by Helen Gosney
“When I left Den Siddon, I thought I’d go back to Borl Quist and recover a bit, and then keep on going to the Forbidden Mountains more or less right away,” he said, “But of course, I couldn’t... my wounds were worse than I’d realised, or let myself realise I suppose. When you just have to keep on going, you do somehow; but eventually it always catches up with you. Anyway, it took a lot longer than I’d thought to finally heal properly and regain my strength. I suppose I was damned lucky to recover at all really, if you could call it luck. And though I tried to talk with Rose and Pa, and Griff and Gran, about everything that’d happened... it was so hard for me, the hardest thing I’ve ever tried to do, and I don’t think I always made a lot of sense. Truly, I’m sure they thought I’d gone a bit daft, but they always listened and they never told me so... well, not too often anyway.” He paused, trying to remember a time that was still somewhat confused to him.
“’Twas a strange time in a lot of ways. Maybe I really was a bit daft…” he mused, “I remember… I remember leaving Den Siddon and heading home to Borl Quist. Nothing was going to stop me, and I truly thought I’d be all right. I was more than half way through the mountains, through the worst of the Dogleg Pass when I started to feel feverish, but it was better to keep on going home than to return to Den Siddon. Or I thought it was. I was past the most dangerous bits of the Pass and… well, truly, I didn’t… I didn’t want to go back to Wirran anyway…” He shook his head.
“There aren’t any little villages through that part of Sian, not many people at all really, so I just sort of kept going…I don’t even know how I did…well, truly, the horses were in charge; luckily they knew were home was, and they just went the most direct way.” He paused, thinking about it.
He’d had to leave the horses’ saddles behind because he simply couldn’t get them on and off the horses each day with his injured arm and broken ribs. That hadn’t mattered though; all his years of riding bareback had stood him in good stead. He’d managed to get by, although every stride the horses took hurt him somewhere and every breath he took hurt him more, no matter how well the healer had bound his ribs. Madness to have been riding at all, he thought to himself. It was one thing to ride back from Trill with his injuries; there really hadn’t been much choice, and the pace had been slow, but to try to go all the way to Borl Quist… madness. Especially at the speed he’d travelled. He should have stayed in Den Siddon with his friends, but at the time it had seemed to make sense to just go. And he’d truly thought he’d be all right. As the fever had taken hold he’d realised how much trouble he was in.
The horses had left the track when they came out of the mountains and headed straight across country to Borl Quist as they’d always done. And there was no-one to help him out there. Finally he’d been so ill he’d been barely able to stand and he’d fallen heavily several times, doing himself no good at all. He thought he’d probably rebroken some of his ribs and perhaps broken a couple of undamaged ones. There was no way of knowing really and it didn’t matter now. But after that the bandages around his chest and shoulder had been stained with a constant seeping of fresh blood from the wounds beneath. There’d been nothing he could do about it though. It had taken all of his strength just to keep going.
At night when the nightmares or the pain of his wounds woke him even through his exhaustion and as much willowbark tea as he’d managed to swallow, he’d find one or other of the stallions standing close by, keeping watch over him. The other one would be laying down beside him, keeping him warm and giving him something to sit against as his breathing rapidly worsened. In the mornings they’d nuzzle anxiously at his face, sometimes bumping his broken nose with their soft velvety muzzles, but the pain of that was nothing, he found. The stallions would give him no peace until he’d finally managed to crawl onto the back of the one still laying beside him. The pain as the stallion surged to its feet was excruciating; he could remember tears rolling down his face as he tried desperately not to scream, as that would have hurt his ribs even more. Madness, he thought again. But he had left Den Siddon and he had made it across the mountains, and somehow he’d made it home to Borl Quist too.
He couldn’t remember much of the last few days of his journey, and he didn’t really want to. It had been a neverending nightmare of burning fever and racking chills and horrible dreams. The pain in his chest had been agonising, the broken ends of his ribs grating together as he coughed blood and struggled to breathe. At times he’d almost been too afraid to breathe because of the pain, but the blood and the gurgling rattle in his chest had frightened him even more. When Soot had finally stopped with a gentle whinny and he’d heard familiar voices, he’d hardly known where he was or even why he was there.
