Then, at last, his soul sped forth and joined with the blood of the sea. A great, exquisite relief filled him, infinite, and he was glad that he was dead.
Mac opened his eyes. His blankets were soaked. His fever had passed.
And he knew that he was alive once more.
Peter Marlowe was still sitting beside the bed. Night somewhere behind him.
'Hello, laddie.' The words were so faint that Peter Marlowe had to bend forward to catch them.
'You all right, Mac?'
'All right, laddie. It's almost worth the fever, to feel so good. I'll sleep now.
Bring me some food tomorrow.'
Mac closed his eyes and was asleep. Peter Marlowe pulled the blankets off him and dried the husk of the man.
'Where can I get some dry blankets, Steven?' he asked, as he caught sight of the orderly hurrying through the ward.
'I don't know, sir,' Steven said. He had seen this young man many times.
And liked him. Perhaps - but no, Lloyd would be terribly jealous. Another day. There's plenty of time. 'Perhaps I can help you, sir.'
Steven went over to the fourth bed and took the blanket off the man, then deftly slid the bottom blanket off and came back. 'Here,' he said. 'Use these.'
'What about him?'
'Oh,' Steven said with a gentle smile. 'He doesn't need them any more.
The detail's due. Poor boy.'
'Oh!' Peter Marlowe looked across to see who it was, but it was a face he didn't know. 'Thanks,' he said and began to fix the bed.
'Here,' Steven said. 'Let me. I can do it much better than you.' He was proud of the way he could make a bed without hurting the patient.
'Now don't you worry about your friend,' he said, 'I'll see that he's all right.' He tucked Mac in like a child. 'There.' He stroked Mac's head for a moment, then took out a handkerchief and wiped the remains of the sweat off Mac's forehead. 'He'll be fine in two days. If you have some extra food
—' but he stopped and looked at Peter Marlowe and the tears gathered in his eyes. 'How silly of me. But don't you fret, Steven will find something for him. Now don't you worry. There's nothing more you can do tonight. You go off and have a good night's rest. Go on, there's a good boy.'
Speechless, Peter Marlowe allowed himself to be led outside. Steven smiled good night and went back inside.
From the darkness Peter Marlowe watched Steven smooth a fevered brow and hold an agued hand, and caress away the night-devils and soften the night-cries and adjust the covers and help a man to drink and help a man to vomit, and all the time a lullaby, delicate and sweet. When Steven came to Bed Four, he stopped and looked down on the corpse. He straightened the limbs and crossed the hands, then took off his smock and covered the body, his touch a benediction. Steven's slim smooth torso and slim smooth legs glowed in the glittering half light.
'You poor boy,' he whispered and looked around the tomb. 'Poor boys.
Oh, my poor boys,' and he wept for them all.
Peter Marlowe turned away into the night, filled with pity, ashamed that Steven had once upon a time disgusted him.
Chapter 12
As Peter Marlowe neared the American hut he was full of misgivings. He was sorry that he had agreed so readily to interpret for the King, and at the same time upset that he was unhappy about doing it. You're a fine friend, he told himself, after all he's done for you.
The sinking in his stomach increased. Just like before you go up for a mission, he thought. No, not like that. This feeling's like when you've been sent for by the headmaster. The other's just as painful, but at the same time mixed with pleasure. Like the village. That makes your heart take flight. To take such a chance, just for the excitement — or in truth for the food or the girl that might be there.
He wondered for the thousandth tune just why the King went and what he did there. But to ask would be impolite and he knew that he only had to have a little patience to find out. That was another reason he liked the King. The way that he volunteered nothing and kept most of his thoughts to himself. That's the English way, Peter Marlowe told himself contentedly.
Just let out a little at a time, when you're in the mood. What you are or who you are is your own affair — until you wish to share with a friend. And a friend never asks. It has to be freely given or not at all.
Like the village. My God, he thought, that shows how much he thinks of you, to open up like that. Just to come out and say do you want to come along, the next time I go.
Peter Marlowe knew that it was an insane thing to do. To go to the village.
But perhaps not so insane now. Now there was a real reason. An important reason. To try to get a part to fix the wireless - or to get a wireless, a whole one. Yes. This makes the risk worthwhile.
But at the same time he knew that he would have gone just because he had been asked to go, and because of the might-be-food and might-be girl.
He saw the King deep in a shadow, beside a hut, talking to another shadow. Their heads were close together and their voices were inaudible.
So intent were they that Peter Marlowe decided to pass the King by, and he began to mount the stairs into the American hut, crossing the shaft of light.
'Hey, Peter,' the King called out.
