Timshel

by Lillian Turner

  In short order Charon added vomiting to the list of symptoms. Eiland rolled him onto his side, using the rags of Charon’s shirt to wipe his face.

  As he did so Charon’s eyelids fluttered open and for a hairbreadth of a moment he stared up at Eiland in confusion, but then another round of spasms struck him, snatching away the fleeting awareness.

  When that round passed Eiland chanced to leave him, slinging his makeshift herb satchel over his shoulder as he went. He still had half a gyman root, bark from a young willow, a handful of numeria leaves, and several wild onions. If he could find some fireweed and hesfast flowers, he might actually be able to do Charon some good.

  Eiland ran through the fields. What had been idle play before took on a far greater urgency now—or perhaps it had always been urgent for someone else, and Eiland had been too young and silly to understand that before.

  A thin line of low-lying trees nearby lead him to the banks of a creek. The water had all but dried up in the summer heat, exposing all the gnarled, tangled roots that grew along the creek bed. Eiland dropped to his knees and plunged his fingers into the damp earth.

  By the time he returned to the solitary maple on the hill the herb satchel hung heavy on his shoulder and the storm clouds had splintered to reveal the late afternoon sky.

  As Eiland drew near, he saw that Charon had sat up. His head was bowed, though, and when he heard Eiland approaching, he only lifted it for half a second before ducking back down and covering his face.

  “I have water,” Eiland said, and blinked when Charon recoiled.

  “Eiland?” Charon’s voice sounded thin and frightened. “Eiland?”

  “Yes. What’s wrong?”

  Charon clutched one hand over his face and made no reply. Eiland carefully set down his satchel, drawing out the water skein as he studied Charon.

  “Can you not see?” he asked, straightening and taking several steps toward Charon. He tried to think if he had anything in his bag for headaches—but then, put together with the nosebleeds…

  “Don’t.” Charon was braced against the ground, his elbows locked and shaking. “Get away from me. I’ll Curse you.”

  That brought Eiland up short. “What? Why? I have water for you. I haven’t—”

  “I don’t want it.” Charon put one wavering hand up between them, a weak shield.

  Eiland started to snap at him in exasperation but then caught himself. He thought about what it must be like to be blind, in pain, and utterly helpless. And afraid: Charon must know, just as Eiland had only a few hours ago, that if someone wished to do him harm now would be their best chance.

  Charon had probably known it all along. It certainly put his tree-tying ways in a new perspective.

  Shifting a little nearer, Eiland softened his voice. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Charon’s face was turned away. His breath came short, uneven. He made no reply. Eiland licked his lips and spoke just loud enough to be heard over the continued drip of water from the leaves overhead. “Look, if I wanted to hurt you I’d have done it already, all right? I just—I have water for you. You should drink it.”

  For a long moment neither of them moved. Charon’s shoulders didn’t relax; he tried to peel his eyes open but slammed them shut again with a noise of pain. Eiland sank down to his knees at Charon’s side. The warding hand rose again and Eiland held out the skein to Charon’s fingers, let him take it and fumble the spout to his mouth.

  Charon drank greedily, finally letting the skein drop into his lap. He breathed. “Why am I naked?”

  “I needed to see your sores. Plus, you started vomiting.” The skin around Charon’s jaw was swollen again, though it seemed lower than what Eiland remembered.

  He walked closer on his knees. Charon’s head turned slightly, tracking his movement, though his eyes stayed shut. “I’m going to touch your throat,” Eiland told him, reaching out slowly. His fingers brushed Charon’s neck. Charon twitched away.

  “Hurts,” he croaked. There was more swelling around his armpits, and his groin. Definitely a malady of the blood. Eiland mentally shifted hesfast flowers to the top of his medicinal list.

  Charon shuddered all over. “Are you cold?” Eiland asked.

  “Yes. What are you doing?” he said quickly as Eiland started digging through his pack.

  “I’m getting you a blanket.” Shaking out the thick wool blanket, Eiland swung it around Charon, who relaxed minutely and wound the fingers of one hand in the cloth.

