“Don’t make me laugh, old man,” Peters barked with a laugh. “I’d strike you down before…”
“That’s enough!” Mueller suddenly shouted. Peters mouth snapped shut as he looked at his superior like a wounded toddler. “We’re playing a game with very high stakes. High stakes, indeed! Does anyone doubt that we are hunted by Imperial soldiers, even as we speak!? Cano Ash’amar speaks sooth. I too have reservations about making camp here, for all of the reasons he has avowed. There is evil in this forest, but I see no other recourse. Night will be upon us shortly, and when it comes, we will be unable to proceed any further. We must make camp. Though I am loathe to choose this clearing, the only other choice we have is the trail. We will make camp here, and we will pray that the Creator is on our side tonight.”
No-one voiced an argument. Mueller waited for a moment, twisted in his saddle so he could meet the eyes of his party, then satisfied that he had everyone on the same page, he dismounted and led his mount off of the trail and into the clearing. Everyone followed his lead, climbing down from their horses, then leading them off of the trail.
Cano stood to the side and let Jerron handle his horse. He watched the young Massoniel tie the short red gelding to a thick branch on the edge of the clearing next to Maehril’s piebald mare. Then Jerron turned to take the reins of his own horse, but the blue gelding suddenly reared its fore legs in the air and aimed a kick right at Cano.
Cano dodged to his left, falling to the ground, narrowly escaping getting planted in the head with an iron shoed hoof. The horse wasn’t done. As Jerron frantically tried to grab its reins, it stomped violently at Cano. One of its strikes found its mark, hitting Cano squarely on his right ankle, shattering the bones. Cano screamed in pain, and tried to crawl away, but the horse, satisfied that it had done some damage, suddenly took off, racing away from the clearing and up the trail, disappearing from view.
At first, everyone stood around with the same stunned expressions, unsure of what to do. Jerron chased after the horse, giving up quickly as it raced away. Maehril ran to Cano’s side, falling to her knees by his feet.
Cano grabbed his leg and cried out in agony. The pain was intense and searing. He was certain that the horse had crushed every bone in his ankle. He looked down and could see the swelling already taking hold.
“I told ya bout that damned beast,” he cried through gritted teeth. “Ya wouldn’t listen. I told ya there was something off bout that one. Shifty. Bloody shifty beast.”
Jerron stared after the horse in a state of shock. Mueller, Peters, and Cressler still appeared lost. Hartsohn ran to the edge of the clearing and rooted around for a good firm stick. Satisfied with the one he found, he came to Cano’s side and shoved the piece of wood in his mouth.
“Bite on this,” he commanded. “It’ll help with the pain.”
The pain in his leg had Cano’s mind in a fog, and at first he didn’t understand what Hartsohn meant. He spat the wood aside and cursed loudly.
“There’s nothing wrong with my teeth, ya damned fool. It’s my leg,” Cano griped.
Hartsohn sighed and picked the stick back up, holding it in front of Cano’s face. “I know there’s nothing wrong with your teeth, you old windbag. Just bite on the damned wood, while we try to figure out how bad that horse got your leg.”
“He crushed it. Crushed every last bone,” Cano groaned. Maehril was trying to get him to let go of his leg and to stop thrashing about, so she could get a proper look at the damage. “This is yer fault Jerron, ya hear me. Ya did this to me!”
“Me!” Jerron exclaimed. “What did I do?”
“Ya wouldn’t listen to me. I told ya bout that horse,” Cano cried.
“You kept telling me the horse was shifty,” Jerron said, throwing his hands up and looking around for help. “What does that even mean?”
“It means that it was plotting something,” Cano answered. “From the moment I saw that cursed beast, I knew he was out to get me. I knew it.”
Jerron opened his mouth to respond, but just shook his head with exasperation instead. He knew that arguing with Cano was pointless.
“Would you let her see it?” Hartsohn spoke up for Maehril. Cano was holding his leg as though the pain would double if he let go. Maehril was trying, despite her inability to speak, to get Cano’s attention. She gave Hartsohn a grateful smile.
