Verita (29 page)

“Brett!” Ryan yells. He hurtles forward, grabs me by the wrist and tries to pull me away. Just as my fingertips brush the flower, three black barbs shoot out, but they land in Ryan’s hand instead of mine. “Damn it!” he swears and storms away.

I run after him. “Ryan, slow down and let me look at your hand!”

He doesn’t respond to my plea.

“What the hell were you thinking? Haven’t you learned anything since the first day I met you?” I flinch at the hurt, accusing tone in his voice.

“I’m sorry. You’re right; I wasn’t thinking. I don’t know what came over me. The flower’s smell was just overpowering. Didn’t you notice it?”

His shoulders relax a little. “No. My nose is stuffed.” I watch his shoulders hunch back up. “But smell or no smell, there’s no reason you approach any unknown plant or animal like that.”

“I know. I really don’t know what happened. My brain stopped working.” I choke the words out as I fight back tears. “Please, Ryan, I feel horrible. I should be the injured one, not you. Please stop, so I can look at it and get the barbs out. Please,” I beg.

“Fine.” He grumbles and sits down, crossing his legs.

I quickly grab my first-aid kit and look for tweezers. I wish I had something for pain. The barbs will hurt more coming out than going in. I grab his hand and examine the three barbs. At least they hit the area between his thumb and pointer finger; there’s less flesh there to dig into. When they were in the flower, they resembled ordinary stamen: but up close it’s easy to see the jagged hooks jutting out.

Ryan wipes a tear from my cheek with his free hand. “You look like you’re the one in pain,” he laughs dryly.

“I should be. I deserve to be. This is all my fault.” My voice cracks.

“I won’t argue with you on that point, but beating yourself up over it isn’t going to help anyone.” He says it with more sympathy than I deserve.

“I’m so sorry,” I apologize.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. It’s not even hurting right now.” He smiles as if to prove his point.

I shake my head. “But it will. The only way I can see to get these out is to pull.”

“So pull. I can handle it.” He puffs out his chest, trying to make me laugh.

“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He nods and closes his eyes, bracing himself in preparation. Using the tweezers, I get a firm grasp on the first barb. I used my free hand’s fingers to press down the skin around the barb; I hope to at least minimize any tearing. Then I pull. It comes out with surprising ease. I repeat the steps with the remaining two, and they come out just as easily. I line up the three barbs beside each other and examine them. They’re all the same size and look intact.

Over my shoulder, Ryan comments, “Strange response from a flower.” He reaches around me and scoops the barbs into a sample jar.

“Defensive response?” I question.

“That would be my initial guess, but if so, why didn’t the barbs cause pain? Even when you pulled them out, it barely hurt. I’m guessing seed dispersal, but it looks like this flower was
unpollinated
. Look, there aren’t any seeds on the end of the barbs.” He holds up the jar so I can see.

“I’m just glad it didn’t hurt more. I feel bad enough already,” I say as he rubs his fingers over the three red dots left in his hand.

“Enough of the apologizing; it’s getting really old. Just promise me the next time you smell something like that, you’ll hold your nose instead of trying to pick it.” He lightly punches me in the arm and snickers at me.

“Promise.” I smile back at him, and finish cleaning and bandaging his hand. He tries to argue the bandage is too much, but I’m not chancing an infection. So he gives in to placate me.

The next morning there still isn’t any sign of Caper, but we have plenty of berries from the other day, so we don’t worry. We pack up camp and get an early start to our day. We can already tell it’s going to be hot again.

It’s nearing lunch time when I first notice Ryan’s pace is slowing. I ask him if he wants to rest, but he insists he’s fine. A little later, I notice him stagger. I force him to stop and at least drink some water.

“Let me see your hand. I want to examine it while we’re stopped.” I reach out toward him, but he steps away.

“No, it’s fine.” His tone is too defensive.

“Then you can have the enjoyment of telling me that you told me so. Now give me your hand.” I grab his hand, but he yanks it back from my grasp.

“I’m fine,” he mutters.

