by Remi Michaud
A numbness rose in him, banishing the terror that had gripped him in its icy fingers. He stared at the body of his would-be murderer, curled in a ball, hands still holding his violated belly, eyes staring with pain and horror at nothing. Jurel felt a wave of deepest sorrow and remorse roll through him. Suddenly, an oily nausea churned in his guts, and he leaned to the side, heaved, spewed brown filth onto the ground. He wept as his angry belly clenched and churned again and again, until nothing was left but strings of yellow bile.
When his belly calmed enough to allow it, he found his sword and lurched to his feet, glancing around. Everything took on a wavery, blurry quality: the result of trying to see through the tears freely spilling from his eyes. Sobbing, he sheathed his blade, cutting himself in the process: a minor wound when compared to the others he had sustained, physically. But mentally, it hit him with the force of an avalanche. He did not want to see Shenk, did not want a reminder of what he had done, though he knew that the vision was permanently etched into his mind. He fled into the trees, stumbling and tottering, with only one rational thought left in his feverish, churning mind: Get away.
It was a difficult trek. He had to stop often to vomit, to allow his hollow belly a chance to get rid of whatever was left. Like the stain he could not completely wipe from his hand, his belly could not completely rid itself of the bitterness that coiled within.
When he was not spewing everything onto the ground, he ran, lurching and staggering over the uneven terrain between the trees. The landscape flowed past unnoticed to him. He did not see the shafts of golden and magenta sunlight dancing and flickering, joyous and carefree on the snow, unaware of the events he left behind, nor did he see the trees, staring at him accusingly, all too aware. He just ran with his eyes turned inward, his conscience shouting recriminations at him, as sharp and cutting as Shenk's dagger. He felt dizzy and sick, almost inhuman, a mindless hulk shambling woodenly toward a destination he barely remembered. He recalled the old man's shop, but vaguely, his mind's eye saw the small windowless structure hunkering between an apothecary and a seamstress's shop, but it was a nebular image, distorted, like looking through a waterfall to a badly painted image on rough rock behind. The only image that was clear in his mind, crystal clear, was Shenk's body, lying curled up like a baby in the snow.
The trees were oppressive. They grew inward on him, cutting off his passage. They loomed, sucking all the air from his surroundings, left him gasping for breaths that would not come. The dense mesh of limbs, at first so useful in making his trail that much easier now smothered and terrified him. Trying to keep what was left of his frayed self intact, he made a break for the tree line, fighting his way through wooden fingers that grabbed at him, that tried to stop him and drag him back into the shadowy depths like the guards of a vast arboreal dungeon. He emerged into the light of the late afternoon sun. It was too bright for his overly sensitized eyes, digging at him like a raven's claws, but it was better than the oppressive, gloom of the forest.
At least he had the comfort of walking on a newly broken trail; there were ruts in the road, probably farmers who had braved the deep snow in order to get to market, and he followed one, stepping carefully in the exposed mud to avoid any more tumbles. He quickly acclimated to the sun's rigid glare, and with it, he began to take hold of himself, pushing away as best he could the dark tumult of thoughts that surged through his manic mind. He concentrated on his steps, letting the rhythmic rise and fall of his feet lull him, dull him, and when he crested the top of a familiar rise and beheld the spread of the small town ahead, it was just as he remembered it: houses and shops radiating outward in clumps from the central brown ribbon that was the road he followed. He felt all of his hard-earned calm desert him, and sinking to his knees, he wept bitter-sweet tears that stung the cut in his cheek, an affirmation of life narrowly saved and of life terribly lost. He had finally made it, but at what cost?
Lifting the hood of his cloak to cover his abused face, he strode on.