“I can only vaguely remember getting home,” he said at last, “I can remember Rose and Gran were furious with me for some reason…” He also remembered weeping like a child as his father’s strong arms had plucked him from Soot’s back, and the anguish on the faces of his family. He remembered Rose clutching his hand as if she’d never let it go and he remembered Rhys and Griff holding him so carefully as the little Bettran healer, Thorn, had done… whatever it was he’d done that first night. It had hurt a lot.
**********
“Rhys, I won’t lie to you… you can see for yourself how ill he is… I’ll do whatever I can, but I truly can’t do much. Rowan’s young and strong and very fit, and he’s as stubborn as any forester ever born,” Thorn had shaken his head miserably, “But I must tell you, the lung fever spares none who’re as sick as this. None. I truly don’t think he can survive it…”
Rhys shook his head, trying to deny the evidence of his own eyes. He’d never seen anyone as ill as Rowan, never wanted to again. His injuries were bad enough, the chest wound dreadful, but the lung fever was truly horrendous. He couldn’t believe that Rowan had managed to get home from wherever it was he’d been. And where in the Nether Hells had he been? He’d been unable to tell them, mumbling confusedly about blood, and everyone dying, and something that sounded like ‘messontrel’, or ‘mestrel’, whatever the hell that meant. He’d made no sense at all, poor lad.
When they’d made Rowan as comfortable as they could, done all they could, Dana and Rose had carefully cleaned the mud and dried blood from his hair, brushed it and rebraided it. There was nothing else they could do for him and the comforting familiarity of it had helped to calm them all.
And now, a couple of hours later, Rowan seemed even worse. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, lost in the delirium of pain and high fever, mumbling about incomprehensible, dreadful things: blood, his men screaming and dying, blood, wells, Den Siddon, getting his men home, babies, betrayal, fire and blood… always blood… wherever he’d been, whatever had caused his injuries, it had been terrible. The racking cough of lung fever and the horrible pain-filled gasp of his breathing were even worse.
Rose sat by his side, holding his hand as tears rolled down her face unheeded and Dana bathed him again in a futile effort to lower his raging fever. Rhys and Thorn stood by the window, simply waiting for the inevitable. In the paddock outside the window Rowan’s stallions stood close by. Griff had fed them, groomed them and tried to keep them in the barn but they’d simply opened the doors of their stalls and come up here. After three attempts to keep them inside, Griff had admitted defeat. Now he stood helpless beside Dana, holding the basin of water.
“Thorn… I can’t bear it…” Rhys brushed tears from his own face, “I can’t bear to see him suffering like this… he’s in so much pain…”
The healer Thorn nodded miserably. He’d given Rowan as much poppy juice as he’d dared, but the sheer effort the poor lad had to make in simply keeping breathing meant that the pain in his broken ribs was uncontrollable. Thorn could hear the fluid gurgling and rattling in his chest from here and that wouldn’t be making it any damned easier for him… Suddenly he remembered something his healer father had taught him. It was a last-ditch measure of true desperation, only ever
used in the most dire of circumstances to give some ease to a person in the last stages of lung fever. Thorn had done it perhaps three or four times in thirty years. He looked across at Rowan and blinked back tears of his own. If ever there was a case for trying it, this was it.
“Rhys… I… I wish I could save him, but I can’t. He’s just… he’s just too bloody sick. The fever is … it’s got too much of a hold. Truly, I don’t know how he’s survived this long,” he said slowly, “But I might be able to ease him a bit…”
Rhys stared at him.
“What do you mean ‘ease him a bit’?” he said.
“There’s a procedure we use occasionally in Bettra… but it’s very dangerous, Rhys,” Thorn shook his head, “I… I wouldn’t even think of trying it, except…”
“…Except Rowan has no hope of surviving this…” Rhys looked at Rowan again, heartbroken, “But you think it might… might ease his last few… few hours…?”
“I… I think so… But Rhys, it truly is dangerous… it could kill him…”
Rhys shook his head very slowly.
“He’s dying now, Thorn,” he said softly, “He’s come back home, the Gods only know how or where from, and he’s dying in pain right in front of me and I can’t do a damned thing about it…” he turned to his old friend, “What is it you think you might be able to do?”
