Page 11 of Healing Hazel

A candle lamp in the passageway gave a paltry bit of light, but Hazel was grateful for it. She put on the apron and, having no hairbrush, finger-combed her hair, pulling it back into a knot and fastening it with pins. She put the nurse’s cap on her head and buttoned the armband above her elbow. A thrill went through her as she smoothed out her uniform. It had always been her dearest wish to be a nurse. And even though the turn of events that had brought her to this point were unusual, to say the least, here she was. And she could not help but be pleased.

Having nowhere to hang her traveling clothes, she laid them carefully over the chair and left the room, closing the door behind her and pocketing the key. In the passageway, she hesitated, glancing in both directions. She hadn’t noticed a water closet when she’d come with Lucía earlier. And surely there must be somewhere to wash her face. Instead of going back toward the kitchens, she turned and walked in the other direction.

She found the privy soon enough—a stone room at the end of the corridor. Unsurprisingly, the monks hadn’t installed water pipes, counting on the running water of a mountain stream to carry away their waste. But Hazel was not a stranger to simple amenities after her years in India and did not balk at the hygiene conditions. A pump dispensing frigid water into a basin was in the washroom next door and, beside it, a thick bar of lye soap. She gasped when the cold water touched her face, and performed her morning ablutions quickly, then hurried toward the kitchen, feeling at least slightly more presentable. She still hadn’t seen another person since she’d woken. She supposed the other medical staff were either sleeping or tending to patients.

As she neared, the smells of roasting meat woke her stomach, and the rumbles echoed in the stone passageway. She stepped into the kitchen and found a woman with a round middle chopping carrots with a long knife.

The woman looked up, and seeing Hazel, she rattled off a string of words that were entirely indecipherable, waving the knife around as she spoke. She had a motherly look, short with plump cheeks and kind eyes that looked as if nothing would please her more than to ensure that all within her care were comfortable and well-fed.

“Hola,” Hazel said. “I’m sorry, I can’t understand you. I was hoping I might trouble you for some breakfast?” She motioned to the pot of stew boiling on the iron stove.

The woman’s smile didn’t falter. She set down the knife and continued speaking as she ladled stew into a bowl and set it on a wooden table. She motioned for Hazel to bring a stool and sit, and cut a slice of bread to go with the stew.

“Gracias,” Hazel said, taking a seat. “It smells delicious.” She took an exaggerated sniff, closing her eyes to show how much she enjoyed the aroma. “My name is Hazel Thornton,” she said, putting a hand to her chest. She lifted her palm toward the woman. “What is yours?”

“Alona,” the woman said.

“Pleased to meet you.” Hazel knew the woman couldn’t understand her words. But hopefully, she would perceive their meaning. She was beginning to see that there was quite a lot of communication that did not require words.

The woman gestured again for Hazel to eat and returned to chopping.

Although she reminded herself that she was a well-bred young lady who had been taught manners by her governess, Hazel could not help but gobble up the stew. She could not remember the last time she’d been so hungry. The bread was thick and hearty, and she used it to sop up the last drops in her bowl.

“Delicious,” Hazel said, her cheeks warming as she realized how her poor etiquette must have appeared to Alona.

Alona looked pleased, not appearing in the least disappointed in Hazel’s table manners. She took the bowl to the stove as if to fill it again, but Hazel stopped her. “No, thank you. Gracias. That was quite enough.” She patted her belly to show that it was filled. “It was very good.”

Alona put the bowl in a washbasin instead, and Hazel contemplated what to do next. She supposed she should find Lucía and report for duty. But she would need Dr. Laurent to translate. Both were likely in one of the wards with the patients.

She thanked Alona again and excused herself, starting back toward the hospital ward to check on her friends. But before she had taken more than a few steps, she heard yelling from the other direction. The voices sounded frantic.

Hazel spun and rushed back past the kitchen, past the passageway leading to her bedchamber, and toward where she believed—if the sides of the hospital all joined together—was the entrance where she’d arrived the day before.

When she got to the entry hall, it was filled with people and noise. It took a moment for her to fully make sense of the disarray.

Men carried stretchers upon which others lay, their bodies in various states of damage. Women and some children were in the entry as well, some weeping, others calling out or comforting one of the wounded. Some injured men stumbled in, assisted by a companion. All bore wounds. There must have been an attack. Or a battle.

Hazel hesitated, unsure of what to do. She glanced back along the passageway and then scanned the entry. Where was the medical staff? Someone would come any moment and take charge. Until then, she wasn’t certain—

“Enfermera!” an older man yelled. He rushed toward her. His face was filthy, his lip split and bleeding, and a bruise was growing on his cheek. He grabbed Hazel’s arm and pulled her toward one of the stretchers.

Hazel opened her mouth to protest, to explain that she was waiting for orders, but seeing the state of the man lying there, she froze entirely. A shirt was bound around the man’s arm just below the elbow, but the makeshift bandage didn’t stop the blood saturating it and dripping down onto the canvas. More blood spread from what looked to be a wound in his gut. The man’s eyes were open, but they didn’t seem able to focus on anything at all. His face was pale with the loss of blood.

The people around all spoke at once, perhaps trying to explain what had happened. Or maybe they were telling her what care the man needed. Hazel’s uncertainty was overcome by the need to help. She pressed on the bandage, knowing pressure was necessary to stop the bleeding. Remembering a page from her anatomy book, she felt along the underside of the man’s arm and clenched her hand tightly to pinch off the flow of blood from the brachial artery.

More voices came into the entry hall. More rushing footsteps and shouting.

Without releasing her pressure on the man’s arm, Hazel looked up, relieved that doctors and nurses had arrived.

Dr. Laurent gave instructions in a loud voice. Nurses moved through the crowd. The chaos turned immediately to order as patients were evaluated and family members calmed.

Dr. Jackson appeared at Hazel’s side, and a blush crept up her neck. She’d felt something the day before when he’d held her hand, something that had made her skin tingle and filled her with warmth. The feeling had, of course, been squelched by his irritation at seeing her in the hospital, but she secretly wondered if it might return.

His gaze flitted to hers for an instant, and then he lifted the shirt covering the man’s arm.

Hazel started to pull away.

“No, don’t move,” Dr. Jackson said. His American accent made his words sound clipped. With his chin, he motioned to her hand that was clamped on the man’s upper arm. “Don’t loosen your hold.”

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