by Rhett DeVane
“But . . . but . . . Jen.” Elsbeth’s voice stuttered. “And Sim and Grant.”
“We will come back after the thaw and see if we can reclaim what we’ve lost. Jen has passed into the Light where all must return.” Taproot squinted into the distance. Moisture glistened in his eyes. “Princess, if we don’t go to the home valley now, we’ll lose Jondu.” He tucked Elsbeth into his muffler and bowed toward the great owl. “Thank you, my friend.”
Chapter Fifteen
Sim watched Grant breathe, slower than normal. What would Taka-Herb do? Mix some foul concoction of herbs and grasses and either rub it all over what was left of Grant’s mangled leg or brew it into a tea and force Grant to swallow it.
But the healer wasn’t in this room, and Sim’s basic emergency kit was in his pack, shoved beneath a river boulder.
Sim checked the position of the watch’s hands. The longer one had gone two complete revolutions around the center. Meant he had two more until he could place a drop of the pain liquid in Grant’s mouth, not an easy feat since the eyedropper was as tall as him. Sim flicked his knife open, closed, open, closed. Wished he had a piece of wood to whittle to ease his jittery nerves.
Taka-Herb did some kind of energy woo-woo thing whenever one of them had a scrape or sore muscle. Now he wished he had paid closer attention. Sim thought back to the time he had twisted his ankle jumping down from the bee hollow tree. Taka-Herb had rested one hand on his head and one on the swollen foot. Her hands felt hot on his skin.
What the heck. Can’t hurt to try. Sim shifted until he knelt next to Grant. He rested his left hand on Grant’s feverish forehead. The other, he gently placed over the thick, stained bandage swaddling Grant’s leg.
What now? He conjured thoughts of warm things. Rocks radiating the summer sun. Herbal tea steaming in a pottery mug. The glowing orange embers of a hearth fire.
The thoughts made Sim cozy, but his palms remained cool. Taka-Herb spoke of how energy trilled through everything like lightning. How all living things shared the magnificent current. Taproot rambled on and on about that same light, too. Maybe that was the key.
Sim imagined blue streaks hitting the top of his head, streaming down his arms, and into his hands. Were his palms a bit warmer? He magnified the intent, pulling sparks from every direction, funneling it into his body.
Blessed is the Light. The life and the Light are one. We are the Light. We are one.
Sim closed his eyes and repeated the clan’s prayer until the heat coursed from his hands, and he hoped, into Grant. The birth pendant grew warm next to his chest. He peeked at the watch. Like the lowlander medicine, Sim administered the energy pulse at regular intervals. Four bursts per one revolution of the long watch hand.
A couple of hours later, the door opened a crack. Stitch stepped into the storage room. “How’s our patient?”
“I think he’s doing okay.” Sim glanced up, then back at Grant. “But he isn’t taking a lot of breaths.”
Stitch unloosed a strange, tubed contraption from around his neck, stuck two prongs into his ears, and held a small silver disc in one hand.
“Wh—what’s that thing?”
“Stethoscope. I use it to listen to the heart. It’s a bit big for your type, but I’ll have to make do.”
Sim moved aside. Stitch held the disc end of the scope on Grant’s body. On a lowlander, it might cover a small area, but on Grant, it reached from below his neck to the top of his legs.
“Man, the little dude’s heart is beating crazy wild!” Stitch lifted the disc. “Mind if I take a listen to yours?” Sim nodded, and the soldier held the stethoscope disc over him. “Oh, okay. Yours is beating fast too. Must be a normal rhythm.”
“May I listen?”
“Sure.” Stitch slipped the earpieces from his head and held them over Sim’s much smaller ears. “Can you hear anything?”
Sim grinned. Sounded like a family of Emerald Mountain deer dancing on a boulder. Thump, thump-thump. Thumpity-thump!
Stitch looped the scope around his neck. “Let’s take a look at the incisions.” He paused. “You don’t have to watch if you’re not up to it.”
“I can handle it.” If he could stroll through rotten garbage rippling with maggots, Sim could see Grant’s wound.
The medic gently lifted the stump and unwound the ribbon of gauze. Finally, skin showed. “Wow. Would you look at that!” Stitch’s blond eyebrows lifted.
