Chapter 14

The fever was worse.

The wound was a deep puncture, and it wasn’t draining. It had swelled more and turned dark, almost black. I wasn’t delirious yet, or at least I didn’t think I was, but my thoughts drifted and I noticed the loose threads.

My original garments were tattered! Why hadn’t I paid closer attention? I decided that the puncture from that bastard’s sword was a last straw. They had been astonishingly durable and the fabric had done its job well, but it was time to let go. Even so, full replacement would have to wait because I had nothing else to wear, and moving about with various things hanging out didn’t appeal to me. I almost laughed at the thought, then angrily hacked off the trouser legs and the shirtsleeves.

This left me with a pair of shorts, a shirt that ended at the shoulder, and rags that might be usable. My legs were bare, making the wound easier to care for—but I couldn’t look away from my wounded thigh. From my knee to just below my crotch, it looked like an overstuffed sausage. The skin had stretched until had taken on a shiny appearance, and for a moment I wondered whether it would simply split open under the strain. The gray fog closed in again, and this time there was no stopping it. I lost consciousness.

My eyes blinked open—no idea how long I had been out—and this time my thoughts were clearer. I had very little time left, and if I couldn’t force myself to act I would die. I hated the thought that the man I had killed might have killed me too!

My spear-shaft served as a makeshift crutch when I hobbled down to the stream and waded out to the center. Sitting down in the water, I let the coolness relieve some of the pain and pressure. The relief was indescribable, but I dreaded what was coming next and waiting wouldn’t make it easier.

I got ready by washing the strips of cloth and the leather breechclout I’d used for a bandage, because I would need them right away and I might not be in shape after I did what was necessary.

I washed the wound as best I could, but gently, and folded a scrap of leather I’d cut from the breechclout. Putting it between my teeth, I bit down hard, then pressed the swelling on each side of the puncture, trying to force any pus or foreign material out, but I couldn’t tell whether it had worked. And I couldn’t take the chance that it hadn’t.

Almost weeping from the pain, I pulled the skin around the wound apart with my thumbs and opened the wound as much as possible to let the water wash around it. Better, not yet good enough, so I twisted the leather belt around my thigh above the wound. The tourniquet would control bleeding and maybe it would also reduce the pain.

As a final step, I drank as much water as I felt comfortable with while sitting there in the middle of that slow-moving river. I also refilled the water gourd, both done upstream from where the water flowed over my leg. I couldn’t wait any longer; the chance of losing my leg to infection or gangrene increased as long as the wound remained sealed. I wondered: could I amputate my leg, even to save my life? Others had, and maybe I could too, but there was something I could do short of that final choice.

I carefully washed my knife, trying not to think about what I was doing, then just got on with it. I stuck the knife in deep, just below the wound, and sliced up through the puncture. Fresh blood oozed and pus gouted out. If there had been foreign material in the wound, it probably came out too. I couldn’t tell, because the water carried everything away.

I washed the knife again, waiting while the water bathed the open wound. Agony threatened my consciousness, washed through my brain, and once again my vision began to gray out. The fuzzy colorlessness that surrounded the clear center began to close in and I couldn’t wait, because passing out in the river meant I would drown. Dragging my leg behind me, I made for the riverbank and crawled part-way out, all I could manage. After a few moments I crawled further and sat on the bank with only the injured leg in the water. I squeezed the wound again, as hard as I could stand, and more blood washed away downstream. At least now I would fall on the land if I passed out, and maybe I did.

But I soon woke up and after the faintness passed, I dragged myself the rest of the way out and let the wound air-dry.

I tied a rope to my pack—I knew I couldn’t carry it—and got to my feet. Looping the rope over my shoulder, I let the pack drag behind me as I limped and hopped my way, aided by the spear, to the tree I’d selected.

In that tree’s branches I would live or die.

I was weak, but my arms had become uncommonly strong from the work I’d done since arriving on Darwin’s World. A fortunate thing, I thought, because there was enough strength remaining to pull myself up into the tree. My quiver I left at the base of the tree. I would recover it later, or I wouldn’t need it.

I sat on the lowest branch, rested, then lifted myself by pulling on the branch just above me until my uninjured leg could take some of the load.

That journey up the tree was the stuff of nightmares, a constant struggle marked by slow progress and interminable pain, with seemingly no end to it all. I frequently stopped during the climb, resting, pulling up the pack that contained my dried food and supplies, and when I felt I was ready I did it again. Somewhere during that climb I began concentrating on the pain, squeezing it into a ball, then trying to push the ball away.

It might have helped, a little.

Laboriously climbing, one branch at a time, I finally neared the upper reaches. Animals like the saber-tooth we’d killed might climb, but not this high.

I hoped.

A tree crotch became my resting place for what was to come. I pulled the pack up and secured it to a nearby branch with twine, then used the drag-rope from the pack to tie my body loosely to the tree bole.

The climb had left me exhausted and soaked with sweat. I drank more water and ate a piece of jerky, careful to make sure that the pack was tied in place and the flap was closed. At some point, after eating and drinking I slept. Or maybe I passed out.

During the night I woke up for a short time. I drank more water and pissed as far away from the tree as possible. I ate a little more of the jerky and propped my swollen leg atop the branch I was sitting on. The dull throbbing, interrupted by brief stabbing pains, ruled my thoughts and mercifully, I soon passed out again.