Chapter Four
~
With the settlement a mile away, the dark quiet of the woods wrapped around me. I dropped to the ground, leaned against the trunk of a tree, and sobs stole my breath.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I stammered between bouts to claim air.
Maybe, I continued my babblin’ another ten seconds, until I heard my papa’s words in my mind. “Men don’t cry.” They don’t run away either. But that’s exactly what Papa had done. How could he leave the four of us? Immediately after we’d lost Mama?
Why’d I let the Hamlet folk separate me from my sisters? How could I leave them behind in the Hamlet while I lounged about Ike’s lair? Should be with the girls. I’m no better than Papa.
“Why? Why did it all—”
There are no answers. The sobs threatened again. What exactly was I good for? How could I help the girls? Couldn’t even accomplish payin’ for a slab of fat-slavered bread without nearly gettin’ killed. Now I didn’t even have a pouch of stolen coins, nor the loaf or wedge of cheese I’d lifted from Aedwin’s kitchen. I dropped my chin to my chest. My self-loathin’ brought the taste of vomit into the back of my throat.
“Ya’re worthless. What’re ya gonna do now?” That tic itched in the center of my back.
I drew my thumb across the wad of cloth in my fist, forgotten since my escape. I spread it open and wiped my face. The goo was probably blood, considerin’ the nicks of pain. The blood would stain the handkerchief, but that moment I didn’t care. Needed the gentle touch of the wool. Needed a memory that didn’t humiliate me.
I thought back to the evenin’ Aedwin presented me the gift. She gushed about it not bein’ much, but she wished to give me somethin’. Her mate, bein’ the ogres’ clan leader, rider of Taiz’lin, and from what I could see, quite the dealer of goods, is worth many more bags of gold like the one I stole.
Funny, it was important to Aedwin to gift me somethin’ she made with her own hands, loomed in her private workroom. I hadn’t appreciated it much at the time. Resented it even, later, for bein’ such a trifle. That moment on the floor of the inn though, it represented much more than a trifle gift.
Odd. A connection. Or somethin’. A physical thin’, more tangible than a memory of Mama. Every day I struggle more to form a picture of Mama in my mind.
I shook my head. The two ogres have so much. It was no big deal to take me in. Why couldn’t they take in my sisters too? They had plenty of room. Though for the life of me I couldn’t imagine how we would have filled our hours on the top of that mountain.
Anger replaced my earlier fear and humiliation. I lunged to my feet and staggered what I hoped was north. Within two steps I flew forward, shins gratin’ on a log I tripped over. My palms slammed into the ground, back bent awkwardly. I reeled for a moment, before pullin’ myself together, complainin’ about new pains.
I considered remainin’ right there to sleep, but my skin crawled. Imagined the bugs I collected on the floor of the tavern. A creek to bathe in would be nice, no matter how cold the water. But likely I’d crawl into clothes still vibratin’ with vermin. I pounded the ground with my fist, rose slowly, made my way through the trees more carefully, studyin’ the shadows in front of me.
The woods cleared. Across a rough-hewed fence, a farmer’s field sloped away. Somewhere down there, would be a creek. Thereabouts would be a good place to meet Taiz’lin. A new thought crossed my mind. Was it possible? Could the dragon have intended me to traipse on, lost, never to be seen again?
Was the dragon doin’ that ogre Ike a favor, gettin’ rid of an unwelcome house guest? The decision where to meet had been left broadly open.
“So be it,” I mumbled. “At least he got me farther the first day than I could have on foot.”
I didn’t resent my unexpected exit from the little settlement. Loss of my belongin’s was another matter. But if Papa had been about, that very inn would have been the place to find him. Met his standards.
That was a mean judgment.
Maybe the next town. It had to be more consequential than the last.
The silhouette of a buildin’ rose. I clomped to a halt and looked around. No hint of smoke from a cookin’ fire. I edged forward. The structure stretched the breadth and shape of a barn, with the distinctive aroma of farm animals in the air. I inched forward, searchin’ for the entrance.
Reachin’ a corner, I spied the shadow of a farmhouse eighty feet away. Even in the dark with the moon barely up good, the place had the sense of bein’ a step above any farmstead I’d ever visited. I looked forward to sweet straw to snuggle in for the night. The trick would be to rise before the owners, as not to wake to an axe presented between the eyes for my trespass.
The side door, next to the roll-back, creaked softly as I eased it open. A horse snickered and a hoof stamped. The smell of healthy livestock and mowed fodder made me feel at home, the first time since Papa moved us to the Range.
I edged forward, hand extended, and closed the door behind me plungin’ shadows into blackness. I stood still, placin’ the slight sounds. From the breathin’ to my left I visualized a pen full of sheep. No. Not in full summer. They’d be free in the fields. Unless they were havin’ a wolf problem. Prolly a ewe or ewes ready to give birth.
Another stamp identified the stalls.
My eyes adjusted a tad and the odd crease between the wall planks let in slivers of starlight. My palm bumped into somethin’. It took me only a second of investigation to make out the frame of a wagon. I shuffled around it, managed a stall door. The sweet smell of hay at my feet encouraged me. Sleepin’ feet from the reach of a horse’s hooves had its risks, but it seemed worth it. There was naught to frighten the creature.
I knelt, drew loose straw against the wall, and lay down. Stalks tickled my neck. I turned up my collar and shifted to get the ends of stubborn husks out of my back. I lay listenin’ to the snuffle of my neighbor. My mind turned like the page of a book to the altercation in the inn. It took me several minutes to move to a more relaxin’ chapter.
One where I’d own a fine farm, as this one I visited uninvited.
~
My eyes jolted open and my body jerked with the discomfort of not knowin’ what woke me, of where I lay. The previous day flashed back with an unpleasin’ wallop. A voice broke the silence and my neighbor the horse stamped, and turned to face the front of the stall. The sun wasn’t fully up, but would rise above the horizon soon.
