by Scott Bury
“I can help relieve some of their suffering,” Photius answered. The young woman reappeared, carrying a stack of rough wooden bowls that she deposited beside Photius. “Where is the water?” he asked, and she disappeared again. Photius carefully poured a little from three pouches into three bowls: a powder in one, what looked to Javor like dried leaves in another, and twigs in the third. They gave off strange, complex odours: like mint, wine, spice and honey all at once.
Soon the young woman came in again, carefully carrying an earthenware pot of hot water. Javor for the first time looked at her: she wasn’t as pretty as Elli, but she was equally hungry-looking, thin and drawn. Straight, dark hair hung down past her thin shoulders. She had a long, thin nose and wide, thin lips. Dark semicircles hung under both eyes.
Photius poured a little water into each of the bowls. He gingerly removed a rag from the pot, waved it a little to cool, then gently swabbed the man’s wound, clearing off layers of blood and dirt. When he dipped the cloth back into a bowl, the water turned red.
Using water from each of the bowls in turn, Photius carefully cleaned the man’s wound. Then he poured the remainder of the last bowl’s contents over the wound and pressed a cloth over it. Javor had never seen anything like this before. The chief came in, stared at what Photius was doing, but said nothing.
Photius then turned to the woman on the bed. Into another bowl he sprinkled a powder from his pack and diluted it with warm water. “Help her to sit up,” he told Javor, and then held the bowl to her lips. She drank without opening her eyes.
He took two more wet cloths and gave one each to Javor and to the dark-haired young woman. Then he gently removed the injured woman’s tunic; she co-operated, but seemed barely aware.
“Help me wash her,” he said quietly. Together, the three of them swabbed her down. Javor hesitated when he got to her chest, but when he saw the young woman efficiently wiping her arms, he went ahead. They turned her over to wash her back, then over again. Photius took a fresh rag to wash between the woman’s legs, being especially gentle but thorough. With the last of the bowls and the last clean water, Photius made a thick paste, which he applied to her thighs and vulva. Then he washed and wiped his hands. “Let them rest, now. They should be more comfortable. When the man wakes, give his this to drink,” he indicated the bowl that the woman had sipped from. “Just one or two sips, no more. If there is any left, give some to the woman at this time tomorrow. Tell me, have you no one in your village skilled in healing? No wise woman who knows the use of herbs and magic?”
The chief shook his head, staring at the ground. “Alas, she was one of the first killed by the raiders, she and a younger woman who helped her. That’s one reason why this attack has been so hard on us, and why my daughter was so anxious to bring you in.”
“I see,” said Photius. “Are there any others hurt?”
“These two were the worst. A few others had smaller wounds, but they’ll recover. And Boris lost an eye. Can you do aught for that?”
“Alas, no. Rebuilding his organ of sight is beyond my arts.” The chief nodded. “Attend to these two. The woman will want water to drink soon. Don’t let the man drink too much, though, until his wound closes. Take me to the man who lost his eye—I want to make sure the wound doesn’t fester.” The chief led Photius out, but Javor remained in the hut.
The young woman fussed over the wounded pair. “Are they close to you?” Javor asked. “Family?”
She nodded. “Alia is my cousin,” she said, choking. She turned away to hide a tear running down her face, but Javor saw it.
“What’s your name?” he asked her.
She looked up, startled. “Lalya,” she stammered.
“I’m Javor. I’m from Nastaciu.” She had a blank look. “That’s north of here. We’ve been walking for days.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She jumped up and ran out of the hut. Javor followed her, mystified. She went to another hut, leaned into the door and asked for some bread. She went to another hut and collected some plums, and finally a flask. Then she returned to the centre of the holody, where Javor, mystified, sat in front of a fire. “With all our trouble, we completely forgot how hungry travellers must be,” she smiled. Javor gratefully bit into the bread. Almost like Mama’s. He fought back tears. “I asked my neighbour to make sure your friend there gets something, too,” Lalya said. “We don’t normally get many travellers here, but the last ones before you were Avar raiders, so we’re feeling less kindly to strangers now.”
