by Trish Mercer
The area near the top of the peak was a favorite camping spot. Not only did it afford an impressive view of the surrounding peaks and valleys, it was relatively flat, had soft, sandy patches that were ideal for sleeping on, and was surrounded by pine trees with the densest and most spherical pinecones in the area.
Perfect for war.
Perrin had forgotten about that as they approached the end of their hiking for the afternoon, too lost in thought to consider an ambush. But the first sharp cone that hit him in the shoulder immediately reminded him where he was and what he’d just walked into.
“Attack!”
Perrin barely had time to shield his face and dive behind a bush as the barrage of pinecones beat upon his body. Fortunately, he wasn’t the main target.
Most of the boys were aiming for Young Pere. They remembered how two years ago he’d run ahead on the Lower Middle trail, collected a bag full of pinecones, climbed up a tree, and pelted each one of them as they ran for cover underneath him.
The tree had gotten its revenge, however. That was the second time Young Pere slipped and impaled himself on a branch. The year before, on the Idumean trail, three lumberjacks had to cut down a tree to rescue Young Pere when a branch punctured his thigh and refused to let go.
The stick that stabbed Young Pere two years ago had only entered into his bicep, and Peto was confident they didn’t need to recruit assistance to cut his son free this time. Peto had climbed a nearby tree and hacked off the offending branch with his axe to free Young Pere, while Boskos Zenos waited below, his new doctor’s bag open and ready.
So today Perrin was suffering because of Young Pere’s previous pinecone attack, but not nearly as much as his grandson. Perrin took cover under a wide, thick shrub and scrabbled along the ground to a small opening in the foliage where a few stray pinecones fell. He pocketed those, then watched from the concealing safety of the branches and laughed quietly at the scene.
Young Pere frantically searched for shelter from the bombardment of more than twenty men and boys pelting him with pinecones, dodging this way and that, and always into a new assault.
It wasn’t as if they could help it, Perrin decided long ago. Nearly every young man there had an ancestor who had been a soldier. Although Salem was a peaceful land, it was in the boys’ blood to engage in warfare, at least occasionally. Plotting, fighting, shouting, pursuing—they just had to get it out of their systems sometimes.
Still flailing to defend himself from the attack, Young Pere ran over to his cousin Lek, snatched Fennic from his arms, and held him in front of him like a shield.
“Oh, unfair!” Lek cried. “Holding a child hostage? That’s really low, Young Pere!”
“Drop them!” Young Pere yelled, displaying his young cousin who was clutching a pinecone. “Drop them all, or you have to take Fennic to use the tree!”
No one threw another cone, worried about hitting the little boy, but Fennic wasn’t defenseless. With his pinecone in his chubby fist, he smacked Young Pere on the cheek and grinned when Young Pere cried, “Ow!”
“Good move, Fennic!” Perrin called from under the bush. “Attack your captor. Always fight back.”
“All right, all right!” Shem walked through the crowd of men and boys holding pinecones they were itching to throw. A few took shots at Young Pere’s unshielded legs.
“Enough now!” Shem said loudly, keeping his volume to just this side of a yell. “We’re here on a mission of peace, not war. Remember? All cones, DOWN!”
A variety of groans and disappointed complaining accompanied the dropping of the weapons.
“This is not a fair fight,” Shem said, walking among all of them, patting their shirt and trousers’ pockets to find stowed cones that he pulled out and dropped on the ground.
“First we set up camp,” he pointed at the three men designated to set up the shelters for the younger boys, “and get dinner ready,” he pointed at four more who were in charge of setting up the evening meal and fishing for trout, “and gather enough firewood for the night,” he pointed to several boys, “and then you may choose sides for teams and engage in a fair and even tossing of pinecones gently at each other. Understood?”
The boys offered up mischievously cautious smiles to the stern guide.
“Remember,” Shem said, “all of you promised your mothers you’d behave yourselves!”
The pinecone that smacked Shem squarely on the chest seemed to fly out of nowhere. A variety of snorts and guffaws accompanied it.
Shem looked around and glared. “All right! Who threw that?”
“My guess would be someone,” said Peto, who had just arrived with little Cori and Wes Hifadhi, “who didn’t promise his mother he’d behave himself.”
Deck held up his empty hands in innocence.
“PERRIN!” Shem bellowed.