Rhys’s eyes widened as Thorn told him. Great bloody Gods, he thought desperately, what the hell should I do? He’d never heard of anything like this, but he couldn’t bear to see Rowan suffering so much and struggling so bravely, fighting a battle he simply couldn’t win. He swallowed hard as Rowan coughed horribly again, doubled over in pain and gasping for breath.
“Try it then, Thorn. Anything is better than dying like this,” he whispered.
It was difficult to support Rowan sitting up without causing him more pain from his injuries, but finally Rhys and Griff managed to get him into the position that Thorn said was necessary. Rose still held his hand, but Rhys doubted that Rowan was even aware that she was there. Certainly he didn’t recognise his father or the cousin who was closer to him than a brother as he sat slumped between them with sweat pouring down his face and body, panting for breath.
“Dammit. No bloody numbweed,” Thorn said as he got himself ready. “Numbweed, Dana. Do you have any numbweed? And a couple of big bowls? Oh, and some more clean water too, please?”
She nodded and hurried off to get them. She’d nursed quite a few folk with lung fever over the years, and most hadn’t survived no matter what she or anyone else had done. None of them had been as sick as Rowan was now. She’d been stunned when Rhys and Thorn had explained what they wanted to try, but she realised that it was the only thing that might help a little. It couldn’t save Rowan, but perhaps it might ease his passing. It was surely worth a try.
Thorn had unwound the bandages around Rowan’s chest and had his ear to Rowan’s back, listening carefully, when she came back. You don’t need to do that, Dana thought bleakly, I could hear the damned noise in his poor chest from the doorway.
“Rhys, can you support the side of Rowan’s chest, like this… just…there? Now the bandage is off, the broken ribs move about too much, but if you can do that it’ll help him to breathe a bit better. It’ll hurt him, though. He’s not deeply unconscious enough not to feel it. Just let me put some numbweed on it, it’ll be better than nothing …”
Rowan flinched as Thorn carefully rubbed the cold numbweed ointment into the side of his chest and his back. He turned his head a little, then blinked up at Rhys, puzzled.
“Pa…? Pa, what the hell are you…? It… it bloody hurts, Pa…” he said clearly.
Gods, thought Rhys desperately, why did you have to come around now, my poor brave laddie? Why just now? Why not in another half an hour or so when we’ve finished?
“I’m sorry, Rowan lad,” he said, “It won’t be for long. We don’t mean to hurt you.”
“Rhys? What do you want me to do?” Thorn asked sympathetically. If they were going to do this, it should be done soon or there’d be little point in putting Rowan through it.
“I don’t bloody know, Thorn… just, just give me a moment…” Rhys bent down a little, carefully keeping Rowan’s ribs supported, but even so the movement of his chest didn’t seem right.
“Rowan…? Rowan, lad…?” he said softly.
“Aye, Pa…” Rowan’s voice was weak and rough, but he undoubtedly recognised Rhys and he seemed more lucid than at any time since he’d got home.
Rhys took a deep breath.
“Rowan… you must stay very, very still, laddie. Thorn is going to… to try and help you, but it’ll hurt… Griff and I are here, we’ve got you, but you must try not to move, my brave lad. Don’t fight us. It’s really important. It’ll only hurt you more. Do you understand me?”
Rowan blinked at him again and nodded wearily.
“Aye, I mustn’t… mustn’t move, but … but where’s Rose…?”
“I’m here, Rowan love,” she whispered as she squeezed his hand, “And Gran’s behind you with Thorn.”
“Better mind what I say then … mustn’t scream either…” he said, the screams of the men at Messton much too clear in his mind. He didn’t want his family to remember him that way. “Hurts… hurts too much anyway… can we just bloody get on with it…?”
“Rhys?” Thorn said.
“Yes, Thorn. As Rowan says, let’s just bloody get on with it. Griff and I have got him.”
Thorn nodded and washed his hands again. He carefully pricked Rowan’s back with the sharp end of the trochar, drawing blood. Yes, it was numb. But of course it wouldn’t be numb deeper in the muscle. He too wished that Rowan had remained unconscious for just a little while longer.
“I’m so sorry, Rowan lad, but this will hurt a lot. Try not to move if you can… brave lad…” he said as he cautiously pushed the trochar and cannula he’d used so rarely between Rowan’s ribs and into his chest.