“Alright, alright,” Cano said.
He tried to relax, but it was hard to let go of his leg. It was an instinctive reaction to want to hold it, and difficult to trust someone with his hurts. But he knew that Maehril could make it better.
She gently took his hands and pulled them away. Her face conveyed empathy. She seemed to wince with him each time the pain throbbed and shot through his body. For a moment, she examined the damage, tracing her fingers lightly over the bruised and swollen flesh. Then light suddenly shown around her, pulsing brightly then dimming in time to the rhythm of his throbbing pain. Maehril tenderly wrapped her small hands around the fissure that separated the bones in his leg. She shut her eyes tightly, a scowl of determination proving her effort. Her aura of light began to hold, strengthening slightly, before it flowed like a stream of water down to her hands and into his battered flesh.
At first it felt like a slightly annoying itch, something troublesome but out of reach. Cano braced himself, expecting that the itch would soon turn into horrible pain. Instead the itch spread -- first to his feet and knees, then to his hips, ribs, arms and face.
He wanted to shriek, overcome by the intensity of her healing, filled with a pent up response that he couldn’t articulate. Then the itch changed into a feeling of warmth. Like the boon of a warm cup of tea after a walk through the cold, the warmth seeped through his limbs, his veins, from the inside out. His eyes closed and he relaxed. The pain that had crippled him, mere moments before, seemed a distant memory. Then he couldn’t remember why he was even thinking of pain.
He opened his eyes to the sight of one brilliant full moon reflected off of the obsidian surface of a calm ocean at twilight. The smooth wood beneath his forearms and the soft creek of the porch boards called to him like the whisper of a forgotten memory. He lifted the polished ivory pipe to his mouth and took a deep, satisfied breath of cider-soaked tobacco, his own concoction. As he let the smoke exhale, Cano looked to his left and saw Ahtarah watching the sky with that faraway look he had always loved in her face, like skepticism mixed with humility.
“What’d ya think of that, then?” he heard himself ask his wife.
For a moment she didn’t answer, letting him hang within the familiar song of his rocking chair. Then she sighed and smiled, almost regretfully leaving her place amongst the stars. “I think, that’s why I think there’s a God at all,” she replied.
“Ya always give me riddles,” Cano told her tenderly.
“Not riddles, my love, answers.” She reached out and put her hand on his arm. Her slender fingers traced smooth assurances along his skin. “I’ll never see the world the way you do, within the walls they’ve built to explain their ignorance. But I believe in love. And I believe in beauty. I won’t pretend to know why I can weep at the beauty of a moonlit night, or how I know in my heart that I was meant to spend the days of my life with you, but I know it's more than simple science. Something is at work, too great and all-encompassing for a single human mind to grasp. I believe in God because I believe in us.”
“Someday yer going to see things my way,” Cano said with a smile, enjoying her touch on his arm. “That moon in the sky is proof enough fer me that the Creator exists”
“Perhaps. I’ll admit that the moon is a reassuring idea for me,” Ahtarah said.
Cano looked at her with confusion. “What does that mean?” he asked.
“Without the light of day," she said, pointing at the moon, “we can still look to the sky to guide us through the darkness.”
Then she stood up and took up his face in her hands. Looking deeply into his eyes for just the right amount
of time, Ahtarah smiled then leaned down and kissed his forehead.
“You are the answer to all of my questions, my love,” she whispered passionately. Then she turned and walked into the house, leaving him alone on his porch, with only his thoughts and the night sky.
Cano smoked the rest of his pipe as he watched the moon slide across the ocean. Slowly his mind drifted away, like a boat without sails. His eyes closed and sleep released him from his dream.
********************************************************************
“He’s been asleep for a long time. Are you sure he’s going to be alright?” Jerron asked.
Maehril glanced over at Cano. He lay nestled with his legs curled up and his hands tucked under his chin, contentedly resting with an oddly peaceful smile on his weather-beaten face.
