To Fight the Black Wind

Chapter 2

After my meeting with Josephine, I sought out her former psychologist, Dr. Mintz, for any information he would give me. I knew from the start that this would be a challenge. Thus far, I had refused to link my research into hypnotic drugs to his research involving his “dream enhancer.” Had I known that his helpfulness was based only on what he could get from me, I might have refused to work at Arkham Sanatorium.

With this between us, my relationship with the “good” doctor was strained at best and adversarial at worst. I had hoped to land somewhere in-between in this conversation.

Our meeting went about as well as could be expected.

“Dr. Mintz!” I hailed the doctor just before he disappeared into his office. He paused in the doorway and waited—a trim, older man who gazed at me with an air of impatience. He was not a friendly man when you would not give him what he wanted. While he was not outright hostile, his pleasant demeanor was saved for those who were willing to give him something.

“What is it?” He stepped into his office and turned, putting his hands behind his back.

“Miss Josephine Ruggles. You interviewed her several times. I thought I would—”

He scoffed, interrupting me. “That hysterical woman? Have you not already sorted out the fact that she is harming herself for attention? Prescribe her some laudanum and send her home.”

I paused, taken aback. “Oh? After a week with Miss Ruggles, that is your only diagnosis?”

Dr. Mintz hesitated at my question and the tone of my voice. He hmphed. “Well, I must admit, for a woman of her race she is uncommonly well educated, well spoken, and well-to-do. She is remarkable in those rare aspects.”

I widened my eyes, hiding my annoyance at his old-fashioned sensibilities. “Her race?”

“Yes. You do not often see black heiresses, or even educated black women for that matter.”

“That is not exactly true, Doctor.” I kept my voice light. “I come from a well-to-do family. It was required to afford my education. More than one-fourth of my university class was not white. As for well-to-do, when it comes to the nouveau riche, which many of the black elite are, it is the color of your money that matters. At least among the younger generation.”

The doctor hmphed again. “Be that as it may, Dr. Fern, I stand behind my diagnosis of hysteria. Miss Ruggles simply wants attention.”

“And her wounds? I have looked at them. They are very regular and the skin around them is—”

“She is talented, I will give her that. Limber enough to scratch all parts of her back. I do not know why she is hurting herself. I did not have enough time to understand that part of her psyche and she would not consent to my treatment.” He peered at me, a small, condescending smile played about his lips. “But, if you cannot solve her issues, I would be happy to consult with you. Perhaps it is time we put our collective researches together. It is her dreams, she says, that are causing her the distress. If we can get to the root of the problem…”

I shook my head and stepped back. I would find no help here. “No, Doctor. I do not believe that will be necessary. I just wanted to see your private notes from the interviews. Her case file was light on information.”

“Private notes are just that, Doctor. Good day.” With that, he closed his office door in my face.

I adjusted my glasses. “Thank you for your help,” I muttered at the uncaring door. I should have known better. He would not help me unless it also helped him. No wonder the asylum was a depressing place to be. I would need to go to the records room and see if there were something else to be found. Or, better yet, see if I could talk Nurse Heather into dropping a hint of what Dr. Mintz refused to share.

I pulled my suit jacket close. Even here, in the faculty hallway, the permanent chill of the building’s stone walls invaded, despite the industrial carpet and the artwork on the walls. It was the only hallway in the entire building to be carpeted. This visual and auditory cue told visitors and patients alike that the top floor of the asylum was not like the rest of it. This was where the doctors had their offices and performed their interviews. Patients in this hallway were always accompanied by asylum staff.

I hurried from the upper hall down the cramped stairwell to the lower floors where Nurse Heather spent most of her time caring for the patients in her own way. The odor of unwashed bodies hit me like a physical blow as I entered the hall. My shoes clacked against the black and white checked floor, stained with dirt and other unmentionable things. Normally, I could ignore the asylum’s chill, its smell, and the dim hallway lights that cast unnatural shadows.

I worked here to make it a better place for all—doctors and patients alike. My work was not for the fainthearted, as I had learned during my time at Providence Sanatorium. But I could, and would, continue my work without falling prey to the asylum’s air of desperation and damnation. I had to. I seemed to be the only one who would.

It was time to ignore my surroundings and put my task into perspective. This was no different than the first time I walked into a debate or an interview with a recalcitrant patient. It is always the first look that tells me whether or not there will be a problem. Whether it is because I am a woman or younger than whomever I am speaking to, the look is the same. I became an expert at recognizing and ignoring it at the University of Chicago.

Unsettled or not, by the time I reached the first of the patients’ halls, I had my pleasant, professional mask on once more. This was one of the open halls where non-violent patients were allowed to roam between their rooms and the day room. Most days, I saw my patients in their rooms. It made them feel more comfortable. As if they had some control of the situation. I acknowledged Theresa, my dancing patient, when she waved at me—she liked to waltz with the figment of her deceased husband—and Victoria, who sat on the couch and rocked back and forth as if she were a machine. She nodded when she caught my eye, but did not cease her rocking.

I found Nurse Heather escorting an unfamiliar patient back from the showers—one of the few locked doors on this hall. I believe I would recognize the nurse’s posture anywhere. With wide shoulders, a rectangular core, and short-cropped, greying hair—impossibly stylish in this austere setting— Nurse Heather would look at home in the latest flapper fashions. She always moved with deliberate intensity, like a woman on a mission. In my mind’s eye, I could see her marching in a suffrage protest or dancing at a speakeasy with that same intensity.

Right now, Nurse Heather was focused on moving her patient through the chilly asylum hallway. Behind her, an orderly strolled on patrol, glancing into the patients’ rooms. I noted that he kept an eye on Nurse Heather and her patient. The patient seemed common enough. Long, wet, black hair hung in the woman’s face, and she had the shuffle of a thoroughly drugged patient. I dismissed her from my mind. She was not my patient, thus not my concern. “Nurse Heather, a word, if I may?”

