PIERRE THE WISE

`That is so you never chase another mans wife', he shouted above the fresh screams of his prisoner. Lifting the tube again, he swung it once more, only this time, down on the right knee. The smash and splintering of bone was audible above the shackled mans screaming.

`This one, is so you never hold another mans wife in your arms again', screamed the Count, totally obsessed in a vengeful bloodlust. Raising his improvised weapon a third time, he brought it crashing down on Pierre's right arm snapping the bone in two and forcing the upper part to splinter and pierce the skin. For Pierre the pain was to much, his screaming ceased as he once more passed into a dark swoon.

  The Count now crossed over to the large charcoal forge placed in the centre of the dungeon, where he placed his tube in the heart of the glowing coals. As he watched the metal slowly heating up, he ordered his dungeon master to bring the prisoner around. An expert at his trade, the master started to revive Pierre with a combination of water, gentle slaps and the whispering of his name. Slowly Pierre came round. Through puffed and swollen eyes from his first beating, he began to focus on the master, then the Count. With his return to consciousness, came back the unbearable, pain and Pierre started to pray for death to release him from this suffering. Once again the Count stood before him, his gloved hand holding the metal bar which had already wreaked so much havoc.

 Pierre's eyes followed the tube downwards to the white hot tip, and in slow motion he watched as it was raised to the level of his eyes. Dimly, he could just hear the Counts voice, telling him, that this was so he would not look at another mans wife, and despite the existing pain, a new fear so strong send a shudder through his broken frame. Carefully the Count moved the glowing tip towards the level of Pierre's eyes.

  An intensive heat became an unbearable addition to his already tormented body. And, as the bright whiteness moved closer, blocking all other vision, the heat emanating from the metal caused the caked blood on his forehead to open and bubble. Instinctively Pierre screwed his eyes closed. But it could be no defence. The indescribable, intense pain was accompanied by the smell of his own burning flesh, and a scream so loud rose from his lips, it echoed throughout the dungeon. As he screamed the searing white light, started to fade, to be replaced by a dark void which he gladly plunged into, hoping that this would be the final release into death he now so desperately sought.

  Standing back, the Count released his glowing metal upon which tendrils of flesh still sizzled. The rank smell of burning flesh permeated the air, causing a temporary wave of nausea to engulf him.

  `Take him down', he ordered, `and throw him outside the castle gates, there let him lie for the dogs to feed on'. As the Count walked away and out of the dungeon, he wondered how he would explain Pierre's disappearance to his children. And, more importantly, to the Royal Court, where he knew Pierre was held in favour. He realised he must make up a creditable story. As for his cheating wife, her he would tell the truth. She must suffer for her infidelity and he would make sure she told no one else.

  As the guards dragged Pierre's ruined body out of the city gates, curious onlookers gathered to stare at the poor wretch. A few turned away from the sight, but the majority laughed and wondered who he was and what he had done. Some heartless children even threw stones at the wreckage that was once a handsome, intelligent human being.

  When they were about fifty metres from the gates near a small stream that fed a communal well, the guards released their hold on Pierre's arms letting him fall limply onto the hard dusty floor. With a final kick at the inert form, they turned about and retreated behind the castle gates.

  For two days Pierre lay where he had been deposited, hovering between a dark coma and short bouts of consciousness that were filled with excruciating agony.

In these moments of awareness, he wished only for the doors of death to open and receive him within its painless eternity.

  It was shortly before sunrise on the third day, that the Gypsy convoy, with the intention of replenishing some supplies, stopped outside the castle gates. One of the children sent out to collect water from the stream, noticed in the semi-light, what he though to be the body of a dead man. Calling to his friends, he informed them of his discovery. The children, quite used to such sights along the routes they travelled, approached to see if anything of value possibly remained on the corpse. The eldest boy among them, bent to inspect the find and noticed that the so-called corpse was still breathing, if only just. Rushing back to the main body of wagons, he excitedly informed his parents. A few minutes later, a small crowd of interested Gypsies had gathered around the inanimate form, wondering what if anything they should do.