She nodded.
It was the third time Jerron had asked since she had repaired Cano’s leg hours earlier. The leg mended perfectly, and when Cano awoke from his healing-induced slumber, he would feel better than he had in years. Maehril had taken care to spread her arts throughout his whole body, tending to the immediate injury, but also repairing several minor afflictions that he might not have even known about.
She reached out and rubbed his arm. Cano was an impatient curmudgeon, but she had developed a deep affection for him during their brief acquaintance. Her heart had nearly stopped when she witnessed the horse’s attack. If anything had happened to him, she might have broken completely.
It had been a strange day. Something terrible had happened back at the manor house. Innocent lives were taken. Each death, at least fifty by her estimation, hit her like a violent wave of sickness. The worst of it had come just as they began their ride across the countryside. For the first hour, there had been instances where the force of her connection to the slaughter nearly drove her from the saddle. Only by sheer determination, was she able to keep her anguish shielded from her companions, though Cano surely suspected something. He had eyed her throughout with palpable sympathy, a man who wanted desperately to protect her, but knew that aiding her then was useless.
She had experienced a similar reaction on the day that Dell was attacked. The waves of sickness had occurred, though not nearly as severe. Maehril could only guess, but she believed that the pain she felt in losing her parents had diminished the effect of those who perished in the attack on Dell.
What concerned her now, however, was Jerron. The homely Massoniel had such a sweet and gentle disposition. She didn’t want to hurt him. When something bothered him, he wore his pain plainly. She wondered whether to tell him that his parents had been killed.
Since the feeling had first come over her that Westin and Hollise were lost, Maehril had struggled with the decision. Tell him and hope that it would not break his already fragile spirit, or hold back, shield him from the pain, and bear the burden of knowledge on her own slender shoulders. She felt lost, and though she had tried to contact the Voice, it hadn’t answered. She was on her own this time.
Everyone, save for Peters and Hartsohn, sat around the center of the small clearing, looking anxiously at the surrounding darkness. Night had fallen quickly. Mueller had strictly ordered them to wait until the last possible moment to start a fire. Mueller was unwilling to risk shining a light that might guide any pursuers. He was certain they were hunted, but he reasoned that they would be unable to travel in total darkness. They would make camp, probably right in the trail, and wait until morning to renew the hunt. Now with a fire crackling in the center of the clearing, it felt as though the flames were battling to keep the black of night away.
Cressler passed out the limited food he'd packed. Though Jerron grumbled about the small portions, Maehril was grateful for the hard crust of bread and nibble of cheese that she ate for supper. Something was better than nothing, and in the days ahead, there were likely to be times of involuntary fasting.
Maehril held out her hands to warm them by the fire. Perhaps to others in the group, the night was mild, but to a girl raised in the tropics, the air was practically frigid. The warmth of the fire had an immediate effect, driving away the chill that had set in her bones and relaxing her troubled mind with its hypnotic dance of flames.
She had to tell Jerron. Though it would hurt him, he had a right to know.
She watched him as he stared intensely into the fire, lost in his own thoughts. Jerron was such a simple person. He seemed to see the world in its most basic, uncomplicated form. Black and white. Good and evil. Up and down. There was no in-between with him, at least nothing she could see. All of their conversations had been lighthearted jesting at Cano’s expense. Jerron hadn’t asked her anything personal, nor had he divulged anything personal about himself. He had simply done his best over the last few days to make her laugh and feel at ease, and for that Maehril was grateful. She thought often of her parents and tried very hard to keep her sadness from showing in her face. It was nice to have someone around who could clear her head of those depressing thoughts.
But underneath his perpetual cheerfulness and chivalry, there was something more. She had observed him many times lost in his thoughts, with an expression that reminded her of Sevin, a look that she could only describe as trying to solve all the world's problems at once. Sevin had been a gentle soul and a deep thinker. Jerron seemed to have the same qualities. It was very endearing.
