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"Help me ... please..."
The moan was barely audible above the chatter of the birds greeting the dusk. Elena paused, key half-turned in the padlock, listening closely.
"Por favor..."
This time, she could hear the pain in the man's voice. The sound came from the mass of tangled vegetation framing the gate of the clinic. She stuck the lock in her jeans pocket and tried to part the curtain of lianas that cloaked the young fir tree. The tough vines resisted, but she finally managed to tear them apart, exposing a clearing created by the tree's drooping branches.
He lay on his back on the damp ground, gasping for breath. A doctor first, Elena immediately noted the terrible wound that ripped across his chest. The rough trousers that were his only garment were black with blood.
She crawled into the concealed space and knelt beside him, examining the awful gash more closely. The flow had begun to clot, but if she moved him, the bleeding might start again.
"Aye..." The man gave an inarticulate groan and struggled weakly to rise.
"No! Stay still!" Elena spoke to him in Spanish, hoping he'd understand. "You mustn't move. You're seriously hurt. Stay here quietly. I'll get some of the village men to carry you to the infirmary."
He grabbed her shirt, holding her back. His strength was surprising. "No, please! Don't bring anyone. No one must know..."
"Then how will we get you inside?"
"I-I can walk."
"With your chest torn open like that? And all the blood that you've lost?"
"I can do it. I am strong, still."
"No, it's impossible. Just wait. I'll be back in five minutes."
"If you return with anyone else, I will be gone." Forthe first time since she had heard his plea, Elena the woman took over from Elena the physician. She searched his face, noting the smooth, dusky skin, the high cheek bones, the proud Mayan nose, the full lips set in a stubborn line. His eyes gleamed in the shadows beneath the boughs, challenging her. A little chill ran up her spine. Who was this stranger, so badly hurt and yet so forceful? She didn't doubt he would do as he said. She didn't dare take responsibility for driving him away.
"All right, then. At least let me bind up your chest to hold the edges of the wound together." She shrugged off her long-sleeved shirt, trying to ignore the man's dark eyes following her every move. She pushed away her momentary embarrassment. It didn't matter that he saw her wearing nothing but a bra. She was a doctor, and his life was in danger.
"Can you sit up? Careful, now. Take it slow." She supported him with one arm around his shoulders as he worked his way into a sitting position. She could tell from the grim set of his mouth that he was in pain, but he made no sound.
"Lean on me, and I'll try to tie this around you." He slumped against her, his right shoulder supported by her left. He was warm, clearly not in shock yet. That was good. In fact, his bare skin felt hot against hers--he was probably running a fever. Not so promising. She had to get him inside.
There was not much she could do. She gently positioned the back of her shirt against his chest, over the oozing tear in his flesh. Then she tied the arms of the shirt behind his back, tightly enough, she hoped, to apply some pressure. She couldn't help noticing his solidly muscled torso. This was a man accustomed to hard labour. Yet there was something about his speech that made her doubt he was a peasant.
"How does that feel? Is it painful?"
"It's better. Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. It's twenty metres from here to the infirmary. How are we going to get you on your feet?"
"I can do it. You back out of the clearing. I'll follow."
They couldn't exit standing anyway. She decided to obey and worked her way between the vines, back onto the dirt path. She watched anxiously as the stranger emerged on his hands and knees. Slowly, while she marvelled at his strength, he brought himself into a crouch and finally, to his full height.
He was tall for a native, half a head taller than Elena, despite her Swedish mother and her affluent American upbringing. His long black hair was tangled and knotted, studded with leaves and clumps of dirt. She could see that, when it was clean, it would reach halfway down his back. He was filthy and drenched with his own blood--Elena could see the jagged diagonal line where it was seeping through her white shirt--but still, he was magnificent. Regal.
A stab of pain twisted his face into a grimace. His proud stance wavered. Elena rushed to his side just as he was about to collapse.
"Hang on. Put your arm around my shoulders. There, that's good. Now, take it slowly. One step at a time."
She slipped her arm around his waist to anchor him against her body. He shuffled forward with Elena supporting most of his weight. They inched along, through the gate and along the path to the veranda. Three stairs led up to the porch and the clinic door. Elena's heart sank. It might as well be three hundred. There was no way her patient could make the climb himself, and he was far too heavy for her to carry him.
A narrow ramp paralleled the stairs, but that didn't help. The second-hand wheelchair that belonged to the clinic was out on loan to Salvador Corbas, who had broken his leg while harvesting palm nuts the previous week.
They paused. Elena gazed up at the mysterious man's face. His eyes were shut, as though he was exhausted. She wondered if he was losing consciousness. Then she realised that he was looking within, trying to summon the strength to continue. His handsome face was peaceful. He was humming a weird, atonal melody Elena found oddly familiar.
His grip on her shoulders relaxed. He opened his eyes. They glowed like twin moons in the gathering dark. An inexplicable excitement seized Elena.
"Release me," he whispered. Elena had no choice but to obey. Astonished, she watched as the stranger stood fully erect. He strode briskly up the steps, as though he was completely whole.
Then he crumpled into a bloody heap in front of the clinic door.
