Eagle by Jack Hight Page B

bubbled up and ran down his side. Ibn Jumay sniffed at the wound and nodded, apparently pleased. Last of all, he cleaned the blood away from the Frank’s right thigh. The flesh around the wound was angry and red. Ibn Jumay poked at the spot with his finger, then bent down and sniffed. ‘Infected,’ he muttered to himself. ‘They let the arrowhead fester inside him for three days, then expect me to perform miracles.’
    Ibn Jumay bent down and picked up a brown leather bag, which he placed on the table. He opened it and carefully removed several ceramic bottles, placing them beside the Frank. Next, he took out a leather bundle and unrolled it on the table before him. Dozens of tiny pockets had been cut into the inside of the roll. Some bulged with mysterious contents. Others held wicked-looking knives and strange iron instruments. Ibn Jumay rubbed his hands together, then selected a short blade, a curved needle and a set of pincers that ended in two flat, circular disks. From another pouch, he removed a ball of string.
    Yusuf moved to the open doorway, where he had a better view. ‘What are those for?’ he asked.
    ‘You are blocking the light, Yusuf,’ Ibn Jumay said without looking up. He nodded towards the corner. ‘Sit there if you must watch. As for these, their purpose is not hard to divine. The knife is for cutting, the needle for sewing, and these—’ he held up the pincers, ‘are for extracting.’
    ‘Extracting what? And why do you need to sew?’
    ‘Be silent and watch. You shall see.’
    The doctor unstopped a square, blue ceramic bottle and poured a small amount of the contents over each of the wounds. The Frank flinched.
    ‘What is that?’ Yusuf asked.
    ‘Pure alcohol.’ Ibn Jumay held out the vial.
    Yusuf inhaled deeply, then coughed. ‘It burns,’ he said, his eyes watering.
    ‘It will purify his wounds.’ Ibn Jumay lifted the Frank’s leftarm and moved it in a circle while peering into the ragged hole in the Frank’s shoulder. ‘The tendons appear to be intact. With any luck, he should have use of his arm again.’ The doctor took up the curved needle and carefully threaded it from the ball of string. He hooked the needle through the flesh on either side of  the wound and pulled the thread through. He continued, expertly sewing up the wound as if he were working with a piece of cloth.
    Yusuf frowned. ‘Will he not have string stuck in his shoulder?’
    ‘A good question, Yusuf, but this is not string. It is called catgut, although it is made from the dried intestines of a goat.’ Yusuf grimaced. ‘It will dissolve over time, leaving only a thin scar.’ Ibn Jumay finished sewing, cut the catgut and tied it off. Next, he took out a yellowish paste that smelled of rotten eggs. He rubbed it over the wound, which he then bandaged with cotton dressings. ‘That will do for the shoulder.’ He moved down the Frank’s body and again examined the gash in his side. ‘Come, Yusuf. Since you are here, you can make yourself useful. Help me flip him over.’
    Together, they managed to roll the Frank on to his stomach, revealing another gash in his back. ‘He is lucky, this one,’ Ibn Jumay noted. ‘The sword went straight through, but appears to have missed his vital organs.’ The doctor doused the back wound with alcohol, then sewed it up. He and Yusuf flipped the body over again, and Ibn Jumay sewed up the gash in the Frank’s stomach, leaving a small gap at the end of the wound.
    ‘Why did you not sew it up all the way?’ Yusuf asked as he held the boy upright while Ibn Jumay applied the foul-smelling paste and bandaged the Frank’s torso.
    ‘The vile matter inside him must be given a place of exit,’ Ibn Jumay said matter-of-factly. ‘Otherwise, it will kill him.’ He frowned as he moved to the Frank’s injured leg. ‘Now for the unpleasant part.’ He removed the cork from a small red vial, carefully poured a small amount of clear liquid on to a cottonball and dabbed gently