FRIDAY, MAY 19, 2:00 A.M.
Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains
“David, tell those two they can’t work in here without masks,” he said.
He had said something before that. The sound of his voice had awakened me before I could make out what it was.
“Ben?” I asked in the darkness.
“Oh, good — you’re here,” he said.
“Yes, I’m here,” I said.
“Can’t something be done about the heat in this place?”
“In the tent?”
“The air-conditioning — we’ll lose the computers.”
“Ben, it’s Irene,” I said, sitting up. “Wake up, Ben.”
He didn’t answer. I had just decided that my voice had stirred him from his nightmare, allowed him to sleep more peacefully, when he said, “Need a postmortem dental.”
Bingle, I soon realized, was sitting up, too. I scooted closer to Ben, reached over to try to rouse him. He had moved around in his sleep, and had pushed the upper sleeping bag off. Patting carefully around the tent, my hand found his hand — hot and dry.
“Note the development of the muscle attachment areas on this long bone,” he said. “This fellow might have been a southpaw.”
He was burning up. I risked using the flashlight, praying that Parrish wasn’t outside watching for it, that the rain was keeping him in for the night. I took in Ben’s glazed look, the sheen of perspiration that covered him. I found water and a neckerchief and the Keflex. Berating myself for not giving him more of the drug from the start, I managed to get his attention long enough to give him four of the pills now. How much would be dangerous?
I dampened the cloth and began the work of trying to cool him down.
“Camille?” he asked, frowning as he looked at me.
“Not even Garbo,” I said. “No deathbeds in this tent, understand? You fight this, Ben. Stay with me.”
“It’s so hot,” he said, pushing the sleeping bag lower. He remained restless, and his ramblings became less coherent. He would lie quietly, then suddenly shout something, often making me jump. Before long, he began thrashing around and I soon became worried that he’d reopen the bullet wound or worse if I didn’t get the fever down.
I opened the tent and went outside long enough to gather some water from the rain catcher; it was nearly full. I managed to get him to drink some of it, and to give him some aspirin. I didn’t have much faith that the aspirin would help at this point, but I wasn’t going to pass up a chance that it might lower his fever.
Ben seemed calmer when he heard my voice, so I talked to him as I worked. I took the sleeping bag off him, and when I saw him tearing at his shirt, unbuttoned it and helped him take it off, running cool cloths over his skin. Eventually I cut his pants off, too, afraid that his occasional delirious efforts to pull them off would do more harm to his injured leg. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to mind keeping his briefs on.
I kept on talking, kept changing the cloths. It seemed to me that he was feeling cooler, but I couldn’t be certain — my hands were beginning to feel numb from the cold rainwater.
“Thirsty,” I heard him say, in not much more than a whisper. One look at his face told me that he was no longer out of his senses — but he was in pain.
I propped his head up, gave him more Keflex, and let him drink from the water bottle as long as he could.
“Thanks,” he said, and closed his eyes.
“Do you want some more aspirin? I’m sorry, it’s all I have.”
“No. I’m beyond the reach of aspirin,” he said.
I counted the Keflex tablets. There were ten left. I wondered if I had given him too many, or not enough. Or if it would do any good at all. Maybe I was trying to put out a four-alarm fire with a squirt gun.
I called Bingle to my side. He came, but he brought David’s sweater with him. I turned out the light and lay down in my sleeping bag. I felt a rush of emotion, a sense of relief that made me want to cry. I stroked the dog’s fur, tried to calm down enough to sleep.
Outside, the stream was running stronger, and its rushing sound overpowered the sounds I had listened for earlier in the night. I tried to listen for Ben’s breathing, or Bingle’s snore, but the stream and the rain were too loud. I didn’t hear Ben crying out in delirium, though, or moving restlessly, so I thought he must have fallen asleep. I don’t know how much time had passed when I heard him say, “What was that story you were telling me?”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
I felt my face grow warm. “You knew what was happening? You could understand me?”
“Not always. It’s a little jumbled.”
“Parzival,” I said.
“What?”
“The story was Parzival the Grail Knight. He’s this kind-hearted young knight who often unwittingly causes harm where he means to do good — there are several versions of the tale, but I told you stories from the German poem, by Wolfram von Eschenbach.”
“You told me a story in English,” he said testily.
“Yes, of course — based on a translation—”
“Good grief. Don’t tell me Brenda Starr is a scholar of medieval poetry?”
I didn’t reply.
“Sorry,” he said.
After a long silence he said, “Why do you prefer the German version?”
“It’s the only one I know. That’s the one Jack gave me, that’s the one I read. Some scholar, huh?”
“Look, I said I was sorry.”
“So you did.”
After another silence, he tried again. “Who’s Jack?”
“Our neighbor. He’s — well, Jack isn’t easy to explain. But he’s big on mythology and folklore.”
“Tell it to me again,” he said. “I’ll listen better this time.”
“I won’t be able to do it justice. There are lots of complicated relationships and battles and characters whose names I don’t remember. I sort of faked my way through it tonight. You’d be better off reading it when we get back.”
“I’ll let you sleep, then,” he said, and it wasn’t until that moment that I heard what had probably been in his voice all along.
“Well, if you don’t mind an inferior version of it . . .”
“I don’t mind.”
So I tried to distract him from his pain by telling him of young Parzival, raised in ignorance of knights and chivalry by an overly protective mother. Of course, the first time Parzival encountered knights, he could think of nothing he’d rather do than become one, and set off to offer his services to King Arthur. Although embarrassingly naive and untutored, he had a natural talent for the work.
Ben fell asleep just as Parzival was about to visit Wild Mountain and meet the Fisher King.
It was just after dawn by then, and although it was still fairly dark in the tent, there was enough light for me to see Ben Sheridan’s pale and haggard features.
“What’s wrong, Ben?” I whispered, my mind still half caught up in Parzival’s tale.
It seemed to be a silly question, under the circumstances. Pain, weakness, severe injuries. Bad weather, hunger, a killer on the loose nearby. Easy to name what was wrong with him.
Or was it? I thought back to my last conversation with David, as I left for my walk with Bingle. David had hinted that Ben had troubles before we began our journey to these meadows. Whatever those troubles were, I supposed it would be a long time, if ever, before Ben Sheridan would confide in me.
When I woke up, Bingle was gone. Worried, I put on my boots and jacket. I had just stepped out into a misty morning when he returned, his fur damp and muddy, his mouth looking swollen.
Oh, hell, I thought, he’s met up with a porcupine. But as he drew closer, I saw that he was gently carrying something in his mouth.
Please don’t let it be something from the meadow, I prayed. He looked at me uncertainly, as if he expected me to do something. Not knowing what my part in this script was, I stayed still. He shifted his weight, looking anxious, then lay down at my feet. Very slowly and carefully, he opened his mouth, and, between my feet, deposited what he had been carrying.