The 13 th tribe

[29]

With Creed’s arms draped over their shoulders, two monks half carried, half dragged him down a dark corridor. Gheronda followed, praying loudly. They approached another monk, who ushered them into a small room: water-stained plaster walls, the smell of candle wax, spartan in every way. They lowered him onto a bed-no more than a raised board covered with blankets-and immediately forced his head around so they could inspect the bloody bandages.

“I’m all right,” he said, weakly pushing at them.

Brother Ramon tugged the bandage up and off, taking with it a profusion of hair.

“Ahhh!” Creed complained, grabbing the back of his head and glaring at the monk.

Brother Ramon unclipped the strap from the duffel bag and pulled at it.

Creed yanked it back. “This stays with me!”

Ramon leaned in, grabbed Creed’s chin, and turned his head.

Creed said, “All right, all right,” and shifted to face the wall. Ramon pushed away clumps of bloody hair.

Leaning around Ramon, Gheronda saw the wound, and it wasn’t what he’d expected. It was several inches long, as though the bullet had struck at an angle, gouging up the flesh. Scar tissue appeared to be already forming along the edges, making it look like a mouth with leprous lips. Ramon touched the hair just below it; blood welled up and spilled out. Ramon snatched his finger away and looked back at Gheronda.

Gheronda smiled. “I’m sure he’ll be just fine.”

“I told you,” Creed said, turning to face his audience. He rubbed the back of his head, examined his bloody palm, and returned it to the wound. “Fierce headache, though.”

Gheronda pulled the monks away. He said, “Let’s give the man some room. Brother Ramon, I’ll leave it to you to keep the bandages fresh.”

Ramon nodded and walked to a writing desk, where he began rummaging through a satchel.

As if remembering an urgent task, Creek yanked the duffel up to his chest and unzipped it. He pulled out a mobile phone, ran his thumb across the screen, and squinted at it. “Oh, come on,” he said. He shook it, held it up high, then tossed it into the corner of the room, where bits of it shattered off.

“Shhh,” Gheronda said soothingly. “There’s time for everything you need to do.” He tugged a blanket up from the bottom of the bed, covering Creed, and gently pushed on his chest. “Lean back. What you need now is rest.”

Creed grabbed a handful of the monk’s cloak and pulled him close. He gazed into Gheronda’s eyes with a mixture of insistence and pleading. “What I need now, right now, is a phone.”