Elizabeth's gaze remained fixed on her daughter, the silence between them lengthening, until finally she turned away and muttered, "You always were a weakling, girl. If it wasn't for Alice you'd never have survived." She placed her withered hands in her lap and shook her head, looking at the light from the window. "When Polk is done with the man, send him in here to see me."

Dr. Polk arrived nearly an hour later.

Good thing no one was choking to death or we would already have had the funeral by now.

Doddering and ancient, Dr. Polk had treated Sarah as girl. She remembered him with more hair. He carried a black physician's bag and wore a dark gray suit with a somber blue tie and glasses, which he continually pushed back on his nose. A small man, he took dainty steps, Sarah noticed, as she escorted him up to the guest room.

With the help of her two porters, Alice had managed to undress, wash, and get the injured giant under the covers. Dr. Polk examined him and undressed the giant's injured right hand. As he unwound the black bandages, a rotten smell filled the room, making Sarah gag.

"Well, this hand was professionally bandaged," Dr. Polk said. "But it's obviously in need of a change. We'll keep the plaster splint. Ah, Sarah, take this. Can you clean it up for me?"

He handed her a hard piece of yellowed plaster in the shape of a crooked shovel. Alice moved forward, and began to wash the man's injured right hand.

"Just use some rubbing alcohol and try and clean it up. I've got gauze and bandages here. His hand is broken but this injury is older than this one here." He pointed at the man's skull. "And here." He pointed at his heart. "Strange thing is, he's got a pretty vicious bite wound on his arm, too, that looks like it might be getting infected. Hmm."

Dr. Polk stared at the large man, rubbing his chin and thinking.

"A bite wound?" Sarah asked. "From a dog?"

"No, not a dog. It looks like a bite wound from a human mouth, which would explain the infection. The wound in his chest appears to be a very shallow knife wound. And his hand appears to be what we call a 'boxer's break,' an injury common to fist-fighters and brawlers. The wound on his scalp-which looks like it might've concussed him-it was made by something sharp and metal, at least that's what the wound is telling me. Clean edges, not ragged."

Alice harumphed but continued to clean the man's injured hand.

"Strange." Dr. Polk lifted the coverlet shrouding the giant's legs. "He's various abrasions and contusions, the kind of scratches and bruises you'd get in fights. Multiple fights." He shook his head. "One thing's for sure, this man has done major violence to someone, and more recently, had major violence done to him. I wouldn't much like to live in his world."

The doctor unpacked a large roll of gauze and some cotton pads and medical tape and went to work alongside Alice, cleaning and bandaging the giant.

"Whatever happened to him, Sarah, you'd be well advised to call Sheriff Wocziak and let him know who you've found. I heard on the radio this morning that a lot of people died in a fire two counties over, and they don't know if it was an accident or arson. Ruby's on the Bayou, I believe they said. How did the children find this man?"

Sarah was reluctant to answer. She looked at the man in the bed, his brown hair and boyish features.

She didn't have to answer, Alice did it for her. "They found him in a boat that got itself tangled in the rushes. Must've been floating downriver away from the scene of the crime."

"Crime?" Sarah asked. "We don't know where he comes from, or why he was hurt. Why don't we let him tell us that before we make plans to hang him."

Alice stopped washing the man's hand, and turned to Sarah. She raised an eyebrow as if to say, "What're you doing, girl?"

Dr. Polk tore a piece of white tape off a roll and said, "It's up to you. It's quite possible he'll never come out of this coma, but he appears to be breathing well. Once we get his wounds cleaned, I'll set you up with a saline drip and some pain killers should he wake up. Penicillin for the infection. And I'll make sure to drop by in a couple of days." He looked at Sarah, eyebrows raised.

"Of course, doctor. We'll take care of the bill, at least until we figure out who he is. He's got some cash in his wallet, if all else fails, and he-"

Dr. Polk cleared his throat. "Well, there's always that possibility. But I doubt it. If he was going to die, he would have done so. This man could have endured any of these wounds taken individually. Easily." The doctor laughed then, a dry chuckle. "But look at him. He's gigantic. He has to have the constitution of a bull to survive all of these wounds. Indeed, I've never seen a more impressive collection of injuries in my career as a doctor." He smiled, pleased to have seen something new. "Anyway, please be careful around him, Sarah. He'll be weak for a long time, but by the looks of him, he could be dangerous."

Sarah remained in the room, watching as Alice and the doctor ministered to the injured man. After they were finished, Dr. Polk winked at Alice and said, "Alice, good work. Should you ever want a position as my assistant-"

Alice laughed, bright and embarrassed. "Dr. Polk, you is sweet. But you know the Rheinharts are my people. If I wasn't here to watch over them, they'd all be like this here fella, bedridden. Hungry. Mangy too, probably."