The older woman gave me an automatic, thin-lipped smile. She held the patient by one arm as she halted in the middle of the hallway. “What is it, Dr. Fern?”

“It is about Josephine Ruggles. I would like Dr. Mintz’s files concerning her.”

“I’m sure those files were transferred to your office.” She gave me a frown and pulled her patient into stillness with an absent gesture. The patient tilted her head toward our conversation.

“Not all of them.”

She gave me a look and I worked to keep my breath steady. I could not stop the flush I felt creep up my neck to my cheeks.

“I see. Well then, I guess you need to talk to Dr. Mintz.”

“I would, but he is just going to tell me to get them from you. We both know how he is.”

She raised her chin to look down her nose at me, suspicion plain on her face. “I’ll see—”

The patient, who had been tilting her head up to look at me from beneath her wet hair, moved with sudden speed, pulling herself from Nurse Heather’s grasp. She grabbed my arm and yanked us both to our knees. I found myself gazing into a single golden-brown eye, bright as it gave me a gimlet stare. The rest of her face was obscured by her hair.

Before I could pull myself from her, she shook her head, violent and distressed. “You must help her. You’re the only one who can.”

Startled and stunned, I froze where the patient held me. “Help who?” It was the only thing I could think to say. I tried to get a better look at the woman’s face, but she shook her head again, hair still hiding her face. One bright golden-brown eye—lucid despite the drugs in her system—stared back at me.

“It’s within her. It was too much for me. Too many things to care for. I couldn’t…She needed it…I didn’t know what she’d do…the protection failed. You have to help her.”

I put my hand on hers, keeping my voice calm. “I do not understand. Whom do I need to help?”

The grip on my arm tightened even as the lucidity in that single eye dimmed and dulled. “Don’t make me rip the scales from your eyes. Don’t make me. It’ll change you forever. It’ll change me, too. Please, don’t make me do it!”

Then, Nurse Heather had the woman by her shoulders and wrestled her into a standing position. I stood, shaken, and watched the patient. She reached a hand to me. “Help her, please. But don’t make me rip the scales from your eyes!” Then, she was in the custody of the orderly. The man wrapped a huge arm about the woman’s waist as he bent one of her arms back. He propelled the no-longer-struggling woman before him with ease.

With her free arm, she reached for me, muttering about someone needing help and scales upon eyes. None of it made any sense.

“Put her in her room. Wrap her up until she’s calm.” Nurse Heather turned and cast an experienced eye up and down me. “Well, that was interesting. She hasn’t said that much at one go since she arrived three weeks ago.”

I still felt the patient’s grip on my arm, still felt the urgency in her voice, still saw her trap me with her gaze. “Who is she?”

“Professor Sati Das. A professor of archaeology from England. Born in Assam, India to a British father and an Assamese woman. She fell into a coma while visiting some place here on the East Coast. She transferred in from Saint Mary’s after she woke and would only babble nonsense about shards and tomes.”

It made a strange sort of sense. Her British accent had been tinged with a foreigner’s timber. “What did she mean by ‘rip the scales from my eyes’? Has she said this sort of thing before? And whom does she want people to help?” I held my arm to my body—it still throbbed with the patient’s strength of purpose.

“I don’t know the answers to your questions. She’s never said such to me.” The nurse gave my arm a cursory look, manipulating my wrist, then my elbow. “You’re fine. You’re going to bruise, but that’s all.” Nurse Heather adjusted her nurse’s cap. “It’s strange. She’s usually so calm.”

I rubbed my arm, trying to banish the feel of Sati’s cold hand from it. “Probably the malady she suffers from. We have never seen each other before. Who is her doctor?”

“Dr. Mintz is in charge of her treatment. She’s a possible candidate for his dream enhancer.” Nurse Heather gazed at me. “I’ll have to tell him of her reaction to you—when I get those records you want.”

I nodded, knowing that Dr. Mintz would deny the nurse. Or give her copies of the useless information he had already sent over. “Of course.”

“Perhaps it’s something about you…your hair color or your glasses…that struck such a chord in her.” The head nurse continued to peer at me as if I were an interesting bug.

“Perhaps,” I agreed, suppressing a shudder. “Thank you for getting those files for me.” I gave her a nod and turned on my heel. Nurse Heather did not stop me as I hurried away, although I felt her keen gaze on my back. What else she was going to tell the good doctor about the strange encounter?

Returning to the safety of my office, grateful for the scant warmth within and the familiarity of my books, I was torn between my current case and the encounter with the professor. Why had she reacted so?

Shaking my head to clear it of the patient who was not mine, I turned to my notes of Josephine Ruggles. I peered at the copy I had made of the wounds and compared them with the handkerchief impression. The marks on Josephine’s back—they looked so near to writing. Perhaps a cross between Sanskrit and Arabic; something old. A forgotten dialect? Was it possible to have a case of stigmata that resulted in written words on the skin?

I had too many questions and no answers.

In the meantime, I had to consider my treatment of Josephine for her nightmares. Whether the wounds were self-inflicted or stigmata-like symptoms, it was possible, probable even, that she would respond to my hypnotic sessions. The root of her problem was within her mind. I was sure of this.

Ransacking my reference books, I found only one mention of non-Christian-based stigmata—bleeding from the scalp, palms, side, and/or wrists—in a much older, non-medical book from the early 1800s. It was obvious that I would not find such a book in the small asylum reference library; I would need to go to the university library for a chance to find it, or something comparable.

It had been a while since I visited the Orne Library. Perhaps it held the key to Josephine’s malady.