She tapped him on the shoulder. Jerron flinched in surprise but quickly recovered and asked what he could do. She cleared out a patch of grass by her feet, exposing the black dirt underneath. Though it was dark, the fires lambent glow was just enough light to serve her needs. With a small twig she had rescued from the fire, she scratched her words into the dirt. Jerron had to lean in close when she was finished to make out her question.
“What’s wrong?”
Jerron considered the question, chewing on the end of his pinky finger. When he answered, she thought he looked embarrassed.
“Nothing. I’m fine.” Maehril arched a skeptical eyebrow and waited for him to open up. He tried to look away several times, hoping she would give up, then started to fidget uncomfortably under her impatient glare. Finally, he conceded, “I’m worried about my parents.”
Maehril’s heart sank. She felt tears welling up in her eyes. Telling him what she knew was going to be hard.
“What if they question people?” he continued, apprehensively. Jerron chewed obsessively on his finger and spoke anxiously. “My father is a terrible liar. They’ll sort him out. I know it. The army does horrible things to people. Terrible things. They feed people to those Borlicon. That’s no way to die.” He looked up at Maehril with his big blue eyes opened wide. “I want to hope for the best, but nothing ever seems to go right for my family.” His face grew sad, and his voice became quiet. He looked around the fire to see if anyone was listening. “We’re the last of our kind you know -- Massoniel. Desirmor killed the rest of us. If my parents die, I may be all that’s left.”
If Maehril could have spoken, she would have been speechless. The parallels between Jerron and Sevin were obvious, but she hadn’t put it together. Sevin had been certain he was the last of the Massoniel. He had told her that his people rarely ventured from their homeland. He had only left because of his chance meeting with Bella. It had been for love, and love only that he gave up a life with his people. Though Bella had sold him on the cause, showed him there was a choice for those who rejected Desirmor’s tyranny, Sevin’s resolve had been set forever the day he learned of his homeland’s fate.
Tears spilled from the corners of Maehril’s eyes, hidden from the others by the darkness. With Jerron’s parents dead, it was truly possible that he was the last. Her heart bled sympathy.
“You don’t need to cry, Maehril. My mother likes to say that everyone has a tale of woe to tell.”
Maehril wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. Then she picked up her stick and scrawled a painful inscription into the dirt.
“Your parents were killed. I’m sorry.�
��
Jerron read her message and looked at her sadly. He nodded slowly and tried to speak, but became too choked up to talk. He covered his mouth with a hand and tucked his head down. He didn’t want the others to see him weeping.
Maehril slid closer to Jerron and put her arms around him. He was too wide to fully embrace, but she did her best to give him all of the support and empathy she could. His heavy shoulders rose and slumped, then rose and slumped again as he quietly wept for his parents. Mueller and Cressler understood his need for privacy and stood, walking out into the darkness, perhaps to check on Peters and Hartsohn.
“Are you certain?” Jerron whispered softly. His blue eyes, swollen with emotion, fragile and meek, met hers. He acknowledged her nod of truth by tightly closing his eyes and releasing another wave of sorrow.
She held him silently. A wish filled her mind, a dream she had held since childhood. Maehril wanted nothing more in life than to be able to speak, if for no other reason than for moments such as these. Confronted by human vulnerability, when a person let down the walls that protect their innermost self, she wished always for her own voice, to be able to say words of comfort and reassurance, to share in their pain, and to take away some of the burden.
“I suppose I’ve been thinking of it all day,” Jerron said in a voice barely louder than a whisper. He let himself slink into her embrace, settling in with his head resting on her shoulder, her arms cradling his neck. “When they first said that a squadron was on the way to the manor, that’s when it first hit me. I figured…somehow, someway, Desirmor will just kill everyone. Everyone that saw you. Stop the rumor before it becomes something more. Someone like you, someone that seems to glow with the very light of heaven -- that would be threatening. It might inspire people to remember the Creator, stop thinking of Desirmor as a living God. No. No, he wouldn’t allow for something like that. He didn’t allow…”
The Innkeeper's Son Page 63
