The Isle of Blood (The Monstrumologist #3)(108)

Awaale returned and reported he’d found a suitable spot to spend the night. We shouldered our packs and followed him up the narrow trail, a steep, serpentine corridor that wound between two sheer rock walls. A lid of low, gray clouds spun restlessly overhead; and a river of wind funneled through the pass. After traversing a hundred yards or so, we came to a cleft in the cliff face, six feet across at the bottom and about that high, narrowing to a point at the top, a deep gash in the stone that could not be properly called a cave, but it would offer some protection from the elements. The shadows inside the cleft were deep, and the doctor peered anxiously inside.

“It is safe,” Awaale assured him. “A scorpion or two, but I took care of them.” His smile was bright. He was proud of his accomplishment.

Exhausted, I threw myself upon the ground and refused to get up, though Awaale tried to entice me with some food. I rolled up my poncho to make a pillow and closed my eyes. Their voices floated over me—some discussion about who would take the first watch. Outside, the clouds sent down the wind and the wind blew out the light, and darkness lighted upon the trail like a great black bird of prey. Someone lay down next to me, and a warm hand pressed briefly upon my brow—Awaale.

I fell into the lightest of dozes, and then light shot into the space, and I sat up—Awaale, too, and then we stood up.

“Dhaktar?” Awaale called softly. “You said no light!”

We could see him standing just outside the opening, holding the lantern in one hand and the revolver in the other, peering off into the gloom.

“There is something out there, on the other side of those rocks,” he said. “Awaale.”

He motioned with the gun. Awaale picked up his rifle and stepped outside. The two men remained motionless for some time.

“There!” whispered Warthrop. “Did you hear it?”

Awaale slowly shook his head. “I hear the wind.”

“There it is again! Stay here.”

The doctor eased up the path, disappearing from view. I scooted forward; Awaale waved me back. He raised his rifle. The doctor’s light faded, and the dark washed over Awaale, swallowing him whole.

“Awaale,” I called to him quietly. “Do you see him?”

The light returned, throwing jittery shadows as it came, flowing over Awaale and then illuminating the entrance to the cleft. Awaale slung his rifle over his shoulder and accepted the lamp from the doctor, who needed both hands to keep his burden upright.

Leaning against the monstrumologist was a young woman, her clothes hanging in tatters, her long hair matted and encrusted with filth, her bare feet leaving bloody tattoos on the rock. He brought her inside, eased her down carefully, and motioned for Awaale to hand me the lamp. I saw then the woman was not alone: She was clutching a sleeping baby to her breast.

She said something. The doctor shook his head; he did not understand. She repeated it, her eyes wide and frightened.

“What is she saying?” Warthrop asked Awaale.

“I don’t know.”

The doctor looked sharply at him. “What do you mean? You speak their language.”

“I speak Somali and English and a little French. I do not know the language on Socotra.”

“You don’t…” Warthrop was staring at him as if he’d just confessed to murder. “Captain Russell told me that you did.”

The woman pulled on Warthrop’s sleeve, pointed outside, and jabbered something hysterically. The doctor’s focus, however, was on poor Awaale.

“It was the only reason I allowed you to come with us! Why did you lie to me?”

“I didn’t lie to you. Captain Julius lied to you.”

“To what purpose?”

“So you would let me come? I don’t know. You should ask him.”

“And I will, if I live long enough!” He turned to me. “My instrument case, Will Henry.” He turned back to the woman. “I am doctor. Doctor. Do you understand?” He tried it in French. Awaale tried it in Somali. The monstrumolo-gist tested Arabic next. Nothing. He pulled the stethoscope from the case and held it up. “See? Doctor.”

She nodded emphatically and broke into a smile. Her teeth were dazzling white against the backdrop of her smudged face. She calmed down considerably, shaking her head with wonder at her good fortune—a doctor, here, of all places! She meekly submitted to the examination—heart, pulse, breathing, and last, her eyes, while I shone the light. The doctor sighed, and pointed at the child. “I will need to examine him. Yes?” He gently slid his hands beneath the slumbering infant, and her eyes hardened; she shook her head violently and tightened her grip. Warthrop held up his hands, smiling reassuringly, and said, “All right, good mother. You may hold him.” He pressed his fingers gently against the child’s wrist. Listened to his heart. Peeled up one eyelid and stared for a very long time at the exposed orb. He smiled again at her, nodding as if to say, He’s fine. He set down the lamp and backed out of the cleft, motioning for me to follow.

“She is in the early stages of exposure,” he said.

Awaale gasped. “And the child?”

“The child is not infected.”

Awaale wiped his hand across his mouth. He looked up and down the path, then back at the doctor.

“What must we do?”

“We must convince her somehow to give up the child,” whispered the monstrumologist.