Griff hastily looked away, but the support of his strong, gentle hands never wavered as Rowan stiffened and gasped in pain, biting his lip and panting for breath while he tried not to move as the instrument cut into him. He swore once very faintly, but simply had no breath for more.
“Dear Gods!” Dana breathed as Thorn withdrew the sharp trochar and bloody fluid drained from the shiny metal tube protruding from Rowan’s back into the bowl she held. “Dear bloody Gods.”
A horrifying amount of fluid almost filled the bowl as the flow finally dribbled to a stop.
Rowan groaned softly and slumped against Rhys and Griff a bit more as Thorn carefully pulled the cannula from his chest.
“Good lad, Rowan. Brave lad. You rest now, you’ve done well,” the healer said gently as he stitched the small wound he’d made. At least Rowan couldn’t feel that. “Is that a bit easier to breathe now?”
Rowan tried to concentrate enough to work it out. It wasn’t easy with the awful pain of simply trying to breathe, and the confusion of the fever didn’t help either, but finally he nodded unsteadily.
“Aye… ‘tis a bit… it still bloody hurts, but… ‘tis easier. What about the… the other…” he coughed again.
Thorn bit his lip as he thought about it. The other side of Rowan’s chest had nearly as much fluid in it. He watched Rowan’s breathing for a while and then put his ear to the sick man’s back again. Gods, he was burning up with the fever, but that lung had re-expanded quite a lot and his breathing did seem a bit easier. He looked up at Rhys questioningly.
Rhys nodded slowly.
“Yes, Thorn. Do the other side too,” he said.
By now Rowan was semi-conscious at best and he didn’t move as the healer carefully inserted the trochar into the other side of his chest, but he obviously felt the pain of it as he shuddered and bit through his lip again.
Finally it was finished. Thorn rebandaged Rowan’s chest and stitched his torn lip. He looked down at him sadly as Rhys and Griff eased him back against the pi
llows. Rowan had lost consciousness again not long before Thorn had finished. His breathing was still harsh and laboured, had to be with the broken ribs, but Thorn thought it was better than before. Poor brave man, he hadn’t moved at all as he’d been tended, and he’d made no sound. The healer wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d screamed and struggled, had expected it really as Rowan’s understanding of what was happening had to be unreliable with such a high fever, but he’d said he wouldn’t while Rose was there and he hadn’t.
“Thank you, Thorn. I truly believe it has eased him a bit,” Rhys said softly.
The healer nodded.
“It has, I think. Poor brave lad. I just wish I could do more for him, Rhys. I feel so… so bloody helpless… useless…” he said.
“Rowan wouldn’t say that and neither would I. None of us here would.”
**********
“Bugger me, Rhys. I never thought I’d be so bloody glad to hear anyone breathing like that… least of all Rowan…” Griff said softly the next morning. It broke his heart to see Rowan so terribly ill, but at least he’d survived the night. Maybe Thorn’s efforts really had made a difference, he thought.
“Neither did I, Griff lad, neither did I.”
**********
Rowan looked at the others for a moment and shook his head slowly as he thought about it.
“After I got home, ‘tis just a blur for… I don’t know how long. A good while though, I think. I can remember bits and pieces, but they’re sort of disconnected,” he said softly.
Rowan couldn’t remember much of that first night, but he could recall waking at odd times in the same little room he’d slept in as a lad. Sometimes he’d wake trembling and terrified from yet another nightmare and sometimes he’d wake in terrible pain, drenched in sweat, coughing and gasping for breath. He didn’t know if he’d woken several times in the same night or day, or if there’d been a long time between awakenings. Probably both, he thought. There’d always been someone there with him: Rose or Gran, his father or Griff or the healer, his kin or neighbours, and the family’s cat had been snuggled against him, purring, with the dog asleep at his feet. He remembered old Gran trying to shoo the animals away, and he thought he recalled the healer closing the door on them, but they’d been there with him again every time he’d woken. He remembered the scent of roses and gum leaves beside his bed and the agony in his chest and shoulder as his father and Griff had helped him to sit up so his bandages could be changed and he remembered the foul taste of the healer’s potions.