Everyone began to laugh.
“Where are you?!”
Another pinecone sailed but narrowly missed its target only because Shem dodged out of the way.
“Still have some quick reflexes, Sergeant Major. Good to see.”
Shem peered at the thick shrub where the voice came from. “Remember, General, I know where you’re sleeping tonight.”
As their family laughed, Shem sauntered over to the shrubs. “Get out of there, Perrin, so we can do some fishing.”
Perrin chuckled. “Gladly. I might need some help, though. My back is, um, a little stiff.”
“Serves you right.” Shem rubbed his chest where the pinecone hit him.
Several of the younger children giggled and ran over to see where Puggah was hiding, and Cephas and Boskos came over to lend a hand.
“How’d you get in there, anyway?” Shem asked.
Perrin grunted as he started to back out. “I dove under here when the attack began. Then I realized that if I crawled forward a few paces I had a clear shot with the pinecones that fell in here. But then you went and called for a truce and ruined all the fun.”
Shem chuckled as Perrin’s boots began to emerge. “Just when I thought you were finally ready to be a grown-up.”
“Puggah, want us to pull you out?” Cephas asked.
“Not yet. I’m caught on something. Hold on, let me just—Augh!” he cried out.
And then Perrin thought, Oh. So this is how it will go . . .
---
Young Pere put Fennic down when he heard his grandfather cry out, and smirked. About time someone else got hurt around here.
Cephas and Shem, by the bush, were laughing at it along with smaller boys who had run over there.
“Puggah’s stuck!” called a little voice.
Young Pere rubbed his hands in anticipation and ambled over.
“I can get the hatchet, Father,” Peto suggested with a grin as he came over to peer into the bush. “I sharpened it right before the trip, just in case.”
But Boskos narrowed his eyes. “All right, Uncle Perrin?”
“Actually, no,” came his voice, sounding strained. “Something’s stabbed me. In my thigh. I can’t get it out.”
Boskos squatted to look into the bush. “Is it puncturing your flesh?”
“Yes,” his voice came urgently. “I need help!”
The smiles fell from the men’s faces. General Shin wasn’t known to ever plead for assistance. Young Pere’s eyebrows rose, and Peto ran to get the hatchet from the pack horse.
“Puggah,” Cephas said, now down on his hands and knees. “I see the branch.”
“Where?” Boskos asked, leaning over. “Ah, I see it too. Papa, pull back the bush right in front of you.”
Shem yanked, and in his growing worry pulled half the bush out of the ground.
Perrin cried out in pain.
“Perrin, I’m sorry!” Shem said, panicked.
“No, no, no,” he mumbled from under the leaves. “You didn’t do it. I tried to pull my leg out and instead my arm got caught on some pokey thing.” He chuckled weakly. “I think I know how Young Pere feels some days.�
�
Young Pere scoffed at that. “Not enough bruising yet, Puggah. You’ll need to fall off a short cliff before you’ll know how I feel.”
Shem evaluated the fragments of the bush he tore from the ground. “I don’t see any thorns or prickles on this.”
“Well there’s something tangled in here with something sharp growing on it!” Perrin insisted.
“Out of the way,” Peto called as he made his way through the crowd of men and boys now clustering around the bush. “Shem, where’s the best place to cut?”
Deck, analyzing the bush from the opposite side, indicated to a point near Shem. “If you cut that part off first, you’ll have a better view of the stick that’s impaling Young Pere. I mean, Old Pere. I mean, Perrin.” Over the scattered chuckling, Deck added, “Sorry, Perrin.”
“No, you’re not, Deckett,” said the bush feebly.
Peto went over next to Shem, saw his father’s face through the leaves, and waved to him. “We’ll get you out of here soon.”
Peto carefully hacked at the bush, and after three whacks the men could pull a large section of it free. Peto moved in closer and, with a few more carefully placed hits, another segment of the bush was removed, almost completely exposing Perrin.
The jagged stick imbedded in his leg appeared to be a branch of a coarse vine, an inch in diameter. His light colored trousers around the stick had turned red with blood, and the stain was growing.
Several of the boys stepped back quickly, “ewww”-ing when they saw the injury.
Cambo Briter and Lek Zenos herded the younger boys over to Bubba Briter, who had already taken Boskos’s son Toli way from the action to gather pinecones. Sam and Con Cadby quickly joined them with their sons Ensio and Cori, and a few more boys with weaker stomachs followed.