“Ryan, you’re burning up!” I place my hands on his forehead, and then on his neck. His skin is on fire. “Give me the hand now!” I demand.

He reluctantly places his hand in mine. I slowly unwrap the bandage, and then I gasp. The whole area where the barbs were is swollen and red. I carefully press my fingers around the area, and he winces. “So what was your plan? To keep ignoring the pain until you passed out?” I look at him sternly.

“No; I was hoping we’d find a side stream we could follow. Stopping here without any source of food or water won’t do us any good,” he insists.

“That’s a good point, but you should have told me. We should at least rest in the shade until you feel a bit better.” I open my pack to get him some berries.

“No.” He tone is flat and unyielding.

“Ryan, don’t be unreasonable,” I plead.

“I’m not. I didn’t say anything because having you worry about me won’t do either of us any good. But now that you know, I should tell you that it’s getting worse. Wasting time resting will just allow it to progress more. We can stop and eat a quick lunch, but then we need to be on our way again.”

“Ryan—” My voice trails off. I don’t know what to say.

“If it gets to the point where I can’t go on, you’ll have to leave me behind,” he commands somberly.

“Don’t talk like that! You know there’s no way I could leave you behind.” I feel my heart speed up and my mind race as I realize just how serious the situation is.

“You may have to,” he warns.

“I’m not discussing this. We’re going to find a side river and rest there so you can fight this infection.” I turn my back on him and grab the berries out of my pack. At least having lunch will force him to rest a little while. I’m furious and frightened by his suggestion. I can’t even think about it.

We eat lunch in silence. I spend the whole time alternating between glaring at him and examining his face for signs of deterioration. When we’re ready to leave, he has trouble getting to his feet. I start to feel panicked.

As we walk, I scan the woods for material to make a stretcher. I’ve already decided. If he goes down, I’ll drag him with me. I find a long branch that looks sturdy enough and I quickly strip the side branches off. When Ryan gives me a questioning look, I explain that it’s a walking stick. Surprisingly, he takes it and uses it.

By the time I find the second branch, Ryan’s condition is too bad to even notice my actions. He’s having a hard time walking in a straight line, and he no longer picks his feet up all the way to take a step, so he keeps stumbling. I offer him a shoulder to lean on and am frightened when he easily accepts it.

A little while later he asks if we can rest for a moment, then proceeds to pass out. I manage to catch him as he spins toward the ground, and guide him down carefully without causing any more injuries. I want to crumble with my panic, grief and worry, but I know I don’t have time for that indulgence. I grab the sleeping bag and duct tape and quickly assemble a stretcher. I load him on, and take a moment to re-examine his hand. It’s now oozing a yellow substance from the dots the barbs made. The angry red skin is now a mix of red and purple blotches, and the skin feels hard.

I quickly pick up the stretcher and begin dragging him. I need to get us to water and build a fire so I can sanitize a knife to drain his wound.

Despite my best efforts, my pace with Ryan is painfully slow. I keep stopping the stretcher to give him some more water and check his hand. He wakes a few times and tries to argue that I should leave him, but I won’t listen.

It’s dusk when I finally find a side stream. I get my flashlight out of my pack, duct tape it to my arm, and continue. Usually the walks along the side streams are short and quick, but tonight it seems to take an eternity. By the time I find the lake and the berry patch, the stars are shining brightly in the night sky.

I quickly set up the igloo and get Ryan inside. The sleeping bag is still intact after disassembling the stretcher, so I place Ryan on top of the bag and take his shirt off. His fever feels dangerously high. I dip his shirt in the lake’s cool water and place it over his chest, hoping it will help cool him while I start the fire.

I look across the lake. The dancing shimmer of moonlight on the ripples caused by the waterfall gives me no joy. I feel truly lost. I had no real medical training, and no idea of how to help Ryan get better. I’m suddenly resentful of the spur of the moment decision that started me on this journey. If I had just stopped and reconsidered leaving Earth, Ryan wouldn’t be lying here now. He wouldn’t be lost in the woods because I dragged him into an unsafe canyon, but safe and sound on the base.