Sim leaned over. Grant’s brown skin stretched over a nub where his knee used to be. Smooth like the skin of an acorn.
“I’ve never seen an amputation site heal so fast.”
Had that buzzing energy done all of that? Sim studied his palms. Nothing peculiar about them.
Stitch glanced up. His eyes narrowed. “What are you two, anyway?”
“One-spirits.” Sim did his best to explain. How he and Elsbeth had once been lowlanders, like Stitch. How they escaped to the Emerald Mountains during an area war and then become little people. He left out parts, about Taproot and magic and birth crystals. Sounded too much like one of Brick’s fantasy tales. Besides, just how much should he trust this lowlander?
“That’s about the strangest thing I’ve ever heard.” Stitch discarded the soiled gauze and tucked the sheet around Grant. “And I’ve heard some incredibly strange things.”
Sim lifted his shoulders, let them fall. If he wasn’t a one-spirit, Sim wouldn’t believe the story either.
“Based on what I see, we can back off that pain medication.” Stitch stood and stretched with a yawn. “Let him wake up on his own. I’ll check back on you in a bit. A couple of my guys have gone bad.” His face creased with concern. “This tick fever is killing us, left and right. And I have nothing to fight it.” The medic left the storage room.
What happens when Grant wakes up? Sim worried. The boy would know part of him was missing.
Cold! So cold! Jondu thrashed against walls of something frozen. Her head pounded against the hard surface. Let me out! Let me out!
“Put a cushion beneath her head,” a voice said.
Was someone else trapped too? Jondu stopped, forced her heart to calm. Had to think.
“Hands in place,” the voice said.
Jondu sensed points of warmth on her body. The one at her head pulsed. A wave of dizziness passed over her like a pond rippled by a skipped stone.
“Intone with me.” That voice, familiar. “Blessed is the Light. The life and the Light are one. We are the Light. We are one.” Other voices joined in, some high and some low. Like music. Jondu relaxed and allowed the heat to flow through her, until the tips of her toes and fingers tingled.
Maybe this was a dream before she shifted over into that Light, where all must return. Taproot told them how death wasn’t so bad, not when you stopped fighting it. How the Light came all around, and love poured inside to help you cross the barrier between here and there.
That Light would shine on her face. Fear would leave. At least she wasn’t cold anymore.
Jondu opened her eyes. The clan circled her, their palms resting on her body. The Common Hall hearth flickered amber light.
Taka-Herb nodded toward the others and they lifted their hands. “Welcome back, spirit-sister.”
Jondu jerked her head left to right. “Jen! Where’s Jen!” She noted the sad looks that passed between the clan members. “What? What’s going on?” Jondu rose up on her elbows. “Where is Jen?”
Elsbeth knelt. She placed a shaking hand on Jondu’s shoulder. “You need to rest. We can talk about everything that . . .” Her voice faltered. “. . . happened.”
Jondu sat up. “No. Now!” The buzzy feeling in her head threatened. “Please.”
Taka-Herb grabbed a down cushion and lowered herself to sit cross-legged beside Elsbeth. “Jen has passed into the Light.”
Where all must return.
Jondu lay back and closed her eyes.
Chapter Sixteen
“My right leg is incomplete,” a voice said.
Sim jerked awake and wiped the line of drool from his face. Grant sat upright, his hands resting on the stump.
“Um . . . yeah.” Sim slid across the cage and knelt next to Grant.
“Why is my right leg incomplete?” Grant tilted his head, his dark eyes intent. “And where are we?”
Sim spilled the story. For a one-spirit not experienced in providing details, he was turning into a masterful weaver of tales.
Grant pursed his lips, motioned to the stump. “This will hinder travel.”
Just like his spirit-son to be stoic. Had Sim awakened to half a leg, he would’ve screamed louder than a ticked-off hawk. “Um. Probably will make it a little difficult.”
“Then I must fashion a replacement.” Grant paused, considering. Sim could almost see the gears clicking inside his spirit-son’s head.
“A replacement. From what, exactly?” Sim asked.
Grant looked around the storage room, taking in every detail. “Those, there.” He pointed toward the next shelf, to a glass jar filled with what appeared to be long flat sticks. “Could you fetch a couple?”