Peto squatted by his father. “Yep, that’s not the friendliest stick I’ve ever seen, but we’ll get you free of it.” He pulled out his knife and started to cut at the thick vine that was rooted to the ground.
“Stop, stop!” Young Pere cried out as Perrin flinched. “You’re wiggling the stick in his leg when you do that, Papa. Here,” he stepped over next to his father. “Let me hold the stick still so it doesn’t aggravate the wound, then start cutting.”
Perrin patted Young Pere’s hand gratefully as Young Pere wrapped his hands around the stick just above where it entered Perrin’s thigh.
Boskos smiled. “Good observation. Want to be my apprentice?”
Young Pere shook his head. “Not observation, just experience.”
Perrin kept his hand over Young Pere’s as he tightened his grip on the stick.
“Cut right there, Papa.” Young Pere nodded to a point higher.
“Ready?” Peto asked.
Both Young Pere and Perrin nodded.
With quick cuts, Peto severed the stick several inches above Young Pere’s hand.
The remaining boys erupted in cheers.
Boskos snatched up his bag and pointed to a flat area. “Get him over to the sandy section. Atlee, find Puggah a blanket to sit on.”
Barnos Shin and Holling Briter reached down to help up Perrin.
“No, no, no. I can do it,” he said, trying to stand up. But he winced in pain, and his grandsons caught each of his arms to pull him up.
“Let them help you, Uncle Perrin,” Boskos said. “No need to put more pressure on the leg than necessary.”
Barnos and Holling brought a hobbling Perrin over to where Atlee Briter had laid out the blanket, and they gently put him down.
Perrin moaned as he lay. “I thought Shem assigned some people to start dinner and get camp established. I really don’t need an audience.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Deck said, not eager to watch what was about to come. He pointed to several of the boys and reissued orders. Soon most of Perrin’s audience was gone, but they still tried to peek over to see what was happening.
Only Peto, Shem, and Young Pere remained to watch Boskos work. As Boskos kneeled by his bag, Shem kneeled by Perrin’s head.
“It’s not that bad,” Perrin said, reaching for Shem’s arm. “You don’t need to ask for a blessing.”
Shem raised an eyebrow at him. “The Creator has plenty to give out. It’s not as if we’re bothering Him. This is what He’s waiting for. To bless us.”
Boskos looked expectantly at Perrin. “I work best when it’s not just me working. The Creator is the real healer. I just get to take the credit.”
Perrin nodded. “Fine, Shem. Keep it short. He’s a busy Being.”
Shem chuckled and closed his eyes. “Dear Creator, will You please help my son to help my brother to complete Your work? Amen.” Shem opened his eyes and looked to Perrin for approval.
Perrin nodded. “See? Doesn’t have to be long.”
Boskos chuckled and pulled out supplies from his bag. Observing the remaining stick jutting out from Perrin’s thigh, he said, “Exactly how’d you do that, Uncle Perrin? You couldn’t have exerted a lot of force, yet that stick seems to be in rather deep.”
“I don’t know,” Perrin groaned resignedly. “I felt something pricking my leg, but I thought it’d give way if I just pushed past it.”
Boskos peered at it. “An impact like that suggests someone fell on it from a substantial height. Perhaps it’s very sharp—”
“Just get it out and you can stare it all you want, Bos,” Shem said nervously.
Young Pere glanced at Uncle Shem, who was chewing on a fingernail.
King of Salem.
Young Pere couldn’t see it.
“I will, Papa,” Boskos assured Shem. “I’m just waiting for Zaddick to bring me a jug of water. See, there he is. Uncle Perrin, I’ll need to cut the trousers to get to it.”
“Fine, Bos,” he said, flopping an arm over his eyes. “I’ve got extra in my pack.”
As Boskos trimmed the cloth away with a small pair of scissors, Young Pere folded his arms. “Kind of strange being on this side of the action. I’m usually on the ground, or just waking up in the middle of something, or a few hours later. I never get this view.”
Peto shot him a look.
“I’m glad I can entertain you, Young Pere,” said Perrin. “Isn’t there something else you should be doing?”
Young Pere shook his head. “Nope. Not on firewood or food or camp detail until tomorrow. I’m still ‘resting,’ if you recall your orders.”