“We had Avars, too, in my village. They killed an old man and kidnapped two girls. That was—um, about 10 or 12 days ago, now.” Javor saw Photius walking with the chief and another woman of the village. He was chewing on something, and the woman was carrying more food.
“Were you close to the people they killed?” Lalya asked in a small, halting voice. Javor nodded. He didn’t understand why, but he for some reason didn’t want to say anything that might make her feel worse. Then, like a burst bubble, it came out. “They kidnapped the girl I loved ...”
“And you’re looking for them?” Lalya asked, alarmed.
“No, I, that is, my friend and I—”
“Ah, you make a fine bread in this village, my dear Lalya,” Photius boomed, slapping Javor as he sat down beside him. “Yes, it’s been many a day since we had some fresh food this fine, hasn’t it, my lad?” Javor nodded.
“Are you still looking for your girlfriend?” Lalya repeated.
“No, she’s back home now,” said Javor, and realized he had a very long, incredible story to tell.
“Ah, yes, she’s safe now,” Photius jumped in. “Javor helped her to escape from the raiders as they rode off. But tragically, my young friend here lost his parents, his only surviving family, really, in the attacks. That’s why I’ve decided to take him under my wing. We’re heading back to civilization, back to Rome, or rather, New Rome.” A small crowd of villagers gathered about, some bringing food, others ale. Javor took a bottle gratefully, and Photius took a long swig from another.
“Are those the same raiders who attacked us yesterday?”
“No, I don’t think so.” He took another gulp of ale. “Those rode eastward, probably back toward their headquarters. There are many bands about.”
Why is he lying? Javor wondered. Why doesn’t he tell these villagers that the raiders who attacked Nastasciu are dead?
Maybe he doesn’t want to alarm them—they’d probably throw us out, too.
Photius took off his high boots, wiggling his toes in the light of the setting sun. “Ah, but we are weary.”
“Of course, of course!” exclaimed the grizzled chief. It was now twilight. Pink clouds streaked the sky. “Oh, where is our hospitality? You must be weary! Halya!” he bellowed. “Prepare a place for our guests to rest!” He turned to Photius. “Thank you, sir, thank you very much for helping Alia and Bereh, and the others. Boris’s eye is gone, but you have eased his suffering.”
“It is the least that one can do,” Photius replied. “You are gracious. In fact, I have been struck by the generosity and grace of the people in these parts, far from the borders of the Empire.” Photius rambled on, and Javor took the opportunity to take off his sandals and cloak. Soon, some villagers led them to a hut. “No one lives here, now,” said the chief, Mstys, and Javor knew it had been the dwelling of someone who had died in the raid. Inside, the effects of deceased strangers in domestic, intimate settings made him feel simultaneously at home and alien. But he fell asleep as soon he settled on the straw mat.
Javor woke to see Lalya bending low to enter the hut. She placed a steaming bowl in front of him, another in front of Photius, who was already up and moving about. “Good morning, travellers. Breakfast?” Javor looked in the bowl. “Kasha,” said Lalya—buckwheat porridge.“Careful, it’s hot!” She left the hut laughing.
Javor loved kasha and dug in heartily. Photius was somewhat less enthusiastic about the porridge, sucking on his teeth as he swallowed. Outside, the
sky was clear, the air already hot. They had slept late—it was mid-morning. Villagers milled about. In the full light, Javor could now see mountains to the south. Javor went to the gate of the holody and saw young boys watching sheep in a meadow, some men leading cattle. Others were in grain fields.
“Like home, isn’t it, Javor?” said Photius, once again at his shoulder. Javor nodded. He had never been to a village other than the one he had be born in. It hadn’t occurred to him before this very moment that other villages could be different from Nastasciu.
“Good morning, my friends!” called a rough voice. It was the chief, Mstys, striding across the grass from the fields. “Did you sleep well? Good. Have enough to eat? Well, just relax today. Rest before you go on your way. My people are feeling much better after your care, good Photius. Bereh woke up this morning, and his wife Alia has taken some food and even said a few words. You truly are a miracle worker!” Photius smiled. “I was hoping, if you’re not too tired today, if you might also see some other people of my village. My oldest son, Kii, well, his wife has no children yet. Perhaps you might be able to help? And there’s an old woman with a withered arm ...”