  Eiland eyed him. “Are you going to start twitching again? Can you tell?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I can tell. I won’t.”

  “What about vomiting?”

  “I don’t know. Why are you being kind to me?”

  Eiland set his jaw and tugged Charon’s wrists away from his chest. “Hold still. I need to listen to your heart.”

  Bending his head, he pressed one ear against Charon’s chest again. The heart underneath beat strong and steady, but his breath still rattled. His skin felt even more dry and cracked than before: the tips of his fingers had many tiny splits, some of which were bleeding.

  “You should rest. Sleep’s better than anything I can do for you right now.” Charon squinted at him and Eiland rolled his eyes. “Or you can stay awake watching my every move, and make yourself sicker. Do as you want.”

  Turning away, Eiland dumped the contents of his herb satchel on the ground. What he wouldn’t give for some lomus seed right now…but he had the essentials. Anything else he’d have to engineer on his own.

  Papa had always told Marcus that healing was as much a natural skill as anything learned or gathered from the earth. “One must have a light touch and an open heart; healers meet fear with calm, doubt with certainty,” he’d said, “but above all else you must understand the pain of others as if you felt it yourself. In that way it is not their body you are healing, but your own.”

  Eiland hadn’t really understood what his father meant at the time, but now he found himself measuring bandages by the length of his own arm and squeezing numeria juice into one of the cuts on his hand to test the flower’s freshness. It made sense: he and Eiland were the same age and not so different in size. Perhaps there was a deeper meaning to the thought, but Eiland did not have time to parse philosophy.

  Instead he built up the fire and dumped his skein of water into one of the small cooking pots, setting it to boil. They still had a jar and a half of salve; he set those near the fire to make their contents more pliable if the need arose. Hopefully, though, he could find a way to stop the swelling before it broke the skin.

  Eiland sorted out his supply of hesfast flowers and winced. Not nearly enough for a proper draught. He’d have to hope for clearer skies tomorrow: the small, pale blooms were hard to spot even in the best light.

  Glancing over, Eiland felt strangely gratified to see that Charon had lain back down and dropped back into exhausted sleep. The skin under his eyes was violet and fragile. Eiland instinctively quieted his movements as he gathered up his supplies and set to work.

  By the time the pot was bubbling, night had fallen in earnest. The air was thick and still quite warm. A fine mist rose from the grass and so did the firebugs: in all directions they took to the air, flickering across the fields around them. Eiland paused in his work to watch them dance.

  When he glanced over again the firelight reflected in Charon’s eyes. “Hullo,” Eiland said, wondering how long Charon had been watching him. “Are you warm enough?”

  “Mmm,” Charon mumbled. “What’s’a?”

  “A sleeping draught. I can’t speak for the taste but it’ll help you breathe, and it’ll help with the pain.”

  Pulling his sleeves down to cover his hands again, Eiland gripped the pot and stood. He got two steps over to Charon, though, before the firelight shone on something else and Eiland stopped short.

  His father’s knife rested, drawn from its sheath, on top of Charon’s pack. Its sharp, shining surface glinted in the darknes
s.

  Eiland stared at the knife then at Charon, who had twisted his head at a slightly awkward angle to watch Eiland. The blanket had slid down off his shoulder; the cut of his collarbone seemed frighteningly breakable.

  One corner of Charon’s mouth curved upward bitterly, but he said nothing. Eiland hadn’t even heard him get the knife out.

  Eventually the pot grew too warm to handle, and Eiland took that last step to Charon’s side, kneeling to set it on the ground.

  Charon watched him approach but didn’t move.

  Eiland sat back on his heels and tucked his hands uncomfortably between his thighs, pushing his shoulders upward. “How did you—”

  Charon licked his cracked lips. “I went through your pack the night after we left Summerton.”

  Eiland startled. “You had it all this time?”

  Charon made a harsh, raspy sound. Eiland leaned over him, worried, before he recognized it as laughter. “Crickets, you’re such a dunce,” Charon said, but his voice was soft instead of mocking. “Did you really not notice?”

