4
" Hardly had the light been extinguished, when a peculiar trembling beganto affect the netting under which the three children lay.It consisted of a multitude of dull scratches which produced a metallicsound, as if claws and teeth were gnawing at the copper wire. This wasaccompanied by all sorts of little piercing cries.The little five-year-old boy, on hearing this hubbub overhead, andchilled with terror, jogged his brother's elbow; but the elder brotherhad already shut his peepers, as Gavroche had ordered. Then the littleone, who could no longer control his terror, questioned Gavroche, but ina very low tone, and with bated breath:--" Sir?" " Hey?" said Gavroche, who had just closed his eyes." What is that?" " It's the rats," replied Gavroche.And he laid his head down on the mat again.The rats, in fact, who swarmed by thousands in the carcass of theelephant, and who were the living black spots which we have alreadymentioned, had been held in awe by the flame of the candle, so long asit had been lighted; but as soon as the cavern, which was the sameas their city, had returned to darkness, scenting what the goodstory-teller Perrault calls " fresh meat," they had hurled themselves inthrongs on Gavroche's tent, had climbed to the top of it, and had begunto bite the meshes as though seeking to pierce this new-fangled trap.Still the little one could not sleep." Sir?" he began again." Hey?" said Gavroche." What are rats?" " They are mice." This explanation reassured the child a little. He had seen white mice inthe course of his life, and he was not afraid of them. Nevertheless, helifted up his voice once more." Sir?" " Hey?" said Gavroche again." Why don't you have a cat?" " I did have one," replied Gavroche, " I brought one here, but they ateher." This second explanation undid the work of the first, and the littlefellow began to tremble again.The dialogue between him and Gavroche began again for the fourth time:--" Monsieur?" " Hey?" " Who was it that was eaten?" " The cat." " And who ate the cat?" " The rats." " The mice?" " Yes, the rats." The child, in consternation, dismayed at the thought of mice which atecats, pursued:--" Sir, would those mice eat us?" " Wouldn't they just!" ejaculated Gavroche.The child's terror had reached its climax. But Gavroche added:--" Don't be afraid. They can't get in. And besides, I'm here! Here, catchhold of my hand. Hold your tongue and shut your peepers! "
8
" What was she thinking?” muttered Alexander, closing his eyes and imagining his Tania.
“She was determined. It was like some kind of a personal crusade with her,” Ina said. “She gave the doctor a liter of blood for you—”
“Where did she get it from?”
“Herself, of course.” Ina smiled. “Lucky for you, Major, our Nurse Metanova is a universal donor.”
Of course she is, thought Alexander, keeping his eyes tightly shut.
Ina continued. “The doctor told her she couldn’t give any more, and she said a liter wasn’t enough, and he said, ‘Yes, but you don’t have more to give,’ and she said, ‘I’ll make more,’ and he said, ‘No,’ and she said, ‘Yes,’ and in four hours, she gave him another half-liter of blood.”
Alexander lay on his stomach and listened intently while Ina wrapped fresh gauze on his wound.
He was barely breathing.