“Of course, of course,” Photius said gently, patting the chief on the arm. “Have some women—make sure they’re women, mind you—bring some fresh, clear spring water to me at exactly noon. Better make it four big jugs. And I’ll need some herbs from the forest, and some mushrooms, too. And they must be picked by a chief. Then I can get started. In the meantime, have you any more of your excellent wine?” The chief looked puzzled, then nodded and strode off to fulfill Photius’ requests.
“Why do you need mushrooms picked by a chief?” Javor asked.
“I like mushrooms, especially fried, and I need a break from Mysts,” Photius answered. “And I need to talk with you alone.” He sat, sighing, on a log near the gate. “Let us rest today, Javor. We’ve been walking for a week with little food, and our journey ahead is long. We’ll stay here no more than a day or two. I want to meet you outside the gate at sundown. Before then, I want you to fetch our weapons from their hiding place.”
“Why?”
“We’re going to need them soon, I believe.”
“Don’t you trust these people?”
“Oh, my boy, I trust the people of Bilavod implicitly. I have no fear of them. But there are others to consider, and I have a sense of danger. The raiders that attacked them could be close by.”
The chief came back with a jug of wine. A young boy was at his side. “This is my youngest son, Boless,” he said. “He’s going to help me find mushrooms. I’ve never been able to, but Boless, here, always brings home more than anyone.”
“Wonderful,” said Photius, smiling at the boy. “But don’t forget, the mushrooms must actually be picked by a ruling chief.”
“Yes, yes, that’s why I’m going, too.” And father and son walked down the hill, hand in hand, to the forest.
Photius was soon mired in a crowd of villagers looking for remedies and advice on aches and fevers. Young girls asked how to find a husband, mothers how to marry off their children. Photius dealt with them good-naturedly, and soon Javor found himself wandering the village alone.
Javor found it very pleasant; it was the first day since he was very small that he hadn’t had to do any work. The villagers smiled every time they saw him, and in the afternoon he found himself talking again with Lalya, the chief’s daughter. He got a better look at her in the bright sunlight; she was thin, and he decided she did not look at all like Elli. She was older than him, older than Elli, but not unattractive. He asked if she had a husband.
“Not any more,” she said. She seemed only a little sad. “He died in a pestilence two years ago, and our daughter, also.”
“And the chief’s daughter hasn’t remarried?”
She smiled at him at that. “No, not yet. But then, I haven’t really met anyone I liked enough to marry. Not quite yet, anyway.”
When the sun got low, Javor slipped out of the stockade and walked to the rapids. The weapons, Photius’ long bow, arrows, long sword and dagger, and the sword and armour Javor had taken from Ghastog’s hoard were wrapped in cloth under the rock where they had left them. He staggered under their combined weight up the hill, but Photius met him halfway down and without a word led him to a pool where the stream widened and flowed slowly and quietly.
Photius made a small fire beside the stream and arranged their weapons in a semicircle. From a secret pocket inside his cloak, he took the monster’s teeth and the dragon’s claws he had saved those many nights ago. He ground them between two stones in until he had a handful of fine powder, all while muttering rhythmically.
“What are you doing?” Javor asked.
“Quiet. I must concentrate until moonrise.” Then he sat still, hands in his lap, and stared at the water. Hours passed and Javor’s legs got stiff, but he didn’t dare move even though he knew the moon would not rise until quite late.
Finally, the thinnest sliver of a moon rose over the hills in the east, two horns pointing forward. Photius still didn’t look up, but kept staring at the water until both of them could see the crescent reflecting in the water. At last, he said “the bull’s horns. The bull is here.” Photius cupped his hands in the water and poured a little over the pile of dust made from the monster’s teeth and dragon’s claws. He swirled it around with his fingertips, then picked up the gooey paste and threw it on the embers of the fire, chanting an incantation that grew steadily louder and more urgent. As steam and smoke rose, he picked up the weapons, one in each hand, and waved them back and forth over the embers. At a look from the old man, Javor picked up his weapons, too, and waved them through the mist, trying to mimic Photius’ actions. First the sword and knife, then the helmet and buckler, last the shield as the mist dissipated.
