the leg hard, as Granny had jerked her arm. I will tug on that cord, twist it until I feel the click of bone joining, and let him bring the ghosts from out of these hills with his screams, for I have no stomach to spill his blood.
I turn him until his feet are close to the twisted tree. I will loop the cord around a lower branch so it might lift the leg. The cord is not long enough. I cut the ties from my half-dress and join them to the cord, test its strength as I look at the slim branch, hoping it too has strength enough. The ties looped around it, I force more cordial into his mouth, hoping it may silence his screams, then I stand, my face to the sun, waiting for my consciousness to centre, and for the great silence to return.
And it comes. Slowly, then, I wind the half-dress tie around and around my hand.
âOne.
âTwo.â
There is no count of three. Instead I lift the leg high, pull, twist it, and the small branch complains, but if Jonjan complains I do not hear him. Then I see the jerk of bone finding bone and I feel it in my hand. I feel it in my hand.
Fast now. Lord, let him not move now. No moulded book cover to support this break, but strong bark I did not burn for it had been ready curved by nature to the shape of his leg. I cut it to length, snap two small branches from the tree and say that this will do. It is all I have, so I will make it do.
I use the cord from his shoes and my half-dress ties to bind the splint, then rip more bandage from my half-dress. He does not move. Perhaps I have killed him with the pain of it, or with the cordial, but I will not think of that now.
I choose to bind his leg above the ankle and below the knee, leaving the raw flesh free. It takes too long to brace the leg with my meagre equipment, and twice when I feel myself weakening, I sip too well from the bottle. But, oh, the grand sense of achievement when it is done. Such a fine thing I have accomplished with my hands.
The wound, having been disturbed, bleeds profusely. Surely this is good. Is it not natureâs way of cleansing? I watch it, wait for it to slow; he appears to have little enough of the stuff, his colour is ashen. But he is breathing, and while I watch, the bleeding slows, and surely the wound does not gape as previously. I think it is as if his cells, in celebration, already begin to weave.
I try to stand then, to stretch cramped limbs, and for a moment I can not gain my feet. My head is light, and I near fall. For too long I have crouched over my labour. Still on my knees, I look for the sun and see that morning is well gone and we are in shade. Is it any wonder that my legs are numb? Holding firmly to a rock I wait until blood circulates and the noise of the land returns to cancel the pounding in my ears, all the while staring at my hands. So familiar, but so strange they are, like some fantasy, like the last remnants of a dream I have dreamed. Unreal.
âBut you are real,â I tell my hands as I lift them from the rock, stare at their palms, at their fingers. âUp here, you have become real and I have found a lost part of me, and that lost part of me has done very well. These hands, my hands, have given him a chance at life.â
The fingers, long fine things, are red with his blood. They do not look at all like my useless hands.
(Excerpt from the New World Bible)
Year 21 of the New Beginning saw the first Harvesting of female ovum, for in that year, in all of the known world there were fifty-five female breeders and seventeen not yet of breeding age. And the mortality rate of the newborn was high. In this year there was much experimentation in the laboratories, and much engineering and development.
Â
The year 22 saw the Implanting of Harvested ovum onto the bowels of those males who volunteered to carry it. And they did not carry it long, and it was wasted.
Â
There was much waste in that year, for the corn crop failed, and the potato rotted within the earth and there
I turn him until his feet are close to the twisted tree. I will loop the cord around a lower branch so it might lift the leg. The cord is not long enough. I cut the ties from my half-dress and join them to the cord, test its strength as I look at the slim branch, hoping it too has strength enough. The ties looped around it, I force more cordial into his mouth, hoping it may silence his screams, then I stand, my face to the sun, waiting for my consciousness to centre, and for the great silence to return.
And it comes. Slowly, then, I wind the half-dress tie around and around my hand.
âOne.
âTwo.â
There is no count of three. Instead I lift the leg high, pull, twist it, and the small branch complains, but if Jonjan complains I do not hear him. Then I see the jerk of bone finding bone and I feel it in my hand. I feel it in my hand.
Fast now. Lord, let him not move now. No moulded book cover to support this break, but strong bark I did not burn for it had been ready curved by nature to the shape of his leg. I cut it to length, snap two small branches from the tree and say that this will do. It is all I have, so I will make it do.
I use the cord from his shoes and my half-dress ties to bind the splint, then rip more bandage from my half-dress. He does not move. Perhaps I have killed him with the pain of it, or with the cordial, but I will not think of that now.
I choose to bind his leg above the ankle and below the knee, leaving the raw flesh free. It takes too long to brace the leg with my meagre equipment, and twice when I feel myself weakening, I sip too well from the bottle. But, oh, the grand sense of achievement when it is done. Such a fine thing I have accomplished with my hands.
The wound, having been disturbed, bleeds profusely. Surely this is good. Is it not natureâs way of cleansing? I watch it, wait for it to slow; he appears to have little enough of the stuff, his colour is ashen. But he is breathing, and while I watch, the bleeding slows, and surely the wound does not gape as previously. I think it is as if his cells, in celebration, already begin to weave.
I try to stand then, to stretch cramped limbs, and for a moment I can not gain my feet. My head is light, and I near fall. For too long I have crouched over my labour. Still on my knees, I look for the sun and see that morning is well gone and we are in shade. Is it any wonder that my legs are numb? Holding firmly to a rock I wait until blood circulates and the noise of the land returns to cancel the pounding in my ears, all the while staring at my hands. So familiar, but so strange they are, like some fantasy, like the last remnants of a dream I have dreamed. Unreal.
âBut you are real,â I tell my hands as I lift them from the rock, stare at their palms, at their fingers. âUp here, you have become real and I have found a lost part of me, and that lost part of me has done very well. These hands, my hands, have given him a chance at life.â
The fingers, long fine things, are red with his blood. They do not look at all like my useless hands.
(Excerpt from the New World Bible)
Year 21 of the New Beginning saw the first Harvesting of female ovum, for in that year, in all of the known world there were fifty-five female breeders and seventeen not yet of breeding age. And the mortality rate of the newborn was high. In this year there was much experimentation in the laboratories, and much engineering and development.
Â
The year 22 saw the Implanting of Harvested ovum onto the bowels of those males who volunteered to carry it. And they did not carry it long, and it was wasted.
Â
There was much waste in that year, for the corn crop failed, and the potato rotted within the earth and there
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