Tender Mercies
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 5
By the fifth day, the fever broke for good.
Clarice descended the ladder that morning with her usual supplies—bread, cheese, the last of the willow bark tea—and found him awake. Truly awake, not the fevered half-consciousness of the past few days.
His ice-blue eyes tracked her movement as she set down the lamp.
“Ma’am,” he said. His voice was hoarse but clear. “How ... how long?”
“Five days.” She knelt beside him, pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. Cool. Thank God, cool. “You had fever. Very bad.”
He tried to sit up, gasped, fell back. His face went grey.
“Your shoulder,” she said. “It is still ... broken.”
“Dislocated.” He closed his eyes, breathing through obvious pain. “God, it hurts.”
She pulled Sister Marguerite’s instructions from her apron pocket. Had read them a dozen times, trying to work up the courage.
“I can fix,” she said haltingly. “The sisters, they tell me how. But it will hurt. Very much hurt.”
His eyes opened. “You mean you haven’t ... it’s been like this for five days?”
“You had fever. I could not...” She gestured helplessly. “You were too sick.”
He was quiet for a moment, staring at the earthen ceiling. Then: “Okay. Okay, we need to do it now. Before I lose my nerve.”
“You must be ... quiet.” She mimed covering her mouth. “Germans. They could hear.”
Understanding flickered across his face. “Right. Yeah.” He looked around the cellar, spotted one of the rags she’d been using for bandages. “That. I can bite down on that.”
She helped him sit up—an agonizing process that left them both sweating. Then she wadded the rag, held it to his mouth.
“Ready?” she asked.
He nodded, took the rag between his teeth.
Clarice had helped Henri with injured livestock before. Had held calves while he set broken legs, steadied horses while he worked. But this was different. This was a man. A man trusting her not to make it worse.
She positioned herself according to Sister Marguerite’s instructions. One hand braced against his chest. The other gripping his upper arm.
“On three,” she said. “One ... two...”
She pulled on two, knowing if she waited for three she’d lose her courage.
The sound he made—muffled by the rag but still audible—would haunt her dreams for weeks. His whole body went rigid, back arching.
Then—
Pop.
The shoulder slid back into place with a sickening sound that made her stomach lurch.
Scotty’s head fell forward, the rag dropping from his mouth. He was gasping, shaking, but when he looked up at her, his eyes were clear.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “Jesus Christ, that hurt.”
“I am sorry. I am so sorry.” Her hands were shaking. “But it is ... fixed? It is right now?”
He rotated the shoulder experimentally, winced but nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s back. God, that’s better. That’s so much better.” He looked at her with something like wonder. “Thank you. I don’t know how to ... thank you.”
She sat back, her own heart racing. “You must not move it. Not too much. It will be weak.”
“I know. I’ve dislocated it before. Football injury, back in high school.” He smiled—that smile that transformed his whole face. “But that was a lot worse than the doctor’s office.”
She didn’t understand all the words, but she understood the smile.
And felt, for the first time, that small flutter in her stomach.
She looked away quickly. “I bring food. You must eat. You are too thin.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Over the next few days, they developed a rhythm.
Three visits. Morning after milking, midday with water and whatever food she could spare, evening after the last cow was settled.
And slowly, carefully, they began to talk.
His French was non-existent. Her English was broken and heavily accented. But they managed.
“Where ... where am I?” he asked on the sixth day. “What town?”
“Near Dunkirk.” She made a gesture. “The Germans, they hold the city. Since September. We are ... trapped. How you say ... siege?”
His face went grim. “I know about Dunkirk. We’ve been trying to contain the garrison.” He looked at her. “Wait. You’re trapped here? You can’t leave?”
“I could leave. In October. Many people leave. I stay.”
“Why?”
She touched the earthen wall. “This is my farm. My husband’s farm. I do not leave.”
“Your husband.” He glanced at her left hand, at the ring. “He’s...”
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