He struggled to regain control, fighting back the tears and choking back the lump in his throat, and rose to gaze at the town spread out haphazardly before him, trying to find comfort in the mundane scene of people tending to chores and chatting amongst themselves about the latest escapades their children had undergone, or how the old lady on the corner baked the most delectable pies. He trudged the last distance, and he heard that smith's hammer, constant as the sunrise, still beating at some hapless bit of metal as it always seemed to. The smell of warm hearths and cooking met his nostrils, and he closed his eyes, clawing desperately for comfort in the sounds and smells of life. Not for long, however; the events of the day were still too fresh to ignore completely. Closing his eyes only served to sharpen images that he would rather forget.
He trudged down the center of the main road, letting all of it wash over him, soothing him like a salve on a burn. Two women, wearing fur coats over their long dresses, strolled by discussing the finer points of dressmaking, debating the merits of this stitch over that. A man, a farmer by his attire, was sitting on the front of his cart, carefully steering his horse through the ruts and muddy potholes of the street, and bawling at two boys to watch where they were going. To his right, between two small shops, stood a vendor, hawking his wares: beef and pork pies, only two coppers. A sign on the front of his stall proclaimed, “GOOD EETS! ALWAYS HOT!”
He plodded on. The shops and homes progressed from barely more than ramshackle huts to well-built timber buildings the closer he got to the town's center, most with windows, some with their own outbuildings—which could have been transplanted to the edge of town and fit right in with the other shops.
He rubbed his eyes and sighed, exhausted, his body ached, protesting his every move, and he was cold. He pursed his lips, grimacing. At least I'm not hungry, he thought. It was with a profound sense of relief that he finally stepped in front of the humble little shop, seeming out of place, hunkered between two much larger buildings, owned by one traveling healer. He raised his hand to the latch, felt his fingers graze the cold metal. The door flew open and he stared in numb shock at the familiar old man who stood in the doorway.
Kurin was just as he remembered him: tall and frail looking, his eyes gleamed. His face was wrinkled, craggy, framed by wild wisps of iron gray hair. He wore the same mouse gray robe that Jurel remembered, slightly frayed hem, and threadbare sleeves but for all that immaculate. For his part, the old man looked just as shocked as Jurel was and they stared wordlessly at each other. It was Kurin who found his voice first.
“Jurel? What are you doing here?” Kurin asked in the deep baritone that Jurel had thought was out of place the first time he had heard it. He still did. The old man's expression changed, shock gave way to bewilderment as he eyed the young man standing before him, then to concern when he noticed the various slashes in Jurel's clothing. And the blood.
Jurel could not find any words. He worked his mouth, tried to speak, tried, at least, to greet the old man.
Start with something simple, his mind whispered. How about, 'hello'? Instead, much to his dismay, the lump in his throat, the one that never seemed to go away these days, rose again. He fought the tears that threatened; all that he could manage was a shake of his head and an indecipherable grunt. A flash in Kurin's eyes, pity Jurel thought, and the old man ushered him in.
“Well come in, come in. No sense standing in the cold,” Kurin said, shooing him through the door. “Go sit by the fire and get yourself warm.” Jurel entered the dimly lit little room and looked woodenly about. To his right, there stood a counter, running from wall to wall, cluttered with various glass vials and flasks, some full of red liquid, others full of blue, or green, still others were empty. All were neatly corked, even if some lay haphazardly scattered on their sides. There were metal implements—Jurel thought they looked like they belonged in a smithy, not a healer's home—strewn liberally among the vials, and a row of books. The books, he noted, were carefully lined up, standing with their spines
displayed for easy reference. In front of the counter was a plain cot, close to the plank floor, with a white linen sheet spread neatly, as perfectly flat as polished mica, and a small wooden stool standing between the cot and the counter. He surmised (and it was quite obvious but he was not completely himself) that this was where Kurin tended to the sick and the injured. Straight ahead, on the far side of the room that he could cross with seven or maybe eight short strides, stood a door, the only thing of note along that wall, which probably led to Kurin's personal living space. What truly riveted his gaze was to his left. A large chair, plain, worn, but with overstuffed cushions that looked comfortable and inviting, sat in front of a brick hearth. The hearth held a welcome fire, the only source of light and warmth in the room, like a beacon.
