"Good night, then, Dr. Surrey."
Back in the bedroom, Nancy could hear the crackling that was Auguste's breathing, as blood bubbled in his pierced lung. His face beeswax-yellow in the candlelight, he lay under the canopy of Elysée's four-poster, covered to his chest by a quilt. His arms lay stretched out on either side, his fingers slightly curled.
His breathing is so noisy, at least we'll know when he stops.
Nancy felt as if she herself were being swept away on a black tide of sorrow.
Elysée, sitting by the bed staring into his grandson's face, looked almost as near death as Auguste. Guichard stood behind him, a clawlike hand perched on his master's shoulder.
Nicole, her eyes round and dark with suffering, asked, "What can we do for him?"
Nancy said, "The doctor says it's up to Auguste and God."
Elysée grunted. "Where was God when this happened?"
If Auguste were conscious, Nancy thought, he would be asking Earthmaker for help. In the camps of the British Band Nancy had never seen Auguste give up on a sick or wounded person. He had applied his remedies, gone into his trance, danced and chanted to summon the aid of his spirit helpers, wrestled with the hurt till either the man's soul left his body or the healing was well begun. At first his practices had seemed foolish and savage to her. But Auguste had done his work with such devotion that she came, watching him, to love him all the more. And, out of love, to respect what he did.
But he's not the only one who practices that calling.