Peto gave Young Pere another sharp look.
Young Pere held up his hands in apology.
Boskos eyed the exposed stick. “I think I can get it out without cutting any more flesh. Good thing I brought the large bottle of numbing agent.” He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a brown bottle.
“Love that stuff,” Young Pere nodded in approval.
“No!” Perrin said firmly. “I don’t want it. Just yank it, Bos.”
“Uncle Perrin, you’re being unreasonable,” Boskos said. “All it does is numb the area around the wound. I just dab it around, wait a few minutes, and—”
“Shem!” said Perrin forcefully, “Explain to your son I do not want it.”
Shem sent a long-suffering look to his son.
Boskos exhaled in frustration. “Fine, Uncle Perrin. Papa, go get a plank and beat him—”
“Hey!” Perrin said, trying to sit up. “It’s not that bad!”
Boskos gave him a cutting glare. “Think not? We’ll see how you feel in a couple of minutes. This may not just ‘yank’ out, Uncle Perrin. There are a couple of barbs near the base. If there are more in your flesh, I may have to work it, and that will not be pleasant. Do you really want your great-grandsons hearing you in pain? Or are you going to think about their needs and allow me to give you enough local sedation to numb it just enough to allow you to deal effectively with the pain you will still feel? This isn’t the army, Uncle Perrin. This is a family outing with little boys who have long memories.”
Shem raised his eyebrows at his son’s audacity and sent him a smi
le of admiration. He shifted his gaze to Perrin.
Perrin sighed, nodded briefly to Boskos, and lay back down.
Shem grinned at his son. Not many men could force General Shin to see their way.
Boskos took the jug of water and poured some over the wound.
Perrin writhed in unexpected agony. “I thought you were going to numb it?!”
Young Pere sniggered while Boskos smiled slyly. “First I have to cleanse the area. Wasn’t pleasant, was it? But it’ll be much better in a few minutes,” he promised. He dabbed the brown substance on the flesh around the entry point of the stick.
“Can’t you give him some of the green stuff?” Peto asked, a permanent wince on his face.
“My other favorite bottle,” Young Pere commented. “Pain Tea.”
“Wouldn’t help much at this point,” Boskos told them. “The Pain Tea works mostly on internal injuries. I’ll give him some later, though, to help relax him.”
“Who came up with that name, anyway?” Young Pere asked. “Sounds like it gives you pain, not takes it away.”
Boskos chuckled. “We brew it when someone is in pain. I don’t know who named it one hundred years ago, but the name’s stuck.”
“Don’t want it anyway,” Perrin grumbled.
Young Pere squatted next to Boskos as he inspected the wound. “Think it will need stitching? Or will resin hold it?”
Boskos turned to his cousin. “What do you think?”
Young Pere tipped his head in consideration. “If it’s a straight slice, the resin works fine. But if it’s jagged, or there’s too much hole to cover, you’re best doing stitches.”
Boskos smiled. “Sure you don’t want to study medicine?”
“Too much stuff to memorize. I’m not that good at remembering all the different ailments, herbs, formulas—”
“It’s hard for everyone, Young Pere. But there are ways to memorize it all. We work together to help each other succeed. Seriously, if you—”
Shem cleared his throat loudly. “Perhaps you could discuss this another time?”
Boskos looked up at his father. “I’m just waiting for the numbing agent to work, Papa.”
“Actually,” Young Pere said, “it works pretty fast. The more wounded flesh that’s exposed, the faster it absorbs into the exposed nerves. I never felt the need for waiting a full five minutes.”
“Really? Interesting,” Boskos said. “Uncle Perrin, how does it feel?”
“I’m trying not to think about it,” Perrin answered, his arm over his eyes again.
Boskos poked the flesh around the stick.
Perrin didn’t flinch.
Boskos nodded at Young Pere who smugly smiled in an I told you so manner.
“All right, Uncle Perrin. Some patients like me to tell them everything I’m doing. Others just want me to work without knowing what’s going on. What kind of patient are you?”
“Not a very patient one, Boskos. Just get it out and don’t waste time talking!”
“As you wish,” and he started to pull experimentally on the stick. The barbs did go beneath the flesh, and he silently pointed out that fact to Young Pere, who was watching closely, but also kept an eye on his father and uncle.
