《La Loi du Mystère [French]》Chapitre 1.1 - Le naufragé
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Le naufragé ouvrit lentement les paupières. Il crut d’abord faire face au sol, car la seule chose qu’il pouvait voir dans ce lieu obscure, c’était les épaisses planches de bois humide lui faisant face. Puis une grosse goutte s’infiltra entre deux planches et vint s’écraser en plein dans son œil gauche. Il comprit alors qu’il faisait face au plafond et que la gravité venait de lui jouer un mauvais tour. Il dut faire un effort pour rouvrir les yeux. Il voulut utiliser son bras pour les rincer, mais… Bon sang, pourquoi ne pouvait-il pas lever son bras ?
Il tourna lentement la tête vers la gauche dans l’espoir de voir ses bras toujours attachés à son corps. Ses vertèbres craquèrent sous l’effort et une vague de douleur lui parcourut le dos. Il observa son flanc. Première bonne nouvelle : son bras était bien là, allongé à côté de son corps. Et son corps reposait sur une planche de bois. Peut-être une table vu l’élévation par rapport au sol.
Il entendit du bruit sur la droite et fit rouler sa tête de l’autre côté avec autant de difficulté que la première fois. Un homme lui tournait le dos, debout devant une étagère à moitié vide. Il fouillait dans une petite malle en cuir et en sortit des ustensiles en métal et des bandages. Puis il déboucha une bouteille remplie d’un liquide brun qui trainait sur l’étagère et s’en servit une rasade dans un verre sale. L’inconnu descendit le verre d’une traite. L’odeur piquante de l’alcool parvint jusqu’aux narines du naufragé. Seconde bonne nouvelle, il n’avait pas perdu son odorat ! Il respira encore une fois et d’autres odeurs envahirent ses narines. C’était des odeurs qui lui rappelaient l’air de la mer. Est-ce qu’il était proche de la côte ?
L’homme se tourna vers lui. Il avait les cheveux sales et parsemés de blanc et portait une barbe grise hirsute. Sous le poil long, son visage boursoufflé n’aurait trompé personne : cet homme côtoyait la bouteille de trop près. Pourtant son regard jurait avec le reste du tableau. Il avait le regard d’un sage, un regard profond qui semblait tout savoir. Ou était-ce plutôt le regard de ceux qui en avaient trop vu ?
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L’homme s’arrêta lorsqu’il vit les yeux ouverts du naufragé.
— Ah, vous êtes réveillé !
Le naufragé essaya de répondre, mais ne parvint à lâcher qu’un raclement de gorge.
— On papotera plus tard, ne vous en faites pas. À vrai dire, j’aurai préféré que vous restiez endormi. Ce qui va suivre n’a rien de plaisant.
L’homme posa ses instruments sur la table de bois. De si près, le naufragé put discerner les scalpels et autres outils médicaux. L’ivrogne était un médecin, c’est de là que lui venait ce drôle de regard.
Un bruit sourd résonna au-dehors et la pièce sembla vaciller sous les yeux du naufragé.
— La mer est déchainée cette nuit. Quand on se sera occupé de vos blessures, il faudra nous expliquer comment vous avez pu survivre à une telle tempête !
La mer ? Le naufragé comprit alors qu’il était sur un bateau. Comment s’était-il retrouvé ici et… des blessures ? Qu’est-ce qu’il voulait dire par là ? Il redressa la tête du mieux qu’il le put. L’effort le tordit de douleur, mais il put voir par lui-même.
Un morceau de métal dépassait de sa cuisse couverte de sang. La vue de l’objet réveilla soudainement la douleur, comme si son cerveau l’avait gardée cachée jusqu’ici. Il aurait hurlé si seulement sa gorge ne lui faisait pas aussi mal. Au lieu de ça, il serra les dents si fort qu’il sentit le gout du sang dans sa bouche.
— La lame a percé une artère, dit le médecin. C’est une chance qu’elle soit restée là sinon vous vous serriez vidé de votre sang. La lame a été brisée net, elle était comme ça quand on vous a trouvé.
Le naufragé se fichait de comment elle était arrivée là, ce qu’il voulait c’était se débarrasser de ce cette lame qui lui faisait souffrir le martyre.
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— Sort… sortez-là, parvient-il enfin à dire après un effort colossal.
Le médecin lui lança un regard grave. Puis il reprit la bouteille d’alcool, mais cette fois, il la posa sur les lèvres du naufragé.
— Ça aidera… pour la douleur.
Le naufragé accepta une gorgée. Le liquide chaud se répandit dans ses entrailles. Pendant un très court instant, il se sentit mieux. Le médecin prit lui-même une gorgée puis il vida le reste du récipient sur la jambe du naufragé. La douleur fut instantanée, comme si on lui brulait la peau.
— Il faut désinfecter la plaie avant que je ne sorte la lame, expliqua le médecin.
Il se tourna vers ses instruments, choisit une pince en métal et s’en servit pour attraper le bout de lame dépassant de la jambe blessée. Il tira d’un coup sec et le morceau de lame sortit de sa jambe, accompagné d’un bruit de chair qui se déchire. Du sang éclaboussa le visage du médecin qui se mit aussitôt au travail pour suturer l’artère. Pour le naufragé, tout son corps n’était qu’une vague de douleur constante.
Puis sa vision se brouilla et la pièce commença à danser devant ses yeux pourtant immobiles. La douleur s’estompa peu à peu. Il ne sentait plus sa jambe ni le reste de son corps. L’odeur de la mer disparut et le contact de sa peau sur la table de bois s’effaça. Il perdit de nouveau conscience.
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