by Blake, Bruce
“Nothing. Forget it.”
He always expected the Birk fellow’d prove to be trouble.
***
Ailyssa’s chin jerked up off her chest and she grabbed the sides of Juddah’s overalls to keep from sliding out of her seat. The sensation of falling and confusion about her whereabouts startled her, setting her heart beating hard against her ribs. It passed after a moment as she recalled where she was and everything that had happened.
It gave her no relief.
She rested her cheek against her rescuer despite the unpleasant odor emanating from his body; she craved the stability his presence provided even if her nose could only stand it for a brief time.
When Ailyssa leaned back again, her pulse slowing to normal but the knot of fear in her gut still present, she detected a change in the air temperature, a warming on her cheek.
The sun is rising.
Every day of her life she’d awakened with the sunrise, energized by its warm rays, joy flowing through her at seeing its light transforming dew drops into glimmering diamonds. But today, its light was missing from her eyes and its warmth merely marked the coming of another day in a life filled with fear and apprehension, nothing more.
“Can we stop to rest, Juddah?”
The man didn’t answer and Ailyssa thought the clomp of the horse’s hooves may have masked her question.
“Juddah?”
“Keep going.”
The words floated over his shoulder, more grunt than communication. She fell into silence again, the lead ball of dread in her belly expanding, tightening her chest. Did she make the right decision by leaving Jubha Kyna? Leaving her daughter? She grasped Juddah’s overalls tighter, seeking solace from a man with unclear intentions.
They descended a short hill that ended abruptly then rose again. The sudden change in angle jarred their steed’s gait and sent a jolt straight to Ailyssa’s bladder she hadn’t realized was full to the point of bursting. The sensation prompted a squeak in her throat as she clenched the muscles of her lower abdomen.
“Juddah, we must stop.”
“I said no.”
“But I have to make water.”
No response came for the space of three breaths and Ailyssa had conceded she’d have to accept her painful bladder a while longer when Juddah grunted and the horse’s direction changed. A moment later, its gait slowed, then stopped.
“Let go,” he said.
She did as he asked, switching her grip from his overalls to the edge of the saddle. Experience told her to hold on or she might go off the side of the horse with him when he dismounted.
With a creak of saddle leather and a grunt of effort, Juddah did just that. His feet touched the ground, but Ailyssa heard no crunch of stones and dirt, so she guessed he’d pulled them over to the side of the track.
“Wait here,” he said.
His boots swished in grass, the steps carrying him away. If not for the pressure in her belly from the need to empty her bladder, she’d have been fearful at being left alone. Sometimes even fear loses its priority.
Ailyssa squirmed, fingers aching from being hooked around the saddle’s hard edge. The steed shuffled its feet, likely bent its head to nibble grass from the road’s verge. To distract herself from her need, she wondered about the horse’s color, what types of trees stood beside the track. She wondered if Juddah’s eyes portrayed him to be a kind man, as she hoped, or something else, as she feared.
She considered who the fellow from the night before had been.
At first, she imagined him a robber lying in wait to steal from them, but Juddah had told her a wagon blocked the road, and she’d heard the clatter of wheels when the fellow left. It seemed unlikely for a thief to use a wagon for his robberies. But his transportation was the least of her concerns—the two men seemed to recognize each other. During their brief, unfriendly conversation, the man had called Juddah by name, and Juddah had used his, too.
Birk.
Why would someone familiar to Juddah stop them in the middle of the night? Why did—
“Come on.”
Consumed by her thoughts, Ailyssa hadn’t heard him approach, and his words startled her into almost losing control of her water. She faced where the words came from, waiting further instruction. After a hesitation, it came.
“Give me your hand.”
She reached out blindly, resisting the urge to grope for him and make it more difficult for him to grab her. Her hand hung in the open air for a few beats of her heart before his thick, callused fingers swallowed hers. He gave her arm a tug to prompt her off the horse and she slid along the steed’s flank. Juddah caught her by the waist when she landed, keeping her from losing her balance, but let her go right away.
“There’s a spot over here,” he said and laid her hand on his arm.
Ailyssa grasped his shirt sleeve, found it stiff with dirt and grime and almost pulled away but made herself hold on. Now she understood where the unpleasant odor originated.
“This way,” Juddah said, leading her from the horse, its teeth grating as it chewed.
Her feet brushed through long grass, a sensation that had thrilled her so many times in the past. Today, it meant nothing, gave her no pleasure.
“Who was the man who stopped us last night?”
Juddah didn’t answer right away.
“No one. A highwayman. I frightened him off.”
“But it sounded as though you knew him.”
“I didn’t,” he blurted.
Ailyssa opened her mouth to inquire further, but stopped herself. She didn’t know what his intentions were—this man who had just lied to her—but she couldn’t bear the thought of being left to wander the woods alone again if she enraged him. As the Goddess taught, often prudence and forethought go best before boldness.
“Here’s a spot for you to do your business.”
Wind rustled through leaves overhead and Juddah pulled his arm from her grip. She waited what she estimated enough time for him to remove himself from the vicinity and give her privacy, her ears straining to listen for him moving away amongst the whispering foliage. Satisfied she’d given him enough opportunity, she hiked up the hem of her smock and squatted.
