Excerpts from
Witch Fever
By Leif Esper Andersen
The man was
unconscious, the fever causing pearls of sweat to break out on his forehead,
and his clothes were soaked with sweat. One of his shirt-sleeves had been cut
off and his shirt was gashed down the side. The blood-poisoning had spread,
bluish-black streaks running up over his arm into his armpit and spreading over
his chest and side. He had not long to go.
The two men
who had brought him stood in silence, looking at Hans.
'Why have
you left it so late before bringing him?' Hans was angry, and there was no
doubt about it. 'You said he was to come today.'
'Fools! I
can do nothing. He came too late the first time, and you've come too late now.
No one can help a dead man.'
'He's still
alive - and with the help of the Devil, you can do a lot if you want to.'
'What do
you mean? If you want the Devil's help, then go to him.'
Hans was
glaring angrily at the man, and there was fire in his eyes. The stranger was
forced to lower his gaze and the sick man began to shudder with cramps. He was
still unconscious, but his body was contracting spasmodically and a stream of
plaintive sounds was coming from his mouth.
Hans had
fetched a small container of yellowish liquid from his chest and now he forced
the sick man's teeth apart with a stick and carefully poured a few drops of the
liquid into his mouth.
'It won't
save him, but it'll put an end to the cramps. He will be dead before midday.'
He sat down
by the sick man and gently took up his hand. Gradually, the spasms went away.
When the sun had risen to its midday height, the two men were on their way back
with him over the hills. He was no longer sick. He was dead.
Translated by Joan Tate
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