“The doctor told her, ‘Tania, you’re wasting your time. Look at his burn. It’s going to get infected.’ There wasn’t enough penicillin to give to you, especially since your blood count was so
low.” Alexander heard Ina chuckle in disbelief. “So I’m making my rounds late that night, and who do I find next to your bed? Tatiana. She’s sitting with a syringe in her arm, hooked up to a
catheter, and I watch her, and I swear to God, you won’t believe it when I tell you, Major, but I see that the catheter is attached to the entry drip in your IV.” Ina’s eyes bulged. “I watch her
draining blood from the radial artery in her arm into your IV. I ran in and said, ‘Are you crazy? Are you out of your mind? You’re siphoning blood from yourself into him?’ She said to me in
her calm, I-won’t-stand-for-any-argument voice, ‘Ina, if I don’t, he will die.’ I yelled at her. I said, ‘There are thirty soldiers in the critical wing who need sutures and bandages and their wounds cleaned. Why don’t you take care of them and let God take care of the dead?’ And she said, ‘He’s not dead. He is still alive, and while he is alive, he is mine.’ Can you believe it, Major? But that’s what she said. ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I said to her. ‘Fine, die yourself. I don’t care.’ But the next morning I went to complain to Dr. Sayers that she wasn’t following procedure,
told him what she had done, and he ran to yell at her.” Ina lowered her voice to a sibilant, incredulous whisper. “We found her unconscious on the floor by your bed. She was in a dead faint, but you had taken a turn for the better. All your vital signs were up. And Tatiana got up from the floor, white as death itself, and said to the doctor coldly, ‘Maybe now you can give him the penicillin he needs?’ I could see the doctor was stunned. But he did. Gave you penicillin and more plasma and extra morphine. Then he operated on you, to get bits of the shell fragment out
of you, and saved your kidney. And stitched you. And all that time she never left his side, or yours. He told her your bandages needed to be changed every three hours to help with drainage,
to prevent infection. We had only two nurses in the terminal wing, me and her. I had to take care of all the other patients, while all she did was take care of you. For fifteen days and nights she unwrapped you and cleaned you and changed your dressings. Every three hours. She was a ghost by the end. But you made it. That’s when we moved you to critical care. I said to her, ‘Tania, this man ought to marry you for what you did for him,’ and she said, ‘You think so?’ ” Ina tutted again. Paused. “Are you all right, Major? Why are you crying? "
― Paullina Simons , The Bronze Horseman (The Bronze Horseman, #1)
9
" What a thing this sleeplessness was!...If sleep, she thought, could be compared to a gentle lake ina dark place, the sleeplessness was a roaring ocean, a raging, wind-buffeted voyage, lit with mad rocket-lights, pursued by wild phantoms from behind, plunging upon fearful rocks ahead, a mad tempest of the past and present and future all in one. Through all this the pale, strenuous mariner must somehow steer a way, until at last the weary dawn, not of sleep, but of resignation to sleeplessness, comes to calm the waters of the mind. "
― Patrick Hamilton , The Slaves of Solitude
12
" Woman lost (skin deep) like a damn fine thread in the fire
Woman of the world caught up in your black machinations
I was a woman who cried alone at night, who gave it all
away when she saw the good heart of the man inside
Woman caught standing up; her open parts are broken -
Someone's armour broke right through, it was you, you
For some reason I've been thinking about you, your light
Today, you poured out all the tension, the ego underground
Hibernating inside my heart. I was so close to it, to the flicker
Of love in a lonely street and I turned my head and walked
Away from the flame in your arms. As I put away the fun in
A house of fight I came across you and a mechanism in
My brain shifted chemically, walls caved in like the cadence
In your words and I was lost in the darkness. Even now in
Middle age I remember when desire was a popular drug
And everyone was selling it but I don't live to explore to be
Able to illuminate the proof of my existence, live to burn
Vicariously though the diamond mouth of sleeping stars.
From so much love, pictures of death arrived in black and
White photographs and you're perfect, you always were -
Illusions have no flaws; they're dangerous beings, smoke.
Could I take the moon back and still live with my great
Expectations of nostalgia, laughter, tears and suffering -
But they are all a part of me not the people of the stars,
Long dead videotape, the past has stained the symphony
Of my soul (like the wind through the trees) throughout
Me finding myself, my two left feet as a female poet
The warning was there of the noise of eternity, signs
That said, don't anger the sea, you have an ally in her.
When men grow cold listen to their stories and bask in
The glory of their genuine deaths, their winters, put
Them away so you can read them like the newspaper.
Once in a while you can go back to where you stood
In youth with your afternoon tea, the sun of God in our
Eyes - I am that kind of woman who lives in the past "
― Abigail George , Feeding The Beasts
