* * *
He awoke and gazed upward at a thatched ceiling, mouse-chewed and stained with smoke. He swallowed and took a deep breath, tasting old cook fires in the air. He could feel the straw of a pallet beneath the fabric on which he lay, and the rough blanket covering him. There was no pain, just the lazy, distant feeling that pain leaves in its wake.
Where was he? He turned his head and saw crossbeams hanging with dried plants, strings of onions, and a bundle of sausages. His eyes came to rest on the face of the child from the river sitting on a stool beside him. Large, blue eyes watched Jean solemnly from beneath a cloud of blond hair that had dried to a cap of fuzzy yellow curls. The little one was dry and reasonably clean, but a combing was very much in order.
"So, you are safe, it seems," Jean murmured in German. "Where are we?"
Relief lit the little face. "Frau Solvig said you would be all right, but I was afraid because you were bleeding so much. I'm sorry for your arm. She said it wouldn't hurt. Does it? I hope not. I thought the dragon had killed you."
Jean shook his head to stem the flow of words. "I am sorry you were frightened," he said, and the feebleness of his own voice shocked him. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Are we in your village? Are your parents here?"
"I don't have any parents. They died on the way to Tir and left me here. I told them you are my uncle, come to fetch me." The blue eyes fixed on him were worshipful. "You are very brave. You must be a Cavalier. I can carry things for you, and I'll take care of your horse if you'll show me how. I'm six, almost, and very strong for my age."
Jean licked his lips, wishing for cool water and an adult face. He wanted to look at his left arm, and dared not. He was certain he could feel a tingling in the fingers of his left hand, but he remembered the crocodile, and the blood.
He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, but I am not a Cavalier, so I have no need of a squire. And while I should like nothing better than to have such good company, I must go to Tir myself, and I cannot take care of you. I'm sure the good folk here would love to have you stay. Could you be so kind as to fetch for me a grown-up person so I could talk to them, perhaps?"
It was the wrong thing to say. As Jean watched, the blue eyes filled with tears and the pink lower lip began to tremble. "You saved me, so you're my family until I get my own."
The waif rubbed away the tears with its fists and sat up stiffly. "Someday I'll build a big house and get married and have lots of children. Then they'll grow up and have lots of children and we'll all live together and I'll be Opa to them all." It paused and added, "You can live with us too, if you want to. But you'll have to call me Opa just like everyone else."
Well, at least the question of the child's sex was answered; "opa" was what German children called their grandfathers. He smiled, keeping his fear and frustration tucked away. The boy had been through enough already; he did not need to see the man he thought of as his rescuer and hero blubbering like a baby. "I would like that, Opa. But I miss my family too, and I want to get home to them."
"I can come live with you. I could be Opa to all your children and nieces and nephews."
To Jean's relief, a woman lifted the hide flap over the doorway across the room and ducked inside, successfully distracting the boy. She straightened and smiled with satisfaction as she saw Jean. "Good day, traveler," she said in careful German. Her voice was hearty, and over-loud for the interior of the hut. "It is good to see you are awake. I had trouble prying your nephew from your side long enough to let you rest. It is good someone has come for him at last. How do you feel?"
"The boy is not—" Something in the child's face made Jean change what he had been about to say. He cleared his throat and spoke again. "The boy is not used to such hardship. Thank you for caring for him. And for me. I am Jean LeFleur, a traveler on my way to Tir. Are you perhaps the healer?"
She nodded and came over to the bedside, shooing "Opa" off the stool. The boy quickly transferred himself to the side of the bed, and she settled her comfortable bulk onto the stool. Her wheaten hair was braided into two thick plaits that had been wound like buns on either side of her broad, pink-cheeked face. A sturdy-looking woman just past the first flush of youth, she bore an air of authority around her like a fine cloak.
"I am Solvig," she said, her cheerful volume undiminished. "I am the Mystic here. My husband is Harek, son of Halfdan Langskeid. It was I who treated you. So, again — how do you feel?"
For a moment, Jean found it impossible to answer. He wished again that the boy were elsewhere. He took a deep, slow breath. "My arm — can it be…saved?" He hoped his voice was steadier than it sounded to him.
