Free Thoreau at Devil's Perch by B.B. Oak

forceps.
    She stared at me in disbelief. “But I have had no training.”
    â€œYou have the better angle,” I explained gently. “And you are so clever with your hands. Just take care not to push the fragment farther out of reach.”
    She grew pale but bravely took up the forceps. She managed to grasp the bit of sharp bone with them, but slippery fluid kept her from getting a tight hold. Her hand began to shake.
    â€œSteady,” I told her softly.
    â€œDo you really trust I can do this, Adam?”
    â€œI trust you implicitly.”
    Thus encouraged, she tried again and this time succeeded in lifting the bit of bone away from the brain. She cried out in relief.
    I acknowledged her achievement with a brief smile before fitting the sawn circular piece back into the skull. Used beeswax to bind it there. As a preventive measure against infection, I washed the wound with red precipitate. Closed the flaps of skin over the incision, sewed them up, and covered the area with linen bandages soaked in diluted honey. Believe in the healing powers of honey almost as much as my mother did.
    â€œThat ought to do it,” I told Julia.
    She gazed down at our patient. “I touched his very brain,” she whispered. Overcome by this realization, she began to sway.
    I grabbed her arm and led her outside for a breath of fresh air. The Herd men were waiting in the door yard. They expressed relief when I informed them that the Indian was still breathing, and Mr. Herd even offered to pay me for my trouble. Frugal Yankee farmer that he is, he offered me one dollar and two-dozen eggs. I accepted this pittance without the slightest objection. My true reward will be my patient’s survival. And the surgical experience I have gained is invaluable.

JULIA’S NOTEBOOK
    Sunday, 9 August
    Â 
    I must ready myself for church, so I shall make this entry brief.
    Adam saved the life of a mortally wounded young man yesterday, and I had the privilege of assisting him. That I could muster the fortitude to do so might astound some, but we of the Weaker Sex are not so weak as men would have us. Indeed, I see no reason why women should not be allowed to study medicine and become surgeons themselves. But I suppose that is a far-fetched notion.
    I have never encountered an American native before. I am familiar with portraits of them by Charles Bird King, however, and our patient has similar features. His face is hairless, and the bones beneath his cheeks are prominent even in repose. He has a somewhat low, backward sloping forehead. His ears have thick lobes and lie close to his head, and his eyelids are ovated, edged with long, straight lashes. His nose is sizeable (indeed, it reminds me of Henry Thoreau’s nose), with a predominating aquiline bridge, and his lips are well-formed. His hair is so black it seems tinged with cobalt blue, and his skin is an earthy, burnished shade of reddish-brown that I should reproduce on canvas with a mixture of clay pigments such as ocher, sienna, sinoper, and umber. During the surgery I had opportunity to observe his bare chest, and it is fairly muscular but hairless. I have glimpsed nearly naked men before, models for Papa’s paintings of mythic figures, and this Indian would make a good Hermes, the speedy messenger of the gods. Perchance he has come to Plumford as a harbinger—What could he foreshow?
    Am I letting my imagination get the better of me? Perhaps I have been reading too much Poe to Grandfather. We both enjoy Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque immensely. Takes us back to the days when I was a child and Grandfather would read macabre tales concerning Bluebeard and the Headless Horsemen and such to me. We have always shared a taste for such fare, which Grandmother Walker, rest her soul, considered quite common. I was never a proper enough girl to suit her, but I suited Grandfather just fine. It pleases me that he still enjoys my company. The more he mends, however,