Sarah grinned then. "Oh, yes, doctor, that reminds me. Momma asked to see you before you go."

Dr. Polk's smile curdled. "I guess that makes sense. It's been what, four weeks since my last visit?"

Alice snorted. "No. 'Bout six months, Doc. April, I think it was, or early May."

"Well, yes. Of course, I'll see her."

Once he was gone, Alice and Sarah burst into peals of laughter, familiar with his reluctance to see Sarah's mother, happy it was not them. The strain of the morning slowly drained from Sarah as the giggles subsided. She hadn't realized how tense she'd been throughout the doctor's visit.

That evening, after taking her mother her sip and enduring a long harangue about getting the man out of the house, Sarah went to the guest room and sat in the wing-backed chair nearest the bed and watched the giant. He hadn't moved much since earlier, but his skin looked less pale in the thin light of the lamp.

As she watched, his face occasionally hitched in pain. In those moments, he seemed older, tired and weary. Then his face would relax again, regaining the appearance of a boy. Sarah felt herself attracted and repulsed by the man in turns. And she found herself fantasizing about what he might be like, concocting explanations for his wounds and imaging the story of his life.

In the dim room, she smiled at her own foolishness. Standing, she walked over to his bed and placed her hand on his forehead, feeling for the fever Dr. Polk warned about before leaving. The man's skin was cool to the touch. He moaned and turned his body in the bed.

"No," he whispered, unknowing. "No. Rabbit... don't sing... the dead-"

"Hush," Sarah murmured to the man. Lewis. His name is Lewis.

Later, after Alice made her an extra strong toddy and she seated herself in the library, she pulled the telephone close to her on the desk and picked up the receiver. After a moment, the operator came on the line.

"This is Phyllis," said a voice, high and tinny.

"This is me... um, Sarah Williams. Sarah Rheinhart, I used to be."

"Sarah! How are you? Your mother and Alice tell me that Franny is precious. My lands, I can't wait to see her, but come to think of it, I haven't seen you since you were in pigtails. Why don't you come by the Central?"

Sarah smiled and tucked her feet underneath her in the office chair, fiddled with a pencil.

"We'll try to get by next week. But I need to ask you a question."

There was a loud click. Phyllis said, "Hold on, sweetie. Caller, this is Phyllis at the Central, how can I help you?"

A man's voice came on the line. "I need to make a phone call to my niece in Little Rock, Mohawk two, one, one-"

"I'm sorry sir, there's already a call on this line. I will ring you when the connection is complete."

The man said, "Phyllis, it's me, Ray. That's fine, let me know."

Another click sounded as he rang off. Phyllis chuckled. "Ray's niece is having trouble with her help, and Ray keeps calling her with ideas on how to get them in line."

"I don't..." Sarah stammered. "Um... that's not really my-"

"That's OK, honey. I hear things, you know. I'm always listening. It's my job."

Not really. Your job is to complete calls, not eavesdrop, you old biddy.

But she said, "Phyllis, I need to contact the nearest Catholic church if I can. Do you know what that would be?"

"Probably St. Thomas' in Stuttgart. Father Andrez might could help you. You converting, honey? I thought you were Episcopalian like your mother and father."

"No, not converting. I need help translating a... well... translating something. I don't have anyone to turn to so I thought-"

"That's right," Phyllis said. "You're a college girl. I forgot that your momma and daddy sent you off east. What're you translating?"

Sarah felt her back tighten. She couldn't remember what Phyllis looked like now, so Sarah pictured her as an enormous spider, black and foul, spinning its web, spinning lies, its fat carapace beading with condensation. She saw the spider reclining, one long digit curled around a receiver and holding it up to a head crowded with a multitude of eyes. But not really a spider, some bizarre hybrid between woman and arachnid; a black shell with flabby human breasts, insect eyes perched over a wicked red over-ripe mouth- Sarah shook her head. What's happening to me?

Phyllis said, "Honey? You all right? You still on the line?"

"Yes... uh, yes." Sarah wiped her face, clearing the imaginary cobwebs. "I'm still here. I dropped my pencil."

"Oh, that's OK. Oh, I almost forgot. I heard you've got a house guest. What's his name? Was he hurt bad? Everyone is saying he was badly hurt-"

Sarah's blood went cold. She knows, the old harridan!

"No... no, he's not hurt badly. Um... can you connect me to St. Thomas'? Father Andrez is his name?"