She shook her head, pulling her mouth tight with regret. "There was nothing I could do. You are lucky to be alive — it was a near thing, by the time the boy brought you here. If the arm had still been attached, perhaps…but as it was, the best I could do was heal what was left."
Her gaze dropped to his left side, then returned to his face. "I have heard that there are Mystics who can restore lost limbs. But many Mystics come through here on their way to and from Tir, and I have never met one who claimed such a gift."
Jean closed his eyes and clamped his jaw shut on the scream that built up behind it. His arm was gone. He was crippled, diminished, an object of pity and derision. Dear God, not this.
Solvig's voice boomed in the darkness. "The boy tells us a dragon attacked him and that you lost the arm saving him. If so, it is a hero's deed. Few men escape from the jaws of a river dragon, even a small one, as yours must have been."
He opened his eyes and glared up at her in outrage. "A small one, Madame? The creature was at least four man-lengths!"
Solvig shook her head. "Now, now, take no insult, stranger," she said. "It is clear you have no experience with them. My husband's eldest brother and his crew were taken by one. When my husband and his men killed the thing and laid it out, it proved to be longer than their ship. Even the selkies are wary of them, and they fear little that swims."
Her smile broadened and she patted his leg. "This is a tale to thrill your grandchildren around the fire, young man. Be proud of that arm, and thank the gods it's your left."
Jean finally let his head roll to the left and looked down, lifting what felt like his hand. His shoulder shifted, and a pale, smooth-skinned stub rose from the mattress. He stared at it, unable to associate it with himself. His stomach churned and he felt a sudden desire to throw up, though there was nothing in his stomach to eject.
Proud of that thing? Mother of God.
He squeezed his eyes shut and let his head fall back. "Tir," he said aloud, fighting the nausea. "I must get to Tir. How does one accomplish that?"
Solvig's voice trumpeted in the darkness over his head. "Why, Halfdan Langskeid is the Ferryman, of course. He can give you passage, for a price."
"I have little money."
Solvig snorted. "Your purse is lean enough, that's true. But that helm alone will pay passage for yourself, the boy, and your horse unless I'm very much mistaken. And compensate me for my troubles as well, with coin to spare." She paused. "Or, if there's just yourself, we can make some other arrangement. Wait a few days and other passengers are sure to come along. We could use the horse, and someone will find a place for the boy. The smith could use an apprentice, and the netmaker's boy is almost ready to make his Pilgrimage, and will need replacing."
Jean swallowed. He needed the horse, but the price was more than he was willing to pay. Perhaps he could leave Jacques, work out some sort of lease with these folk for the animal's keep, and collect him later. It would surely be less costly. As for the boy….
Near the foot of the bed, the boy made a small sound, a quick intake of breath. Jean opened his eyes again and looked up at Solvig, then raised his head so he could see the child's face. "Opa, would you like to stay with these fine people and learn the ways of the sea?"
<
br /> Opa twisted the coarse blanket in his hands and stared at Jean, wide-eyed. He shook his head.
Jean licked his lips, feeling trapped. With his brigandine gone, the helm, the sword, and his one knife were his only protection against the things he was certain to face when he returned to the Mists. With one arm, his skills as a swordsman, never great, were severely diminished. He could not afford to lose the helm. "I do not think I will be in Tir very long, Opa, and then I have another long journey I must go on. It would be much safer for you to live here."
"I want to go with you," the boy said very softly. "Please."
Jean dropped his head back to the pallet and ground his jaw in frustration. The boy's eyes bored through him, even when Jean was not looking at them. The child's fear of desertion woke an echo in his own heart that sat inside him like a lump of ice. He knew with leaden certainty that if he abandoned Opa, he would see those eyes before him always.
Like the Maid's.
As ye have done unto the least of these, so ye have done unto me.
He unclamped his jaw and sighed. What choice had he? He had few coins left, and those of little value. He could afford to lose his sword or dagger even less than the helm. He was not in a position to offer to work his passage.
"The boy and the horse go with me," he said quietly.
Solvig stood. "As you will. The boat can leave first thing tomorrow. It's an easy journey and you're fit enough for it."
"Done," he ground out.
Tales from Opa: Three Tales of Tir na n'Og Page 18
