I’m going to sleep soundly tonight. I wonder where that will be. Not that I care. I could sleep on these stone steps right now.
I get to the top of the first set of stairs and find a curved hallway with one door. The first room in the turret. I slide the food under the door. I don’t hear anything. I don’t think anybody’s in there. But there’s no way to see inside unless I get down on the floor and I’m not going to do that. I’m not spending any longer here than I absolutely must.
I keep going. I come to another set of stairs. It’s a lot easier with only one tray to carry. And it’s a shorter climb. But I’m tired and I just want to be done with this. Between looking for Caledon and navigating the Luce issue, not to mention the anxiety of covering up my identity, I’m exhausted.
The top floor is pretty much identical to the one below it. There’s another door with a food slot. There’s a curved hallway. But unlike the floor below, there’s a wall at the end of the hallway where the stairs would be.
I slide the tray under the door. As I turn to leave, I hear a noise. Moaning. I wait. There it is again: Ugghhh.
I go to the door. “Are you all right?” I feel foolish. Of course he’s not all right. But what else could I say?
No response. The moaning gets louder. He’s in a lot of pain. “Can you hear me?” I ask.
“Yes,” he squeaks. Then more groans.
“Are you . . . hurt?”
“Sick,” he replies. But it comes out as: siiiiickkkk.
I bend down and try to see through the opening where I slid the tray. I can’t see much, especially with the tray partially blocking my view of the room. I spot some movement on the left. A swatch of brown fabric. A body lying curled up on his side, back to the door.
“I see you,” I say. “Is there anything I can do to help?” He just moans. “I’m going to send for a doctor,” I tell him.
“Nooo,” he replies forcefully. Then more weakly: “Water.”
“Sit tight. I’ll get you a doctor.”
“Water!” He gets more insistent. Then he goes back to rocking and groaning.
“I’m sorry . . . I can’t do that. I can’t come in. And you may be contagious. But I can try to get someone who can help you.”
“Not contagious,” he says. “Happens all the time.”
“Then you still need help.”
“Thirsty,” he begs.
I’m absolutely certain I am not supposed to open any cell door, let alone enter one. But he seems harmless enough—he can’t even get up to reach his water. How can I let this poor man suffer? Who knows how long it’s been since he had anything to eat or drink?
For all I know, this key only works on the ground-floor entry to the turret anyway. I’ll just try it. If it works, if it unlocks the door, I’ll hand the man his water and head right back out the door. Besides, he’s a human being, a sick human being, not a rabid animal waiting to pounce, and I’m not exactly defenseless either.
I slide the key in the lock and twist. It clicks. I push the door open. The man is lying on old straw that’s been stacked against the wall, covered up to his ears by a blanket, though his feet and the bottom of his legs stick out. He’s still groaning and rocking back and forth. At this rate it doesn’t seem like he’ll last long enough to see a doctor. But I don’t see any obvious boils or sores on his exposed skin, and he doesn’t look particularly sweaty or flushed, so not feverish. Must have something gnawing away inside him, like one of the countrywomen Aunt Mesha treated years ago. A tumor. She suffered in much the same way at the end. And that’s not contagious.
I pick up his water mug and carry it to him. “Here you go,” I say, crouching down and holding it out. The prisoner rolls over