The Continent (The Continent #1)(30)

Embarrassed, I take the flask and cross to the other side of the fire pit, where I sit down with my body angled away from him. I’ve never thought of myself as particularly squeamish, but then, I’ve never been witness to anything other than minor injuries—not until touring the Continent, that is. My inclination is to continue hoping that a heli-plane will appear and deliver me to a sterile, state-of-the-art medical facility where my wound might be cared for by qualified professionals. I don’t want to see the gash in my leg, much less clean it. But I can’t have him looking at it either.

I purse my lips and exhale deeply, watching my warm breath fan out before me in a feathery cloud. All right. I can do this. I can clean it. It’s going to be fine.

Gingerly, carefully, I untie the bandage and peel it away from my trousers. It sticks at first; it’s encrusted with blood, a disgusting fact that I tuck away in the back of my mind before moving on to the next step. Then I spread open my ripped clothing to expose the wound, which is far worse than I feared it would be: red, swollen, gaping in one place, and seeping some sort of wretched fluid.

Noro is sitting only a few feet away, but his voice sounds tinny and distant. “How does it look?”

I shake my head, my lips pressed together. I hear him stand, dust himself off and move up behind me. I put my hand protectively over my leg and feel a deep aching throb. “Please,” I whisper, “let’s just be on our way.”

“We are not leaving until it’s tended,” he says, a note of exasperation in his voice. “Are you ill at the sight of blood? I can do it for you in a few minutes’ time.”

“No,” I say, looking up at him. “I don’t want you to touch it.”

“The longer you wait, the more painful it will be.”

“It’s not that,” I say, my voice faltering. “It’s just…my physician in the Spire, she’s…she’s a woman.”

He is silent for a moment. “You do not wish to be touched by a man.”

My face colors, and I look away. “Amongst my people, it’s not customary for a young man to lay eyes upon a woman’s bare leg.”

“Is it customary for young women to die of infection for the sake of propriety?”

“Of course not,” I say irritably.

He crouches down beside me and I flinch, but his gaze is steady and even. “I will not hurt you,” he says. “Nor will I look anywhere other than the wound itself. You have nothing to fear from me.”

“It’s just…I’m afraid I will vomit if I do it myself,” I say. “I think it is beginning to fester.”

His eyes hold mine, but he keeps his distance. “May I see to it?”

I nod, turn my face into my right shoulder, and take a deep breath.

Noro is a fast and efficient medic, as he promised he would be. I nearly faint from the pain when he breaks open the wound to clean it out, but before long, his ministrations are complete.

I sit with my hands at my belly, my eyes on the clouds above, while Noro prepares bandages for my leg. The laceration, though clean, is pulsing angrily, but the crisp morning air blows across my exposed thigh and offers a mild comfort of sorts.

“It’s good we took the time,” Noro says, squeezing alcohol from a strip of fabric torn from the Topi tent. “You may yet take ill, but your chances are far better than they were.”

“Thank you.” I glance over at him—keeping my eyes raised so as to avoid accidentally seeing the wound—and watch as he tends to the bandages. “I suppose that’s twice you’ve saved me, in the space of two days’ time.”

He nods almost imperceptibly, his eyes on the fabric. Satisfied that the first strip has dried, he leans over and begins to wrap it tightly around my leg. I jerk at the feel of the cold cloth, and of his smooth fingers against my skin. Our eyes meet for a quick moment; he clenches his jaw and returns his attention to the bandage.

While he dries the second strip, I turn my gaze back to the sky. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier,” I say softly. “I misspoke when I suggested that nothing on the Continent is…that nothing here is clean. It was a terribly disrespectful thing to say. I know this is your home.”

He shakes his head and begins to wrap the second bandage around my leg. “There is no need to apologize. You have lost much.”

“That is very kind of you,” I say.

He is quiet as he sets the third and final bandage aside to dry. I think suddenly of Aaden, of the horror on his face when my father pulled him from the escape pod. He ought to be here instead of me, I think. What right have I to survive when so many others were lost? How I wish I could be with my family, wherever they are now.

Noro sits back and looks at me thoughtfully, the pale contours of my face reflected in his eyes. “I understand your pain. As I told you, I am no stranger to loss. But you must take care, girl, for you will quickly learn that the Continent will not afford you the luxury of grief.”

“What do you mean?”

He pauses. “I mean that you must reserve your pain for quiet moments. You must not let it soften you, but rather you must become sharpened by its edges, made stronger by its grip. When it claws at your heart, you must roar back. This is not a place for softness. The weak do not survive here. Do you understand?”

This is not a place for softness. An image from my dream, one of lilac-scented pillows and gossamer curtains, flits before my eyes. I look down at my hands, coated with dirt and grime, and think how very long ago it seems that I set eyes upon anything of comfort or beauty. I recall my mother’s face, soft and alabaster, luminous against her dark hair. I think of our home in the Spire, of its wide rooms and corridors, its plush carpets and familiar smells. How I long to be there—to cling to the presence of my mother and father, which must surely be etched into the very walls. The mere thought is so painful that it robs me of my breath.