Sim shrugged. “Sure. Don’t know what . . .” He stopped when Grant gave him that look. Sim left the cage and managed to jostle the metal lid from the container. After a few failed attempts, he wrestled two sticks from inside and dragged them back to the cage.
“Hmm . . .” Grant turned the thin flat blades, studying them from all sides. “I’ll need twine.”
“That, I have.” Sim reached inside his jacket pocket. “Here.”
Grant’s gaze flicked around the cage. “My pack and jacket seem to be missing. Do you also have your knife?”
Sim handed it over. Curiosity needled him. “What . . . ?”
“You appear fatigued.” Grant scrunched the bedding until he formed a prop for his back. “You should get some rest.”
No use to argue with Grant. Sim’s spirit-son was as unmovable as a slab of granite, the stone that had inspired Grant’s birth name fifty years ago. Weariness ached in Sim’s every cell. Even breathing took effort.
Sim curled up on his rolled-up jacket and fell asleep.
Elsbeth followed Jondu’s movements with her eyes until she felt woozy. Jondu paced in front of the mountain man’s wide hearth. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“I’m relieved you are feeling much improved,” Taproot said.
“Oh, I’m improved. Sure.” Jondu stopped long enough to slam down one foot. “But Jen is dead. And it’s my fault. She won’t have the chance to improve.” Jondu spit out the word.
“Please, little one. Calm yourself.” Taproot patted the cushion next to his.
“I can’t just sit!” Jondu raked her fingers through her oily hair. When was the last time she washed it? Her robe appeared rumpled and dirty around the edges. “Two more days have gone by. Two!”
“Yes. I can count,” Taproot said.
“And not only Jen. What about Sim and Grant?” Jondu continued. “I managed to mess that up too. Never made it to the base. Don’t know if they’re even there.” She whipped her arms. “They could be anywhere, frozen like Jen. I didn’t do anything to help them, either.”
“Your drama performance is wearing me out, Jondu.” Taproot raised his voice. He didn’t do that often, even at his crankiest. Elsbeth stiffened.
Jondu hopped onto a sitting rock and jammed her balled fists onto her hips. Lines around her eyes attested to lack of sleep. Her lips drew into a hard, thin line.
“Guilt and worry are two of the most worthless past times.” Taproot took a sip of tea. “While you’re sorting blame, throw some my way. If I hadn’t taught Sim and Elsbeth the joys of dump-diving all those years ago, this whole mess would never have happened.”
“That’s absurd,” Elsbeth said.
“Is it?” The mountain man huffed. “Seems with our penchant for magic, we still savor some of the bad habits of the lowlanders. Pointing fingers and fretting never got them anywhere. And it won’t help Sim and Grant.” He paused. “I am greatly saddened by the loss of Jen. She was a feisty one. So full of crazy plans. I will miss her, until she greets me in the Light.”
Jondu took a deep breath and blew it out. “We can’t sit down here, all warm and fed, while the others are still topside.”
“We can’t resume the search until the passes are clear,” Taproot stated.
Elsbeth picked at her cuticles. A worry habit. She clasped her hands together. “There’s absolutely nothing we can do.”
Taproot held up one finger. “Ah, but there is. Gather the others and bring them here.”
Sim held two trimmed sticks on either side of Grant’s stump and lashed them down with twine.
“Help me, please.” Grant motioned.
On the third try, they managed to stand side by side. Sim tightened the twine in two places.
“Not ideal, but it will work with some tweaking,” Grant said.
“Try walking.” Sim still held on.
Grant rocked, testing his weight on the false leg. “Let me go.”
When Sim released his grip, Grant caught his balance against the cage with one hand. By swinging the stump, he managed a few steps before turning loose. He wobbled, nearly fell. Sim reached out.
“No. I must do this alone. I have to find my center.” After two laps around the small cage, Grant flopped down. “My endurance needs improvement.” He studied the whittled false leg. “It would be better if it bent like my other knee.”
“Maybe Stitch will have some ideas.”
The door flung open.
“Good, there he—” Sim’s words froze. A tall black-haired soldier leaned against the threshold, his red-rimmed eyes wild and watery.