He started toward the fire but before he could sit, Kurin tsked. “Mind you take off that muddy cloak of yours. I like that chair and I do not want to have to spend the next month cleaning the grime from it.”
Following his orders, Jurel shrugged the cloak from his battered body, peeling the tattered strips off, trying not to aggravate his wounds. When he was finished, he started to sit again, but Kurin's yelp halted him where he was. Half-standing, half-sitting and wholly annoyed, he glared up at the old man.
“No, no, no,” cried Kurin, ignoring Jurel's impatient look. “That will not do. That will not do at all.” He bustled to stand before Jurel and motioned the young man with birdlike gestures to straighten up again. “I want blood on my chair even less than I want mud. Impossible to get out, you know.”
Kurin thought for a moment, glancing around the room until he apparently saw what he searched for. He rifled through the drawers under his counter, and with a grunt of approval, he stood, flourishing his find. There were two things: a white robe, and a large piece of fabric, rough linen or perhaps burlap—Jurel could not see it clearly enough to tell. Either way, Jurel was not sure he understood the significance of such objects until Kurin explained.
“I've been called away for a few moments. Hence our chance encounter at my door, you see. While I'm out, change into this robe. At least it's clean,” he said, eying Jurel up and down, his wrinkly features exacerbated by his sharp distaste. “Then, and this is most important,” Kurin waggled his finger, “drape this sack over my chair before you sit down. I don't care about the robe, it can get as bloody as you want to make it. But my chair...”
Jurel thought sourly that Kurin's pointed look was really unnecessary. He had already made it abundantly clear that he did not want his precious chair sullied. He did not need to belabor the point so. Besides, it was not Jurel's fault that he bled, now was it?
“There's a flask of brandy over there,” Kurin gestured vaguely to the corner of the counter. “And a goblet as well. Feel free to have some. You look like you might need it. Don't drink it all, mind you. I'll be back shortly so make yourself comfortable and then we'll talk.”
“Yes sir,” Jurel finally found his voice, and immediately gave himself a mental forehead slap at the first words that finally managed to stumble out of his mouth.
Kurin spun from the door and regarded Jurel with a pained expression. “Kurin, remember? My name is Kurin. I thought we covered this the last time we spoke.” With a shake of his head and a grumble, he was out the door.
Jurel thought about changing into the white robe offered by Kurin, then thought about rejecting the idea; he was exhausted, and the idea of undertaking the ordeal of changing clothes seemed almost too much to Jurel. But, as Kurin had said, at least it was clean and dry. And blood free. Carefully, Jurel stripped his shredded shirt, exposing his torso to the warming fire. He was covered in scrapes and bruises, but those did not bother him. What was worrying was the long ugly gash that Shenk had left. It started near the center of his chest, spread almost all the way to his armpit, and it leaked blood. It burned like fire when Jurel tentatively poked the flesh at its edges and he hissed, his face screwing up in a mask of pain. The slices in his arms were not nearly so extensive, but one of them, the one that Shenk had caused when he disarmed Jurel, showed a pale circle of bone beneath the cauliflower layer of fat when he inspected it. With a shudder, Jurel pushed away thoughts of Shenk and Merlit. He'd finally gained some control over himself and he did not want to lose that tenuous grip. Slipping the robe over his head, he sighed. It was made of fine linen, and it was extraordinarily comfortable, though he found it odd that Kurin would have a robe that seemed to be tailor made for Jurel's massive frame. A glance down showed that the pure white of the robe was already marred, splotched with blood. He almost tore it off, then, for it reminded him of the snow where he had left Shenk; then as now, red guilt seemed to mar white innocence. He reached his hands to the hem, prepared to rip the thing from his body, then stopped. It was a dark thought that halted him: suddenly, it felt appropriate that he wore the robe with those red blotches, like medals proclaiming feats of valor and bravery. Except these were medals of remorse and pain: not a reminder of brave deeds, but a remainder of his depredations.