  “Well. No.” Eiland rubbed his hands over his thighs and stole a glance at the knife before looking away again quickly. “It’s my father’s. He gave it to me, that’s the only reason I have it. I was never going to use it.”

  “Never?” Disbelief turning Charon’s voice as brittle as his smile.

  “No.” But he’d considered it, hadn’t he? The thought made Eiland sick.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t—” Eiland flailed his hands around a little, at a loss to explain. “I couldn’t do something like that. Can you please sit up and drink this?”

  With pained effort and Eiland’s help, Charon struggled into a sitting position. Eiland shuffled closer, propping Charon up with his own shoulder, and lifted the pot to his mouth.

  Charon slurped a few mouthfuls, pausing at regular intervals to breathe. It sounded like his nose was entirely plugged up.

  “Come on.” Eiland poked Charon’s side when he started to flag. “Drink it all.”

  “M’trying. Bleah.” Charon coughed a little, making a face.

  Eiland put a hand on his back to steady him. Charon’s skin was cool against his palm. Charon resumed drinking and something about the way his head was bowed low in front of Eiland sent an unexpected prickle of heat across Eiland’s skin.

  He blinked in confusion. He’d been tending to Charon all day; there was no reason for him to suddenly be more aware of where they were touching and how Eiland had his knees spread on either side of Charon’s hip, holding Charon in the V of his body.

  Eiland cleared his throat and started to babble. “I’m only sorry I don’t have any honey. Papa always used to mix his medicines with honey, to make it go down easier. With grownups he’d just make them hold their nose but whenever it was children he’d take a little jar of honey in his satchel, and give them spoonfuls.

  “Sometimes he wouldn’t even tell them it was medicine. Once, when I was nine summers or so, I came down with the sleeping sickness. They didn’t tell me, though, because they didn’t want to frighten me, so I only knew that I got to stay inside while all the other children worked the fields, and Papa kept giving me treats. Except they weren’t treats, they were sugared cream laced with medicine, but they tasted so good. Can you imagine that? I could have died, but I didn’t even know that I was sick! I wish they had told me—I know they only meant well, and I did get better, but what if I had died? That would have been a terrible surprise. I would have been the one dying and I wouldn’t have known until it was too late. What?” he asked when he noticed that Charon had stopped drinking and was staring at him.

  “Nothing.” One corner of Charon’s mouth twitched. “I’m just wondering how you managed to be silent for so long.”

  Eiland tensed, remembering his reasons for being silent.

  “Wait.” Charon grabbed Eiland’s wrist, tight. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. You can—keep talking. If you want. Tell me more about your family.”

  His expression was intent, almost hungry. With his matted hair and dirty skin, he looked half-feral—nothing like the cold, commanding person who had taken Eiland from his home a month ago; but Eiland thought of that day all the same.

  He said in a flat voice, “Well, you met them. What did you think of them?”

  Charon flinched, letting go of Eiland’s arm. “Don’t do that. Can you not—don’t do that. Not right now.”

  Eiland scowled and turned back towards the fire. “I’m glad you can set it aside so easily. You’ll have to excuse some of the rest of us, we’ve been kidnapped and are having a harder time moving on from that.”

  Charon said almost plaintively, “Have I actually hurt you? Have I—done anything to you? I’ve never Cursed anyone, Eiland. Ever. I’m not saying I never would, but I never have. I swear I haven’t.”

  “I believe you,” Eiland murmured, because he did. If he was truly honest with himself, he’d always known that.

  “Well—then—” Charon raked his hair back from his face with his fingers, making a face at its hopelessly tangled state, and gestured helplessly. “Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  Eiland put the pot down hard on the ground. “For what? What should it count for? What do you even want from me, Charon?”

  “I want—” Charon licked his lips, staring at Eiland. His shoulders hitched up, tight and curved inward. “I want—”

  He cut himself off again, looking away. Eiland found himself holding his breath.

  “I want you to come with me, because of the salve,” Charon finally got out, a little choked. “I need you to show someone else how to make it. I have a friend. I need you to show him, too.”

