Maybe because she was surrounded by so much death. The idea of coming back to life to try again appealed to her. Obviously there was more to the religion and Lilith embraced all facets of it, but it was the idea of returning as something different, someone different, that mattered to her.
Not that she ever planned to tell Sister Joseph. The woman would be crushed if she knew there was no hope for conversion. Still, despite their varying religious beliefs, the monks and the nuns had no problem coexisting. If neither subscribed to the other’s beliefs they still respected the sacrifice each had made for their faith.
As she climbed higher, the air thinned. Lilith could see the structure in the dark. The monastery was built of stone and mud bricks. An impressive sight, it rose three stories and had over a hundred different rooms linked by long corridors. It was a square design with an orchid garden in the center that Lilith knew the monks referred to as the inner sanctum.
At the main entrance Lilith pulled down hard on a rope several times to announce her presence. The bell clang could be heard throughout the compound.
Eventually the door opened and beyond it she recognized Tenzig, one of the younger brothers. His head was shaved and he was wrapped in the traditional saffron-colored robe that declared his spiritual path. His expression was as serene as ever. He stepped back to allow Lilith to enter, clearly not surprised by her arrival and not in any particular rush. They spoke in the hushed tones of his language as he directed her through the labyrinth of hallways.
“Tell me again, why am I here?” Not that she didn’t trust Sister Joseph’s version of events, but she found herself needing the distraction of conversation. There was always risk involved when her medicine was needed. It made her nervous. She could feel her heart racing just thinking about what needed to be done.
“A visitor came to us. Looking for peace. He walked with a limp. Now the fever has taken him and we fear the only recourse is to remove the leg. He needs to…sleep…before we can do this. You understand?”
“Sister Peter has seen him?”
“She is already with him. We went to her first.”
Sister Peter had recently arrived from the United States. A medical-school dropout who had been called by her faith to take a different path, she had quickly proven herself an invaluable asset among the monks, the nuns and the villagers. If Sister Peter was concerned the leg would have to come off, then the situation was as grave as Tenzig said.
“You can’t take him to a town? Find a real doctor?” Lilith could only imagine the shock the man would suffer to be put to sleep against his will only to wake and find a leg missing.
“There is no time and it is too far to travel even by automobile. Also, we think he would not want to leave this place. We think he would not want the exposure that his wound might cause in a village large enough to have a hospital.”
Lilith nodded. Many who came to the monastery who claimed to be searching for peace were actually looking to get lost. This man, it seemed, was no exception. A criminal maybe. Dangerous possibly. Perhaps she would serve a greater good by giving him more than a numbing sleep. It would be so easy. A simple touch.
If only death weren’t so very disgusting to her.
They stopped beside a door and Tenzig knocked gently. He was commanded to enter. Inside the room Lilith saw another brother, Punab, sitting side by side with Sister Peter as the two of them tended to the man on the bed.
The patient was naked but for a cloth that had been draped over his hips, no doubt in deference to the sister’s sensibilities. His hair was thick and ink-black. Damp, too, from either the fever or the cold compresses being applied.
His chest was broad, well defined with muscle and covered with the same inky-black hair as what was on his head. His legs, too, looked thick. Strong. It was as if he exuded strength despite the flush of fever on his cheeks. There was a heaviness to the man without being fat. A solidness that his entire body conveyed. Even in his hands and his feet.
Lilith wondered how much his body matched his spirit. If they were at all close, she predicted he would be stubborn. It would not be easy to kill this man. Certainly it would take more than a mere fever.
Glancing over the rest of his body, she saw, high on the inside of his left thigh, the infected injury. Almost perfectly round, it was viciously red and oozing pink puss.
Definitely a bullet wound. Lilith had seen enough of them when hunters poaching tigers had missed their mark and found people instead.
“I can’t get his fever down. And he won’t let us get close enough to the wound to see what’s causing the infection,” Sister Peter relayed.
Lilith could see the concern on the woman’s face. Her dedication was unquestionable, but she was not a doctor. She would feel responsible if something happened to him in her care even knowing that she had done everything she could. If for no other reason, Lilith wanted to help her friend. She would do what was asked of her regardless of the risk.
“He won’t let you?” Lilith asked. “He is weak from fever. Can’t Punab and Tenzig hold him down?”
Both monks were smaller than the man on the bed and more used to meditation and study than fighting, but surely in this man’s weakened condition the two of them could subdue him.
Punab, much older than his sister counterpart, a fact emphasized by his deeply lined face, shook his head. “This man is not like others. This man is…a warrior. He’ll not be held unless he chooses.”
Lilith translated the monk’s words since she knew Sister Peter still hadn’t grasped the nuances of Hindi.
“A warrior, huh? More likely a thief who got caught on the run. We’ve seen his kind come to the monastery before. They say they’re looking for enlightenment then after a few days, when they figure the coast is clear, they disappear. No doubt this one would have done the same if he hadn’t gotten sick.”
He didn’t look like a thief, Lilith thought. Something about his jaw, the shape of it, made him seem too proud. He was Indian—she could determine that by the bronze color of his skin—but his features had been sharpened by another race. She watched him for a long minute and decided that while he was not a thief, she could not say for certain that he wasn’t a killer.
Warriors killed, after all.
Suddenly his eyes popped open and he focused on her. “Don’t let them take my leg.”
Startled by his sudden alertness, Lilith took a step back. He spoke in English and his accent was British.
“You need to rest,” she replied in his language. “I can help you sleep. I can take the pain away.”
“No,” he rasped. “They’ll take it while I sleep. You can’t let them.”
Lilith moved closer to the bed. Impulsively she reached out to him, thinking to adjust the damp cloth on his head and soothe it over his face to remove the droplets of sweat that beaded his forehead. But she caught herself before she touched him.
It wasn’t in her nature to touch anyone. For comfort or anything else. Even when she was wearing her gloves. But clearly the man needed to be assured. What Lilith didn’t know was if her assurance would be a lie.
She met Sister Peter’s steady gaze. The two women were a stark contrast to each other. The nun’s blond hair to Lilith’s dark. Sister Peter’s brown eyes to her gray. Tall where Lilith was not. But despite their physical, religious and cultural differences they communicated easily and without many words.
“I can try. No doubt something was left