Among the people congregated was the healer Manolo, who at sixty, had tendered the needs of the sick and injured for over forty years. On impulse, she bent over Pierre and looking to his visible injuries, solemnly shook her head. She noticed that his energy aura, that faint trace of coloured light which only skilled healers could detect, was fading to a dark shade of grey; a sure sign that the life force was about to leave the body of its host. Knowing that there was not much time, she asked that the stranger be placed on a stretcher and brought to her wagon.

  Immediately, two of the young men ran to fetch one, while the remainder looked curiously on. After they returned and had loaded Pierre onto the stretcher (which was no more than a sheet of canvass stretched and tied between to stout poles); Manolo then ordered the men to take the patient to her wagon. Once inside, she asked that they place him gently on the bed, and to assist her in removing his clothes. One of the Gypsies pulled out a hunting knife, and with a few delicate and expert strokes cut through the blood soaked, tattered remains of cloth. Manolo gently started to remove the garments, taking care not to remove bits that had become tangled in the smashed flesh and bone.

  Before long, Pierre lay nearly naked on the bed, with the true extent of his injuries plainly showing. One of the young men remarked to his companion, that even with her skills, she would be hard pressed to save this one. Manolo, who overheard the remark, told them that it was very likely true. But, as a healer, she was duty bound to try and save life, be it animal, human, friend or foe. Seeing that they were no longer needed, the two men left in puzzlement as to why anyone would want to save an enemy.

  Alone in the quietness of her own caravan, Manolo the healer looked to the pathetic form lying before her. Shaking her head once more, she closed her eyes and started to summon up the energy she knew would be required by her if she was to save this one. For twenty minutes she sat perfectly immobile, lost in a self-induced trance of deep meditation. Without opening her eyes, she placed her hands gently on Pierre's face then ran them down the whole lengthy of his body. As she did so, her fingers softly flicked and probed with a movement so delicate it would have been unobserved by all but the most ardent observer.

  After this preliminary inspection, she found that beside the obvious damage, her patient had also suffered six broken ribs and a dislocated jaw. On top of this, she noted, gangrene was just beginning to set in. With her eyes still closed, she now cupped her hands around the mans skull and slowly began to chant.

For Manolo, this stage was the most important. Already confident that she could repair much of the physical body, she needed to know if his spirit still held the will to survive. To do this, she would have to break through the barriers his unconscious mind had formed, the chanting was a necessary part of this process, as it soothed the soul the way a lullaby sends a child to a peaceful sleep. Soon the continual chanting, combined with the gentle caress of her fingertips, were able to penetrate the dark depths of his mind. She let her own soul be drawn into her patient, feeding of his pain and absorbing the screaming torment and violent conflicts raging within his spirit.

  The energy aura that surrounded him previously, had now started to turn darker, almost moving to black. Manolo realised his will to live was slipping, so she threw the total force of her mental concentration into him. For over an hour she battled with his desire for death, urging him to fight and soothing his mental anguish. When she was rewarded by the body light returning once more to its original grey, she opened her eyes and withdrew her mind from his soul.

  Feeling strained and weak from the mental healing process, yet assured her patient was not about to die immediately, Manolo decided it was time she attended to some of the physical damage. Turning to her medical cabinet (a large trunk, segregated into many compartments containing bandages, assorted herbs, poultices and many other useful items), she rummaged through and extracted the items that would be needed.

Her first task was to clean the wounds as best as possible. For this she would use a mixture of crushed fennel and garlic. The fennel acting as a cleaning agent, and the garlic to counter infections.

Beside cleaning the wound, she realised there was little else anyone could do with this particular injury. Moving to his left eye, which was buried under an extrusion of swollen flesh, she reached into her cabinet and withdrew a vial containing a pulpy greenish paste made from comfrey leaves, which she smeared liberally around the puffed skin to reduce the swelling. Her next task was to relocate the jaw, again not a difficult task for such an experienced healer. Placing her two hands around the cheek and jaw bones, she gave the jaw a sudden tap with the palm oh her hand, forcing the bone back into the joint. As she did so, a small moan escaped from her patients lips.