quickly, and their fullness contrasted with his emaciated body, the skin grown taut against the bones except upon that leg where the boils grew, as thick as barnacles upon a ship’s hull.
It was horrid, horrid, and she thought he was a corpse, afflicted by the ravages of putrefaction, but he lived. His chest rose and dipped, and he breathed.
“You must get closer,” Virgil whispered into her ear and clasped her tight by the arm.
The shock had prevented Noemí from moving, but now that she felt his hand closing around her, she attempted to shove Virgil away and rush to the door. He yanked her back, though, with a vicious strength that threatened to snap her bones, and she gasped in pain, but still she fought him.
“Come on, help me here,” Virgil said, looking at Francis.
“Let go of me!” she screamed.
Francis did not approach them, but Florence grabbed Noemí’s free arm, and together Virgil and the woman dragged Noemí toward the head of the bed. She twisted her body and managed to kick the night table, sending a porcelain chamber pot crashing onto the floor.
“Kneel down,” Virgil ordered her.
“No,” Noemí said.
They shoved her down, Virgil’s fingers digging into her flesh, and he placed a hand behind her neck.
Howard Doyle turned his head upon the pillow and looked at her. His lips were as bloated as his leg, crusted with black growths, and a trail of dark fluid dripped down his chin, staining his bedclothes. This was the source of the bad smell in the room, and up close the stench was so awful she thought she would retch.
“My God,” she said and tried to get up, to scuttle away, but Virgil’s hand was a band of iron around her neck, and he was pushing her even closer to the old man.
And the man was rising in his bed, turning and stretching out a thin hand, his fingers digging into Noemí’s hair and pulling their faces closer.
She was able, at this disgustingly intimate distance, to clearly see the color of his eyes. They were not blue. The color was diluted by a bright, golden sheen, like flecks of molten gold.
Howard Doyle smiled at her, showing off his stained teeth—stained with black—and then he pressed his lips against hers. Noemí felt his tongue in her mouth and then saliva burning down her throat as he pressed himself against her and Virgil propped her in place.
He let go of her after long, agonizing minutes, and Noemí was able to gasp and turn her head.
She closed her eyes.
She felt very light; her thoughts were scattered. Drowsy. My God, she told herself, my God, stand up, run. Over and over again.
When she looked around, she tried to focus her eyes and saw that she was in a cave. There were people there. A man had been handed a cup, and he was drinking from it. The hideous liquid burned his mouth, and he almost passed out, but the others laughed and they clasped his shoulder in a friendly manner. They hadn’t been so friendly when he’d first arrived, a stranger in these parts. They were skittish, and for good reason.
The man was fair-haired, and his eyes were blue. He shared a resemblance with Howard, with Virgil. The shape of the jaw, the nose. But his clothes and his shoes and everything about him and the men in the cave pointed to a previous time.
When is this? Noemí thought. But she felt dizzy, and the sound of the sea distracted her. This cave, was the ocean nearby? The cave was dark; one of the men held a lantern, but it did not provide much illumination. The others continued with their jokes, and two of them helped the blond man up. He stumbled.
The man wasn’t doing very well, but that wasn’t their fault. He’d long been ill. His physician said there was no cure. There was no hope, but Doyle had hoped.
Doyle. That was him, yes. She was with Doyle.
Doyle was dying and in his desperation he’d found his way here, seeking a remedy for those who were beyond remedies. Instead of a peregrination to a holy site, he’d come to this wretched cave.
They hadn’t liked him, no, but these folk were poor, and he had a fat purse of silver. Of course, he’d feared they’d cut his throat and take the silver, but what else was there to be done? All he could manage was to promise them there’d be more where that came from