Some brandy seemed like a very good idea just then. Approaching the counter, he searched for the promised flask amongst the other camouflaging glass bits. He found the goblet easily enough, near the books at the far end, and he hoped that the decanter beside it containing golden liquid that looked like brandy was, in fact, brandy. He did not have much interest in experimenting with the other concoctions strewn liberally about; who knew what was in those flasks and what effect they would have on him? He pulled the stopper from the flask in question and sniffed tentatively. It looked like brandy and it smelled like brandy. Good enough for him. He poured himself a healthy measure and sipped the liquid, feeling the familiar sting in his throat and the soothing warmth spread through him as he swallowed.
He started to turn, to go ensconce himself in the overstuffed chair—he would make sure he covered it first as Kurin asked. He hesitated when a glitter caught his eye. He eyed the source, gilt print on the wine colored spine of one of the neatly ordered books. He carefully read the title, hesitantly, haltingly, sounding each word out. OF KINGS AND RULERS, it read. Sounds fascinating, he thought wryly. He randomly selected another book, this one beige with black lettering, and again carefully read the words: HERBAL USE IN HEALING. Again, not particularly riveting. Another, this one read, SACRED WRITINGS OF THE SALOSIAN FAITH. What was the Salosian faith? The name sounded vaguely familiar, like an ancient memory long forgotten in the mists of time, perhaps a tale told around a fire years ago, but he could not place it. He gazed at the books and saw one that looked more worn, more read than the rest. It was bound in black leather and its blood red letters were flaking with age: ANCIENT PROPHECIES: THE GOD OF WAR. He felt himself grow cold when he deciphered the title, though he knew not why. He reached out, grazing one finger along the lettering and when nothing happened, he snorted. It was just another book in the row, one of many though by the dog-eared corners and myriad lines that cracked the spine, this one seemed to be one of Kurin's favorites. He shivered, turned away deciding he had enough of this game, and went to the chair as he had originally planned, cradling his precious cup of brandy.
* * *
It was not long before the door opened, and amidst a blast of cold air and drifting snow, Kurin entered. Jurel, having just stepped to the counter to refill his goblet, asked if he would like a drop. One must always respect one's elders after all.
“Well, now, I don't mind if I do,” Kurin said. “There should be another cup around there somewhere.”
Jurel found it quickly enough, poured for both and turned, extending the new cup to Kurin. He took the proffered cup, glanced at Jurel's stained robe, and gasped, nearly dropping it to the floor.
“By the gods boy! What happened to you?” Kurin breathed, staring, unable to take his eyes away.
With a glance down, Jurel shrugged, but otherwise offered no explanation. The stains had spread; the robe was more red than white.
“Never mind, never mind. Come, sit down on the bed. Let
me see those wounds.”
It was with an air of business that Kurin helped Jurel remove the stained robe, sat on his little stool, and started poking and prodding at Jurel, hemming and humming the whole while. After an inspection that seemed to last an eternity, Kurin's eyes rose to meet Jurel's with one eyebrow lifted.
“These don't really look all too bad. I'm surprised at how much you've bled.”
Jurel, thinking the old man must be daft, looked to his torso. It was his turn to gasp. The wound from chest to armpit was still ugly, but it seemed narrower than he remembered, and it did not extend quite so far. Confused, Jurel looked at his wrist, the one that had shown him the crescent moon of bone, no more than twenty or thirty minutes before and could not explain how it came to be that he could no longer find the circle of white amid the red meat.
“What in the name of the underworld is in the brandy?” Jurel asked, and Kurin frowned, his own question in his eyes. “This looks like it's been healing for two or three days. Not a half hour.” Jurel stared at the wounds, could not believe what his eyes were telling him.
Kurin's frown deepened and he shook his head. “There's nothing special in the brandy. It's just that: brandy.”
