His own position was different. He was strong and fit. He knew it and drew consolation from it. The pain would, undoubtedly, be a shock to his system, but he now had to distance his mind from pain. It was a trick already learned. Pain could be borne. Pain did not kill, it merely blunted the other senses. Bond focused on keeping his other senses withdrawn from the physical pain, and this was the most important facet of being psychologically prepared for what was to come.
Finally, with his mind distanced from his physical being, Bond rose and walked down to the braves waiting around the Sacred Lodge, ready for the last challenge, the o-kee-pa.
20
O-KEE-PA
The Sacred Lodge seemed to be filled with a film of smoke from the pipes of the older men who sat in huddled clutches near the triangular, gallows-like structure erected from thick weathered trees.
First, Bond was stripped and a soft loincloth placed around his waist and between his legs. His feet were left bare, then he was led by two of the Medicine Man’s assistants to his place below one of the crossbeams, and turned to face Brokenclaw. He gazed fixedly at his opponent’s left ear. It was an old trick which could sometimes give the impression that he was staring out an enemy.
The drumming began, deep thuds, almost in waltz time, but slow and hypnotic. The chanting followed, eerie and as though from throats that had little to do with mankind. Bond fixed his mind on the rhythm, taking deep breaths, ready for the first shock of pain.
One of the assistants gathered a handful of flesh from directly under his right shoulder blade, and the agony leaped through him as the first sharp peg pierced his skin and slammed through the flesh, searing his whole back. He could feel the blood wet below the wound and struggled to force mind away from body.
Then the next peg went in on the left side and the hurt doubled – huge sharp needles seemed to have blasted through his back, and he began to feel dizzy at the effect. He took in deep breaths, concentrating more and more on the throbbing of the drums and the guttural wail of the chant.
He was hardly aware of the men making ready his right calf until the sharp peg slashed into his leg, sending pain drenching through him. At the insertion of the final peg, Bond thought he was going to lose consciousness there and then, but he managed to keep the still centre of his mind on the need to overcome the anguish.
They had told him that the buffalo skulls were very old, and had remained with some of the tribes for many years. Though old they were still heavy. He suspected they were also weighted with stones.
Brokenclaw had made no sound as they were piercing his body, and Bond knew that but for a quick intake of breath at the first penetration, he had also kept from crying out. He kept his eyes to the front, feeling the sweat run down from his forehead, bubbling over his eyes.
From far away he heard the Medicine Man give a long shout which seemed to rise and fall, then merge into the chanting. A second later his brain reacted to the knowledge that this was the signal for the slack to be taken up on the rawhide ropes. He thought the whole of his back was going to be ripped apart as his body took the strain once his feet were off the ground. Then his back became one blazing area of fire, and as he was lifted higher, he felt the unbearable weight on the pegs in his calves. Pain seemed to saturate his entire being then stab out in great eruptions from the points where the four pegs had been driven, so that, while the agony was complete and in unison from toe to head, even worse, sharper, knife-like stabs shot through him.
The drag on the calf pegs became stronger, and he realised that there was added agony because his body had started to oscillate slightly. It was as if the pegs in his legs were razor sharp and being slowly drawn down, as though they were knives being sliced through the butter of his flesh.
Again and again he had to force his mind away from what his body was telling him, that he was being rent and ravaged by the pegs. The sense of total suffering seemed to be without end. He could see, or feel, no relief, no solace, just the raging fires consuming him. Twice he managed to bring himself back from the brink of unconsciousness, and once he tried to see how Brokenclaw was holding up, but the sweat ran in small waterfalls from his hairline down across his eyes.
Nausea gripped his stomach, then the cramps began, shouting above the harsh, slashing explosions of torment which came from the pegs.
Then, without warning, he heard, as though from far away, the drum beats taking on a new and faster rhythm and there was movement. The hanging was over, and they were slowly lowering him to the ground.
The weight came off his legs, and the strain from the ropes attached to the pegs in his back was released. At that moment, Bond had to struggle to remain standing. He was aware of the thongs at his back being cut and of the two assistants jostling him, pushing, shouting.
Through the white heat of what felt like a thousand wounds in his body, he realised it was time to begin the run. He fought the almost overpowering discomfort, focused his mind first on Chi-Chi, then on the necessity of beating his adversary. If you don’t win, James, Brokenclaw Lee will go on to more evil, his mind shrieked at him. The agony shrieked back as he put one foot forward and pulled against the rope and the buffalo skull.
He managed two steps towards the doorway of the Sacred Lodge before he slipped and fell. As they pulled him up, he caught sight of Brokenclaw, his face contorted in his own private hell, also being helped forward.
There was one way, and one way only. He must rid himself of the weights. Clenching his teeth, he kicked back and then forward. He felt the flesh being torn, and a new highly tuned pain in the right leg.
He performed the same action with his left leg, and, this time, actually felt the flesh give way, a terrible cutting and wrenching as the peg was torn out and the wetness of the blood sliding down his leg.
But the peg remained attached to his right calf. With his mind still centred on Chi-Chi and the need to win, Bond reached down, grasped the leather rope and heaved the peg from its place. He felt the searing heat of the wounds, but was able to stagger forward, using both legs.
He brought his hand up to wipe the sweat from his eyes, gathered his strength and began to move. Not far, he thought. It is not far to go. But his legs burned as though the Medicine Man’s assistants were lashing at his calves with red-hot pokers.
Get into a rhythm, he told himself. To hell with what you are feeling. Just get the rhythm. The drums seemed all around him; he was aware of Indians shouting, as though urging him on, and, slowly at first, he began to get one leg in front of the other.
As he reached the door, his shoulder jarred against something and he looked to his left to see Brokenclaw, staggering, dazed but forcing his body through the opening at the same time. They were neck and neck, Bond thought, and somehow this seemed to give him more heart. He began to jog, but the suffering which swept upwards through his body at each stride made him want to vomit. He bit his lip hard, in that old trick of inflicting a new pain on himself in order to try to overwhelm the old.
Another four steps. His mind began to tell him the old pain was old. It had been with him for an age, not simply half-an-hour or so. His mind began to welcome the eternal throbbing, the pulse of the fire that consumed him, and through the depths of despair, measured in the thousand sharp objects cutting into his body and drawing out his lifeblood, he saw the way ahead. Slowly now his mind had begun to triumph over the exquisite torture racking him.