Photius murmured a last time and Javor realized that the moon no longer showed in the pool. Photius bent over the embers and breathed in deeply. Javor tried to do the same and nearly fell over from coughing. Photius laughed a little but, uncharacteristically, didn’t say anything. He stirred the ashes with a stick, scooped more water into them, and then scooped some into a little leather bag which he cinched shut.
They gathered their weapons and carefully walked back up the hill to the holody in the starlight. Waiting at the gate was a guard, armed with only a hoe, and the chief, Msyts. He looked alarmed at the sight of the weapons, but did not say anything. We’re carrying them, not wearing them, so we don’t look very threatening, thought Javor.
Msyts and the guard watched Photius and Javor return to their borrowed hut without saying anything. Grateful to drop the heavy armour, Javor fell onto straw mattress and fell asleep almost immediately.
Chapter 8: Attack
They slept late again the next day. After breakfast, Photius talked two old women into leading him into the forest to help find herbs. Javor found Lalya, the chief’s daughter. She seemed less worried now, younger and prettier, although he was conscious that she was nearly ten years older than he. Still, he found himself listening to her talk about her family, about how her mother and then her husband had succumbed to a pestilence some years earlier, perhaps the same disease that had swept through Javor’s village. But she also had good stories to tell, about how her father had often kept raiders at bay with shrewd negotiation and a little bluster, and how her mother had kept her father at bay, when she was alive.
Javor leaned against a haystack, enjoying the sound of Lalya’s voice and the way the summer breeze blew the top of her tunic. Two boys his own age came up to them, both very thin with thin, dark hair. One wore a sly expression that reminded Javor of Mrost’s twin; the other was smaller, somehow thinner with a few dark wisps on his upper lip.
The sly-looking one did all the talking. “Hey, there—Javor, is it? I’m Bogdan. So, your father there is quite the healer.”
“He’s not my father.”
The sly one ignored that. “And they say you’re quite a fighter.�
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Javor sat up straight, Lalya’s neckline forgotten. “Who says that?”
“So, my friend Lezek here,” Bogdan nodded toward his silent friend, “he wants to see your weapons.”
Javor did not know what to say. Photius had kept their weapons hidden until last night.
“Come on,” the sly one pressed. “Lezek’s never seen a real sword before.” Other young men of the village gathered around them, looking at Javor.
Javor looked at Lalya, who raised her eyebrows and smiled. Evidently, she was just as curious.
“Come on,” Bogdan repeated.
“Yah, come on, big guy, show us!” said someone in the crowd.
What could it hurt? Javor went back to the hut he was staying in, followed by a growing crowd of children and adolescents. He strapped on his sword, buckler and helmet and, even though the people of Bilavod oohed and were obviously impressed with the way he looked, he felt self-conscious, especially with Lalya watching intently. But he also noticed the other young women looking at him. He was also conscious, as always, of how the straps chafed. He wondered how long it would take before he was fully comfortable with them.
But what will happen when I need to use these weapons?
As the sun got lower, the men returned from their fields and stoked up the fire in the middle of the holody for communal cooking. They were preparing a mild celebration in honour of Photius’ healing skills. Photius, returning from the forest with a basket brimming with leaves, flowers and roots, protested only weakly.
It was a meagre feast, but someone had wine and someone else had prepared a stronger, clear liquor that Javor had never seen before. Photius sipped it appreciatively. Javor touched it to his tongue: it was very strong, and some of the village men laughed at his reaction. Then someone brought out pipes to play, and someone else a drum, and soon the villagers were singing. The young men began dancing around the bonfire.
Javor enjoyed himself immensely. By the time it was completely dark and some of the older people had gone off to bed, he had his arm around Lalya’s shoulders and was talking to her very earnestly about something, but he seemed to have lost the thread of his own argument. She laughed and pressed closer to him. Does she want me to kiss her? he wondered. Almost simultaneously, Lalya’s father, Mstys and Photius, one scowling and the other looking worried, started toward him.