Peto had that frown on his face which always meant he was growing nauseated, and turned away for a moment to exchange a quick, shuddering look with Deck.
Perrin winced in discomfort at the tugging of Boskos, but the pain didn’t seem too bad.
Shem’s eyes darted anxiously from Perrin, to his son’s efforts, and back again.
Peto reached over and patted Shem on the shoulder, and he jumped in surprise.
“It’ll be all right,” Peto whispered. “Father’s in excellent hands.”
Shem smiled briefly at Peto’s assessment and went back to watching his son Boskos slowly twist and pull on the stick.
Young Pere noticed something. “Right there, Bos,” he said as he huddled next to his cousin. “Another barb, catching on that ragged edge.”
“Yes, very good. Perhaps a twist in this direction . . . yes, now another barb. Twist the opposite direction . . .”
“That’s it, Bos. You’ve got it. Now twist in the other direction again.”
“That’s one nasty stick.”
Perrin shifted uncomfortably, trying not to listen to them.
“One more twist, Bos.”
“I see it, I see it. Those have got to be the most unusual barbs I’ve ever seen. Go in easily, but refuse to come back out. I’m saving this stick to show Dr. Toon. Uncle Peto, ever see such a vine before in your studies?”
“I specialized in trees and terrain,” Peto said, his voice a touch shaky, “not pokey things.”
“I never realized thorns could be such a menace,” Boskos said, sliding the bloodied stick out a little more and twisting again.
Young Pere rocked back onto his heels, thinking about “thorns” and “menace.” Here it was, many years later and many miles from Edge, and Perrin Shin was still being tormented by thorns. The whole idea sat strangely on Young Pere, like a complex puzzle he wanted to solve, but was almost too frightened to approach. Almost.
Peto glanced over at him, trying to figure out why his son reacted so unusually.
Young Pere didn’t meet his gaze.
“And . . . it’s out!” Boskos announced, holding up the red-stained evidence. “Congratulations, Uncle Perrin. You’ve produced a bloody, thorny stick! The tip is just what I suspected: pointed and sharp. Perfectly angled to penetrate. Must have gone in about two inches. Well done, pushing right past that.”
Perrin sighed in relief. “I have to admit, Boskos, that ointment actually helped. Good job.”
Boskos smiled as Perrin moved his arm from his eyes. “I’m not finished yet, though. We need to close the wound. It’s split open in a jagged way. Young Pere was right—it’s going to need a few stitches.”
Perrin nodded and put his arm back over his eyes. “Just do it, Bos.”
Boskos studied the wound first.
“At least it’s not bleeding much,” Shem offered.
“I rather wished it did, Papa.” Boskos examined the stick he removed. “Uncle Perrin’s not the first to get caught on this. Right here—animal hairs on the barbs. And this speck of dirt here, see it? And right here, this looks like a little bit of moss.”
Shem crouched and peered at the dirty stick. “So this means . . .?”
“Bleeding would purge the wound of any of these objects still in his leg. If any of it is still in him and I stitch it closed . . .”
Peto held his hand over his mouth. His stamina for the situation was beginning to weaken. “What do you recommend?”
“I need to wash it out some more since it won’t bleed sufficiently. And then, Uncle Perrin, after I stitch it, I hate to say it—I’m going to have to mold you.”
“Oh, you can’t be serious!” Perrin scoffed.
Peto began to chuckle. “Father, I don’t know why you’re so opposed to that.”
Perrin tried to sit up again. “Because it’s so ridiculous!”
But Boskos was already at work, pouring more water over the open wound in an effort to dislodge any dirt that might have remained. “We’ve been bread molding people for over one hundred thirty years. Just because no one in the world you came from understands it . . . It really works, Uncle Perrin. Yes, it seems odd, but somehow it sucks out the infection.”
Young Pere smiled. “And if you get hungry, Puggah, you always know where you can get a bite to eat.”
“Don’t eat it!” Boskos said, alarmed, opening the bottle of numbing agent again. “It could kill you.”
Perrin shook his head in dismay. “See, that’s what I don’t understand. Tell me how a moldy piece of bread that can kill you if you eat it will cure you if you strap it to your wound?”
“I wish I could tell you, Uncle Perrin,” Boskos said, again dabbing the brown liquid around the jagged puncture. “But we’re not sure ou
rselves. It just often works, that’s all we know.”