"Yes. But about the man-"

"Phyllis, I'm a little tired right now, and I need to make this call. Can we talk about it when Franny and I come to see you at the Central?"

Phyllis paused. Sarah worried for a moment that she might have offended the operator, but then Phyllis came back on the line.

"That'd be wonderful, sugar! I can't wait to see your little one. You can tell me all about it then."

Fat chance.

"Will do, Phyllis. It's been so nice talking to you again."

"Same here. Now let me connect you, and I'll stay on the line so I can let Ray know when you're done."

The phone rang four times before someone answered. The man's voice sounded hoarse and cracked, but cheerful enough. "Hello. This is Andrez." He had a heavy accent, but spoke the words clear and slow.

"Father? My name is Sarah Williams, and I recently came home to Gethsemane-"

"Yes? How can I help you? It is nearing Compline but I have a bit of time, so if you would-"

"Of course. Well," Sarah chewed her lip, then blurted, "I need help translating a book. And I thought you might be able to help me?"

The man on the other end of the line was silent for a moment, but when he came back on the line, he could hear the smile in his voice. "This is good, though it depends on the book. And the language, of course."

"It's Latin. I assumed that all priests-"

He chuckled, the sound dry and brittle across the line. "Well, in the best of all possible worlds, my," he paused, as though embarrassed, "brothers of the cloth would be able to read Latin, but unfortunately many of the clergy just memorize the Liturgy and... hem... get by."

"Oh," Sarah said, letting the disappointment in her voice show through. "Well, maybe the seminary in Little Rock will have someone."

He chuckled again, then exhaled. He was smoking. "So easily discouraged, eh? Ye of little faith? You are in luck, Mrs. Williams, but it has been awhile since I've translated anything other than the Vulgate. What work is it that you'd like translated?"

"Well, I'm not looking for you to translate it for me," Sarah said. "I'd like for you to help me with my translation."

"Ah! You are translating! A veritable Margaret More, you are. Your father and mother must be proud."

Sarah couldn't tell, but she felt that this man, this priest, was making fun of her. She could feel a blush coming on.

"Yes, well. I took Latin in college and recently picked up Opusculus Noctis in my family library..."

He was silent for a long while. "Hmm. Opusculus Noctis you say?"

"So can you help me?" Sarah asked.

"Yes, Mrs. Williams. I would be happy to. However small my parish is, I must still tend to my flock. Which means you'll have to come from the garden, Gethsemane, and bring the work and manuscript to me here. I have some time tomorrow afternoon, if you would like? After four?"

"Yes, that would be wonderful. Thank you so much."

"It is not a difficulty. I have translated nothing yet. But I look forward to seeing you and the manuscript. I prefer chicken. Chicken salads are good, or fried if you can manage, but chicken is truly my favorite."

"Um ... what? Chicken?"

"Yes. Correct. Chicken is my favorite. But you can bring ham if you have to. Or cake. I like cake. Pies are... ehh... so so. It is up to you, of course."

What a funny, strange man.

"All right," Sarah said. "I will see you at four."

"Do Widzenia, Mrs. Williams. Goodbye."

After he rang off, Phyllis came back on. "I guess you better get cooking."

Sarah hung up and went to find Alice.

Chapter 11.

They landed on Tulagi in the Solomons in the dark of early morning. After hours of bombing from the Jap Bettys, each one streaking in screaming, wreathed in flak like bolls of black cotton, the deep foliage of the jungle was quiet and still. Deathly still. The heat enveloped his troops, causing their fatigues to dampen and cling to them, each face white and wide-eyed, each hand white knuckled on a rifle and sweating, sweating through the morning gloom, sweating into the Solomon heat. Through the fetid green wall they went, pack-heavy mules moving forward to the enemy.

Ingram paused to check his BAR, popping the magazine and inspecting the rounds. The men moved past him, swallowed by green, disappearing into the brush and palms and dark, their passing marked by faint clinks of weapons and the soft whisking of damp fabric. Ingram peered into the dark, looking to the sides and to the rear, making sure nothing was flanking or a beam. The dark had textures, rich fabrics and patterns. The sounds from the carriers and transport ships, the dull thrum of the ship's diesel dynamos pushing the enormous screws, the .30 and .50 cals answering the screaming of the Bettys strafing in, Ingram felt lost without those sounds at his back. He turned in the dark, trying to find the direction of the landing, of the shore, and could hear and see nothing. He turned back to where his men had disappeared and moved into the dark green, deathly lush interior of Tulagi.

The bullets came then, making spluttering sounds as they perforated the thick, oily leaves. Ingram heard distant reports. Nearer he could hear his men, screaming into the dark, screaming into the green, firing.

Ingram ran.