Her water flowed without prompting or encouragement, relief washing through her body and prickling the hairs on her scalp. She leaned forward, chest pressed against her thighs for balance, and closed her eyes, waiting for the voiding of her bladder to end and forcing herself to be grateful for being rescued.
***
Juddah’d never seen a woman piss before.
He watched, fascinated. Any other woman, he’d have ignored the urge to peek at her while she made her water for fear of being caught. But this woman wasn’t any other woman—she was a blind woman with no ability to catch him peeping. There was no end to the watching he’d be able to do.
As the thing between his legs that’d prompted him to Jubha Kyna grew and strained against the fabric of his overalls, Juddah decided this might be the best addition to his collection yet.
X Stirk—The Healer
Stirk didn’t stop screaming until his voice became too hoarse and his throat too sore to continue. With every breath, every sound, he awaited the cold grip of his mother’s dead fingers on his arm, the ghostly rasp of her voice calling his name. She’d come to take him to whatever came after this life, but he was unwilling to go. Without her, he had little to live for, but at least he lived.
Breath panted in and out of his chest as his lungs struggled to recover. Behind his arms, Stirk’s eyes squeezed shut, waiting for his fate, but nothing happened. No frigid fingers, no deathly caress, no spectral utterance. As Stirk waited, body unknotting itself the more time passed, he came to realize this was why Enin brought him here. He’d never intended to help him, only to get rid of him once and for all.
The thought flared anger in Stirk’s chest. It forced aside some of the fear and he opened his eyes, stared at his forearms for a moment. His gaze found the stu
mp at the end of his arm.
That’s Enin’s fault, too.
Slowly, he lowered his arms, peering over the top and expecting to discover his dead mother leering down on him, waiting to take him to the neverlands. He didn’t believe in them, often thought they were no more than a product of Bieta’s imagination, but he didn’t want to find out.
The courtyard gradually revealed itself, stretching out before him to the squat building with no windows. His headless mother no longer stood between him and the structure; nothing but dirt separated him from what he’d left the horse doctor’s thinking was his destination. As he pushed himself to his feet, he wished to be anywhere else in the Windward Kingdom.
Knees quaking, Stirk started across the courtyard. The solid wall remained behind him, leaving him no choice but to advance to the mysterious building that appeared to follow him no matter where he went. He swallowed hard around a lump in his throat as he crept toward the door, pausing but an arm’s length away.
He waited for a time, not moving, afraid to reach out and touch the plain wood door. Since Enin’d brought him here, nothing was as it seemed. If he touched the handle, he might find himself with a python in his grip instead; worse, it may bring about the return of his mother.
But what else am I to do?
Stirk lifted his arm, extended his shaking hand across the space between him and the door, but hesitated before touching it. He flexed his fingers, struggling to keep them from quaking. The air of his held breath burned in his lungs; he let it out between his lips and drew another, hating the tang of fish it brought to his tongue. He clamped his teeth together tight and prepared to reach the rest of the way to the handle when a touch fell on his shoulder.
It startled Stirk so badly, his feet left the dirt when he jumped. He whirled around, swinging wildly as his hand curled itself into a fist, but it found nothing close enough to strike. The momentum spun him, pulling his strained groin and spilling him to the ground in a puff of dust and dirt. His teeth clacked together, jarring his head and setting stars flashing before his eyes.
“Ohh,” Stirk groaned, rubbed his jaw.
In the instant of pain and disorientation, he forgot the hand on his shoulder that had surprised him and caused his fall. As he rubbed his chin and flexed the muscles in his jaw, the memory returned and he raised his gaze.
The figure before him wasn’t his mother, but the robed silhouette standing in the courtyard was no less unwelcome. Stirk stood, eyes locked on the newcomer, and brushed dirt from his backside.
“Healer,” he said, voice low and filled with as much threat as he could muster as he climbed back to his feet.
The apparition didn’t respond with either word or movement and Stirk wondered if the cowl hid the same being who’d taken his hand. He lifted his stump, waved it in the air between them hoping to make the healer recognize him.
“Enin brought me here,” Stirk said, ashamed at the quake in his voice, noticeable now he strung more than a word or two together. “The horse doctor. He said you might help me.”
“Help you what?”
Stirk thought it the same icy voice he’d heard from the healer who removed his hand.
“Seek revenge.”
“Revenge? For what and upon whom?”
He hesitated, swallowed. “They killed my mother.”
The hood moved as though the head beneath nodded. “I am aware of Bieta’s death.”
So it is him…it.
“Then you know the men who deserve to die.”
“All men deserve to die.”
Even in the healer’s neither male nor female tone, the words spoken made Stirk gulp hard. The space after the hooded figure’s words stretched out too long.
Why did I let Enin bring me here?
“Some men deserve it more than others,” he finally responded, attempting to match the ominous nature of the healer’s statement but failing, even by his own estimation.
“Perhaps. I presume it is the sword master and his companion of whom you speak.”
Stirk nodded. “It is of whom of which I speak.”