Perrin lay back down. “It will take weeks to mold some bread. Your mother just baked it yesterday.”
Boskos smiled. “But we’ve been molding several pieces for a few weeks in preparation for this trip.”
“You would,” Perrin chuckled weakly.
“I actually thought I’d be using it on Young Pere, not Old Pere,” said Boskos as he pulled out a needle and thread wrapped in clean, white cotton. “Noria was wondering why I wanted so much cultivated.”
“You must be the only man who’s happy when his wife’s cooking goes moldy,” Perrin murmured.
“She makes it moldy for me. She’s a skilled chemist.”
Shem watched as Boskos squeezed Perrin’s thigh, trying to get it to bleed. “Don’t understand it,” he said. “Perrin was always a great bleeder.”
“Thanks a lot, Shem,” Perrin mumbled.
“It’s the nature of the wound, Papa,” Boskos explained. “Splits like this often don’t gush.”
Peto was beginning to look clammy, and Young Pere was sure he’d be on the ground in a few minutes. Medical talk wasn’t his thing. It was always his mother who sat next to Young Pere holding his hand when the doctors stitched him up or set his broken bones. Mama had a much stronger constitution for these things than Papa, who usually sat outside of the room, waiting anxiously.
Young Pere still remembered when, four years ago, Boskos had come over excitedly to tell them all that he’d passed the entrance exams to study medicine. Peto had made the mistake of telling him that back in Edge he’d considered becoming a doctor . . . for about ten minutes.
Lilla had laughed and laughed about that, much to Peto’s chagrin. “Seriously? You considered being a doctor? When I gave birth to all of you,” Lilla announced to their family, as her husband hid behind his hand in consternation, “your father stayed in bed longer than I did, because he was so woozy from watching me deliver his children!”
Papa had never been able to live that one down.
Young Pere smirked at his father’s graying complexion, then turned to his uncle. “So tell me, Uncle Shem, what kind of a bleeder was Puggah?” With enough details, Peto would be vomiting in the shrubs behind him within minutes.
Shem smiled, oblivious to Young Pere’s plotting to see his father become sick. “There were many slices and nicks over the years. Some in practice, a few in action. Your Puggah was planked at least half a dozen times to stitch those up. Now, I wasn’t there yet to witness the gash the Guarders gave him on his back, but the jagged scar is still there. But I think the best incident was years ago when he was training the cook.”
Perrin groaned, but not because Boskos was dabbing more numbing agent on the edges of his gash.
Peto sat down on a log, looking dizzy. He held his head in his hands and asked, “The cook? I don’t know if I remember that.”
Shem chuckled. “He wasn’t the cook at the time, and you were only a few years old, Peto. He wanted to be a soldier but he was the clumsiest thing I’d ever seen.”
Boskos readied a needle and thick thread.
Young Pere pointed at something on Perrin’s leg and Boskos nodded.
“It wasn’t so much that he was clumsy,” Perrin winced briefly as Boskos began to tug on his skin, “but that he was weak. One of the skinniest things we ever had come in. He barely passed the physical. He didn’t have enough arm strength to steady the sword.”
“I tried, Perrin,” Shem said. “I worked him and fattened him up, but no muscle ever developed on his spindly little arms.”
“So what happened?” Young Pere asked, watching Peto sway slowly back and forth.
Perrin squeezed his eyes shut briefly as Boskos started another stitch.
“I decided to train him one-on-one with the sword,” Perrin said, slightly breathless. “Spent an hour with him every afternoon. After two weeks I thought he might be ready for a little practice in sparring.” He ended with a cringe as Boskos tugged.
“Good thing there were witnesses,” Shem said, frowning at the stitching, “or no one would have believed it was an accident. I saw it. Perrin couldn’t have been easier on him, but the poor boy tried to lunge, tripped on his own feet, and the weight of the sword literally tipped him over. Perrin tried to catch him and got tangled up with him as well. Next thing we know, Perrin’s flat on the ground with the soldier’s sword sticking out of his side! The poor boy was terrified and started crying. ‘I’ve killed Major Shin!’” Shem chuckled at the memory. “He never touched a sword again, if I recall correctly. Kept to the kitchens after that.”