“Yah!” The man yelled out. “Stinking rats!” He lunged for the cage.
A large fist pounded the shelf. Grant attempted to stand again, but fell back into the bedding. Sim grappled in his jacket for the knife. Gone! He spotted it beneath the pile of wood shards. The soldier picked up a broom, slamming it into the cage. Sim dove to one far corner and Grant dragged himself to the other. The broom bristles scratched Sim’s face and the skin stung where the stiff straw pierced.
The broom jabbed, jabbed, jabbed. Sim heard Grant cry out.
The soldier’s head snapped back and he cursed. He stumbled backwards. His body crumpled. Stitch grabbed him beneath his arms and lowered his body. The broom clattered to the floor.
Sim scrambled to his feet and ran to the edge of the shelf. The black-haired soldier lay on the storage room floor, a foamy line of spittle lacing the side of his slack face. “What—”
“Let me move this man back to his cot.” Stitch pulled a syringe from the soldier’s neck. He lifted beneath the man’s shoulders and dragged his limp body from the room. Sim turned back, pulling at the wad of bedding.
“I’m okay.” Grant shoved his way clear. “But my new leg didn’t fare so well.” The splint lay in shatters, its twine moorings hanging in strips.
Stitch returned. “This isn’t going to work. You two can’t stay on this base.”
With Grant’s false leg in splinters, no food, and mounds of ice and snow in their way, how could they possibly leave? Sim tasted fear on his tongue, a tang like licking metal.
The medic leaned down until his head was level with the cage. “Just got word the others will be back tomorrow. It’s too dangerous for you to be here. I can’t keep you hidden.” He tipped his head toward the door. “I’m up to my armpits in a whole room of crazies, and I’m not making any headway against this tick fever.”
Taka-Herb might be able to help if only . . . Sim stopped. What was he thinking?
“I don’t know where you came from,” Stitch said. “But I have to take you back there.”
It wouldn’t be impossible, not for a lowlander. Sim looked across the cage. Grant gave a slight nod.
Sim swallowed. Trusting a soldier. Totally. The hardest thing he had ever done.
He shut his eyes. A vision appeared. Taproot a
nd the clan, sitting in a circle. All of them—Elsbeth, Mari, Taka-Herb, Jondu, Slate, Brick, and Gabby—holding hands in a chain and chanting. But where was Jen? The vision shimmied. A wispy form hovered behind the group. Ah, there she was. He noted the large hearth. Could almost smell the blend of herbs and honeyed cakes.
Home.
Sim opened his eyes. Looked once more toward Grant. His smile told Sim that Grant had seen them too.
“We can show you the way,” Sim said. “It’s not far.”
Chapter Seventeen
Jondu stepped from the secret tunnel, topside for the first time since the failed rescue mission. She wouldn’t allow her thoughts to drift to Jen, or to Sim and Grant. So much loss. The Common Hall was the one place she felt solace but only for a brief respite before the memory of the missing clan members echoed in her heart.
In the past few days, the weather had shifted from brutal cold to early spring, as if a giant hand shoved the arctic winds aside and allowed warmth to flood the void. Buds tipped the branches, promising a show of lime green. Birds sent love calls echoing through the woods. In other years, Jondu had popped into this world, ready to explore, no matter the direction. To turn over logs jammed with tiny insects, sniff the first blooms, trill her fingers in the frosty stream.
Jondu hunkered behind a boulder, drawn to the rich scent of dew-damp earth. A twig snapped. A twin-pointed shadow passed overhead and rippled across the first sprigs of grass. The owl landed nearby on a low pine branch and settled its wings. She recognized the predator. Genevieve Pensworthy.
Jondu slipped from her hiding spot. “You scared me.”
The owl cackled. Had she lips, she would’ve been smiling. “Now, Miss Jondu. You? Scared?”
It was true. Jondu The Traveler was frightened. Of the slight breeze teasing the high limbs. Of the tiny chink-chink of the remaining ice raining down from the trees. Of her own small shadow.
Jondu had experienced a sense of unease before, many times: a rapid heartbeat, sharpened senses, the prickle of the fine hairs on her neck. All good, for a small being who could become something’s easy breakfast.
