough to make my stomach revolt. She has rags wrapped around the handle of a metal pan filled with oil. The oil bubbles and pops. I don’t know what she’s going to do with that, but I don’t think it’s going to be good.
“We have to take the bullet out before you do anything else,” I say.
“And how will you do that, lass? It’s lodged deep.”
“If we don’t, he’ll not have use of his arm. That’s the best case. Worst case the wound will infect and kill him.”