Full of despair, worry and guilt, I question myself: could I, would I, go on by myself? Could I find the willpower and energy to continue traveling?

I have just finished gathering enough material for my fire when I hear a familiar chirping noise. “Caper! I’m so glad to see you. Ryan’s hurt and I don’t know what to do for him,” I babble pointlessly.

Caper just chirps and purrs back at me. I’m feeling so desperate that anyone to voice my concerns to is a relief. I sigh and turn my attention back to building a fire. I watch Caper go over to greet Ryan. His reaction confuses me. Initially he starts with his usual cuddling, but abruptly he stops and hisses. I snap my head around to look at them fully. Caper grabs Ryan’s hand and examines it, then lets out another hiss and runs from the camp, taking any remaining hope I have with him.

Despair takes over. Caper not wanting to be near Ryan can only mean that Caper knows what I’m unable to admit. Ryan is dying. I start the fire and grab my knife. I’ll at least try everything I can.

I hesitate before making the slice necessary to drain the wound. “Ryan, this is going to hurt.” I don’t wait for the response I know I can’t get. I slice an ‘X’ across the wound. Blood and pus ooze from it. Once the oozing stops, I clean it and apply fresh gauze. Then I busy myself trying to cool Ryan. I don’t have a thermometer, but he feels too hot for it to be safe. I activate the cold packs from my backpack and place them on him. I continue to re-wet his shirt and wipe the cool water across his body. When my cold packs are warm, I activate the cold packs from his first-aid kit.

I hold Ryan’s head in my lap and look down at him. Beads of sweat cover his face. I try to get him to drink some water, but it just dribbles out the side of his mouth. His skin has a yellow tinge to it, like a jaundiced newborn. I check the whites of his eyes: they’re also tinged yellow. I try to think back to the PBS documentaries I was once fond of watching. Are they signs of his liver or kidneys failing? It doesn’t matter which. Out here in the woods, either diagnosis is a death sentence.

I run back to the water and re-wet his shirt. As I wipe him down, I cry and beg for his forgiveness. He’s dying, and it’s entirely my fault. It’s my fault we had to investigate the river, it’s my fault he got hit by the flower, and it’s my fault that I’m too stupid to know what to do to help him. I wonder if it would be more humane for me to just help him on his way. Once I did, I could walk back to the cliff and help myself end it all. But do I have the strength to do that for him?

I look back down at his face. For now he seems peaceful in his sleep. I decide to wait until he is in pain before I intervene. There is still a chance that he will pass peacefully in his sleep. He at least deserves a chance at a peaceful death.

Sometime close to dawn I close my eyes to rest for a moment. It is early morning when I awake to Caper’s chirps. I can easily hear Ryan’s breathing; it has become labored. I hurry to dampen his shirt with fresh cool water while I curse myself for falling asleep.

I’m startled to see a fully grown
meerkit
with Caper. As I return with the wet shirt, it enters the igloo. I have to fight my instinct to drive it off. I trust Caper, and he’d brought the
meerkit
here. I enter the igloo behind it and sit cross-legged on the opposite side of Ryan. The
meerkit
pays me no attention, and proceeds to examine Ryan. It sniffs him from head-to-toe. It places its hands on his chest and face, and then pulls back his eyelids. I resist the urge to slap its hand away from his face.

Finally, the
meerkit
centers its attention on Ryan’s hand. It pokes and prods the hand and twists it in different directions. Then it lifts Ryan’s hand to its mouth. I realize what it’s preparing to do and cringe. Bile hits the back of my throat; I hear the sickening crunch of Ryan’s skin against the
meerkit’s
teeth. I hadn’t expected that sound; the wound must have crusted over.

Next the
meerkit
begins roughly squeezing the wound. Ryan cries out in pain but doesn’t wake. I grab a hold of his other hand and began wiping his forehead with the cool shirt. I whisper lies to him, telling him the pain will be over soon and that everything is going to be alright. My heart aches to make the words true.