  Eiland’s lungs deflated slowly. “Another Cursed?” he asked after a moment.

  “Yes,” Charon said with a note of defiance; but he didn’t look at Eiland. “He lives near the mountains. I’m not going to tell you where. But I owe him a debt and I need you to help me pay it. That’s all.”

  Eiland sat staring into the fire. There was a tight sensation in his chest that might be anger, or maybe hurt. He’d never liked being lied to: he knew himself an easy target. His parents had always chided him for trusting too easily, but it wasn’t as though he didn’t know why Charon was lying.

  It lay coiled between them like a sleeping serpent and Eiland found that he didn’t want to wake it, either.

  He wondered what Charon would do if he said no. He thought of their confrontation yesterday, and he instinctively knew his mother was safe. The knowledge didn’t free him, though: Papa might have had no problem turning his back on his oath when it came to the Cursed, but though he had never taken the vows himself, Eiland couldn’t.

  It felt wrong to think ill of his own father, but with the dregs of a sleeping draught resting against his knee and the deadly knife winking at him from across the fire, Eiland couldn’t help seeing the hypocrisy.

  Healers were healers, always, and rather unexpectedly Eiland had found himself a healer.

  “All right,” he said.

  “All right?”

  “Yes,” Eiland answered, stronger. “If there’s someone who needs my help, I’ll go.”

  “Okay. Good.” But Charon’s expression stayed lost and unhappy. After a moment he eased himself down, wincing, to lie curled on the ground again.

  Their fire was dying. Eiland fed it a few more half-dry branches; they sputtered unwillingly. He wondered, if Charon had a friend somewhere, why he was out here in the wilderness all alone. If Eiland cared—if Charon was his friend, he certainly wouldn’t let him be so alone.

  He imagined what would be happening right now if Eiland wasn’t here. Charon would probably still be laying in the rain with a bloody mouth, shuddering through terrible pain with no help, no shelter, not even a word of comfort.

  He wondered how many times Charon had done exactly that.

  Eiland put down the stick he’d been using to idly poke at the fire and wiped his
palms on his trousers before climbing to his feet. Crossing to Charon’s pack, he picked up the knife, sheathed it, and shoved it into his own travel pack, twitching the flaps closed.

  Firelight reflected again in the darkness around Charon’s face. It was the only sign that he remained awake; he didn’t move or speak when Eiland sat down next to his head.

  Taking a deep breath, Eiland spread his hands over his crossed legs and said, “When I was seven summers old, I found a cave down by the river. It was so small I had to crawl to get inside, but I liked to pretend that it was my castle, and I was its king…”

  Chapter Nine

  Eiland woke up because a small child was poking him with a stick.

  “Hnn?” he grunted, peering blearily up at the little girl.

  She grinned; half of her front teeth were missing. She couldn’t have been more than a summer old. Her hair looked like a haystack and her dress seemed to have been stitched together from cloth of every possible color. She poked him with the stick again.

  Before Eiland could react, a short, round-faced woman appeared over the little girl’s shoulder and scooped her up. Eiland blinked at the maple leaves high above then walked himself up on his arms to a sitting position.

  A ring of ten adults and an indeterminate number of children stood around the base of the maple tree, encircling Eiland and Charon. They wore the same kind of gaudy, mismatched clothes as the girl with the stick and spoke to each other in a language Eiland did not understand.

  Beside Eiland, Charon had sat up as well. He watched the group of people standing over them with a blank expression. Without turning his head he told Eiland, “Don’t move.”

  “What?” But even as he spoke Eiland realized that all of the strangers had knives in their hands. The little girl who’d been poking Eiland tumbled around the feet of the round-cheeked woman, whose belly swelled with another child. The woman held a machete in one hand.

  “They’re bandits,” Charon supplied. The blanket had slid down to his waist, and his chest was bare. The swelling in his neck and armpits had gone down but he still looked pale. “I think. I can’t understand them too well but from what I can, she’s arguing against cutting our throats and taking everything we have.”