A sound like dried leaves rattling in the breeze squeezed out from under the hood, and Stirk realized the healer had laughed. Anger flared in him—he hated people laughing at him, even his mother. The big man pulled his shoulders back and pushed out his chest, but the spark quickly extinguished. The healer stood before him, the creature who’d removed his hand with nothing but a touch. He slouched again.
“And the horse doctor,” the robed man said, seeming not to have noticed the change in Stirk’s attitude.
“Yeah, Enin, too. He gave us up to the one-armed bastard.”
“And how should I help? Should I bring an end to their lives?”
Stirk’s eyes widened. Revenge might be far easier than he expected. But would it be as satisfying if he didn’t kill the horse doctor by wrapping his fingers around the man’s throat? Would it fill the void left by Bieta’s death if he didn’t open the axeman and watch his bowels spill out on the ground? Would it truly be vengeance if he didn’t get to hear the sword master beg for mercy?
Maybe.
“You can do that?”
Another nod beneath the hood. “At great cost.”
Stirk’s hand folded into a tense fist, the phantom fingers where he now possessed nothing but a stump doing the same. The sensation surprised him and he glanced away from the healer and down at the end of his arm. It still ended in smooth, pink flesh. He sighed.
“No, I’ll kill them myself.”
“Do you not want to know what cost?”
Stirk shook his head and raised his stump. “I think I got a pretty good idea.”
“I suppose you do. What help can I be to you, then?”
The big man pursed his lips, lowered his arm. In his desire for vengeance, he’d put little consideration to the help he’d ask for, didn’t know what the healer had the ability to provide. Could he help track them? He supposed, but at what cost? He brushed his hand across the stump at the end of his arm, fingers rubbing the bones of his wrist buried inside.
“Could you…” He hesitated, licked his lips. What if the man wanted his other hand? Without thinking, he snatched it away from the stump and hid it behind his back. “Could you help me find them?”
“Of course.”
Stirk shifted from foot to foot, nervous as a child asking his mother for a taste of her milk when she’d forbidden him from having more. He sucked his upper lip into his mouth and clamped it between his teeth. The healer waited. Stirk cleared his throat.
“But what will it cost me?”
The eerie, sexless voice floated out from beneath the hood again as the figure stood as motionless as if the robe lay upon a stack of rocks positioned in the shape of a man.
“It needn’t cost you much. Not if you offer me others to pay.”
Stirk squinted one eye. “And how will you help?”
“I will lead you to the men you seek.”
“So…you’ll come with me?”
“No.” The dried leaves chuckle again. “I need not attend you.”
“But if you’re here, and I’m somewhere else, how’ll you know when I need your help?”
“I will be aware. Merely ask and I will set you on the path.”
Stirk became aware of sweat in the palm of his hand hidden behind his back. He wiped it on his thigh, unconsciously doing the same with the handless arm. The cloth rubbing against the flesh and the bones pressing into his leg sent a shiver along his spine. Once, his mother had asked the healer’s aid, and look what happened without his permission.
He lifted the stump again, pointed it at the healer.
“How can I trust you? How do I know you won’t do this again?”
“You have the words I speak to assure you.” For the first time, he moved toward Stirk. The big man lowered his arm and tried to step away but found the stone wall at his back. “But perhaps I can give you a token to assuage you.”
Movem
ent beneath the healer’s robe made the fabric flutter and move, then an arm emerged, extended toward Stirk. He kept his eyes on the darkness hidden under the hood for a moment before moving his gaze to the outstretched hand and the object it offered.
Stirk stared at it for a second before understanding what it was. When he did, his mouth fell open and a half-drawn breath caught on his tongue.
My hand.
It was open, the fingers partially curled but relaxed; healthy-looking pink skin, black hair on the back and on the fingers between the knuckles. Stirk looked from the hand offered by the healer to the one still attached to his other arm, then back again. A matched set.
“Make a fist,” the healer said.
Stirk stared at the dark spot under the hood; he’d heard the healer’s words but understanding eluded him. He did nothing but gape.
“Make a fist.”
After a shuddering breath, Stirk lifted his still-attached hand between himself and the healer, bent his fingers toward his palm. The urge to lash out and strike the robed figure tightened the muscles in his arm, but he held back for fear doing so might be the death of him. The phantom hand curled its fingers along with the other; it may as well have been squeezing his heart.
“Look,” the healer urged.
Stirk moved his gaze to the end of his handless arm, hope springing to his chest that the healer had returned it. The hope dissipated when he saw the rounded end of his wrist.
Look at what?
Stirk scowled and raised his eyes, but his gaze caught on the hand the robed figure held out between them. The fingers had curled into a fist.
At first, Stirk refused to believe what he was seeing. He blinked hard, but the fist remained clenched. Slowly, he released the pressure and uncurled his fingers; the severed hand did the same. He wiggled his fingers and the other hand did, too. Stirk’s wide-eyed gaze made its way to the darkened hood.
“How…?”
“Take it,” the healer urged, pushing the hand toward Stirk. “A token of our good faith.”
Hand shaking, Stirk reached out, hesitating the width of two fingers away from taking it. The fingers of the severed hand waggled in a gesture urging him on. He complied, plucking the appendage from the healer’s outstretched palm.