A man’s voice sang over the half-wall. “Eo-yo-eo-eo. How are my babies doin’?”
The clank of metal, buckets by the ring of ’em, and the screech of a door swingin’ made me lurch to my knees and press my face against the stall wall, tryin’ to peer between the planks. The shush of tin slidin’ into a bin of oats, once, then a second time, and a third.
“Ready for your breakfast, girls? A smidgen for the mother to be?”
An arm reached over the stall door placin’ a bucket inside a trestle in the corner. The hand paused over the horse’s muzzle before disappearin’. I mentally followed the footsteps in the dry straw and the clunk of another bucket.
“Here ya go, girl.” The sound of a lovin’ clap. “Got some potatoes to turn today. Eat up. Enjoy.”
The thithh of oats thrown into a trough, and the steps turned back toward me.
I cringed in the corner and pulled straw over me, grimacin’ over the smell of horse urine I stirred up. What chance did I have of gettin’ out of here alive? I wished myself intense pain for oversleepin’. Was likely to experience it in reality.
What a fool. What an idjit.
Would make yesterday’s incident at the tavern look like an intelligent social interaction.
Footsteps. A loud clank made me wince. The main door rumbled, rollin’ back, and the level of the light inside the barn rose. Thankfully, the footsteps faded. I took my chance and stood. The farmer would be back in minutes to harness the horses, and bein’ overlooked again, cowerin’ in the straw, was unlikely.
The horse nickered as I pressed by it. “Good girl. Good girl,” I whispered.
I craned left and right before reachin’ over to open the stall gate. The mare pressed forward. I hurried to place my hand over her muzzle and push her back. But the girl was full of her oats and ready for sunshine. She ploughed into me, thrustin’ me into the wagon ten feet away. I bounced off it with a thud and the mare trotted past for the open door.
Three seconds later a startled, “Whoa, girl,” echoed from outside. “How’d ya get out?”
From the stampin’ and footfalls, it sounded as though the man worked his mare toward an outside pen. I raced for the door, but it must have been someone else tendin’ the horse. The wrinkled face of an older man that fit the earlier voice jammed to a halt in front of me. His eyes rounded, before anger spread across his face.
“Thief! Thief! What are ya doin’ in my barn? Thief!”
The man lunged to the left. I lurched to the right. A four-count later pain seared me across the shoulder blades archin’ me backward. My toes stubbed the ground, and I reeled forward, knees connectin’ with the ground, right shoulder collidin’ with a water barrel that didn’t give. Barely kept my face from plungin’ into animal muck.
I groaned, turnin’ over on my back.
The farmer lunged at me with a pitchfork. Every muscle in my body contracted. I jerked my arms up for protection, but the prongs of the fork sunk into the flesh of my stomach.
A mixture of pain from everywhere flooded my senses, includin’ a fire in my throat. A shriek of agony trilled, thundered between me and the angry farmer, who pulled back the implement for another go at me.
The five prongs headed back for me.
I rolled, yet one steel shaft still caught me in the side. I continued rollin’, rippin’ the tine out of my flesh. I pressed hard to get off the ground. Over my shoulder I saw the farmer swingin’ the pitchfork like a club. It whistled as it sailed through the air, caught me in the shoulder first in a glancin’ blow that ended ricochetin’ off my face, takin’ me back to the ground.
“Papa! Papa! Stop!” a hoarse voice shouted.
I thrashed, but everythin’ was dark. Couldn’t sense if I lay face up, face down, or rolled into a ball. Another cascade of agony split my gut at my waist, and I heard my own lungs empty.
I blinked at the glare. The recognition I had been out, at least for a moment, muddled through the haze. I clearly hadn’t been unconscious long. Scuffin’ feet nearby indicated I was still in a fray.
“Ya done enough, Papa! Stop. He’s done in. Let ’im be.”
The silvery sky focused and I turned my head searchin’ for the origin of the voice. Two men in overalls and floppy hats grasped at each other, the old man who attacked me, and a younger man. Boots shuffled in the dust. They stepped away, but the elder continued to struggle to get free from his son, though it appeared not in earnest. He peered around the other, more fear than anythin’ else scrawled across his face.
“Ya get out’a here, ya thief! Ya hear?” the man shouted.
“Calm down, Papa.”
I turned onto my side. New pain layered over old. I pressed against the ground, but failed to rise.
“He’s just a rag of a thin’, Papa. Calm down.”
“He’s covered in blood,” the older man mumbled. “Not all of it from me. If he dies, it ain’t my fault.”
“Calm down, Papa.”
Somethin’ slammed into my forehead and nose. It took me a moment to realize I’d collapsed, collided with the ground. “Aaaaah.”
“Get goin’,” the younger voice called.
I tried to rise again. Pricks of pain in a dozen places jabbed me, but I made it to my feet. Stumblin’ several steps, time evaporated again. Brought back to the ground, walloped me all over again. I felt the jerk in my neck, the concussion against the side of my head. “Ahh.”
“He don’t look too good,” threaded through the fog.
Somehow I managed to push upright and my feet remained under me. My mind cleared a bit, while the pain intensified. Every step, five prongs of pain in my gut twinged, a worse one stitched my side. I peered up to get my bearin’s. Walked almost directly for the farmhouse. Not where I wanted to go.
The sun peaked through the trees to the left. That meant east, I told myself. The north-south road would be—? It wouldn’t come to me at first. Left. Left. The road would be to the left.
A fence line angled that way, and I followed it, for the end of the pasture. My eyes followed the cleaved timbers strung post to post. I grabbed my gut. Warm blood soaked my shirt.
Considerin’ the agony penetratin’ agony—would I survive?
~
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