“I think I remember that now,” Peto said, lifting his head. While his color was still off, Young Pere figured he was probably past being sick, since he wasn’t watching the stitching. Maybe next time.
“Weren’t you in bed for a long time, Father?” Peto asked.
“Yes,” Perrin winced again. “Sword went right into my liver.”
“That would cause a lot of bleeding,” Boskos agreed. He nodded to Young Pere in a conspiring manner, and presented him the needle.
Young Pere burst into a grin and knew exactly what to do. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Peto’s mouth drop open in alarm, and Young Pere slid the needle into the ragged flesh.
Perrin didn’t flinch as he mumbled, “Even the slash on my back wasn’t as bad as that sword to my side.”
“Yes, you’d taken a lot of hits over the years,” Shem said, not realizing who of the two young men hovering over Perrin’s thigh was actually working on it. “And you had plenty of stitches, too, but that one was the worst. I had to hide your undershirt so Mahrree wouldn’t see how much blood you’d lost. She was quite upset when she arrived at the fort and saw your condition.”
“How long were you down?” Boskos asked, nodding in approval to Young Pere and motioning for him to do the next stitch. It really was quite simple, nothing to it, just pulling torn flesh together.
“About a week,” Perrin said, oblivious, his eyes shut tightly. “Bos, your father stayed at our house to help take care of me. He even postponed his leave home just so he could stay and help Mahrree. He was about your age at the time. Maybe that’s where you get your doctoring talent.”
Boskos winked at his cousin who completed another stitch and chuckled quietly.
Shem noticed, and recoiled in dismay when he realized it was Young Pere expertly stitching Perrin, under Boskos’s guidance.
Peto was covering his face with both hands, unable to watch.
“I never had the inclination for doctoring, Perrin,” Shem said, wincing in worry. “I just knew there was no way Mahrree was going to tolerate you staying at the fort for a week, and there was also no way she’d be able to move you on her own. You were in agony for several days.”
“I remember. And I don’t know if I ever thanked you enough.”
“Trust me, you did. It was my pleasure to help. But it was hard to watch. You were so miserable. You don’t know how tempted I was to bring you some Pain Tea, but neither the scouts nor I could come up with a convincing story as to where we got it. We couldn’t even slip it into your food or water because it has such a distinctive taste.”
“The one thing I don’t love about it,” Young Pere said as he knotted the stitch he completed.
Shem said, in a faraway tone, “I don’t know why I didn’t realize he would be in a lot of pain as well.”
“Who?” Perrin asked.
Shem scratched his chin. “Uh, I don’t know why I just thought of him, but Lemuel. After the offensive. Even though his internal organs weren’t hit, he did have thirty stitches.”
Boskos let out a low whistle. “A soldier? Where were the stitches?”
“Along the base of his ribs,” Shem gestured on himself.
“Ouch,” Boskos said, pointing to Young Pere where the last stitch should go.
Shem rubbed his chin guiltily. “I wasn’t exactly nice to him. He wasn’t a favorite of mine. H
e was leaning up against me after his procedure and I purposely let him fall to the ground.”
Boskos looked up at his father whom he had only ever known as a gentle, kind man. “Really? That’s so unlike you.”
Perrin, his eyes still squeezed shut, chuckled softly. “Two things you don’t understand, Boskos. First, your father was a great soldier and an effective leader. Coming to Salem made him lose the first attribute but intensified the second. The other thing you don’t understand is that Lemuel Thorne should have died in Moorland!”
Young Pere jerked at the name of Thorne.
His grandfather flinched at Young Pere’s clumsiness.
Boskos took over the needle and finished the stitch.
“I don’t know about that, Perrin,” Shem said quietly as Boskos clipped the thread.
“And if he’d been paying attention to his attacker instead of watching me take out the Guarder behind him, he wouldn’t have been injured either,” Perrin declared. “Thorne was foolish and reckless, and it was up to me to preserve him.”
Young Pere listened intently.
“True, but we had him under enough control, Perrin,” Shem said, not convincingly, though. “Occasionally I wonder if I had been better to him, befriended him—”
Perrin opened his eyes and tried again to sit up, but immediately thought twice about that. “Shem, I don’t know of any man who tried harder than you. He wasn’t interested in being our friend. He was interested in taking over our fort! He was manipulative and wholly out of line, in many, many ways,” he said darkly. “I don’t know how much more of a ‘friend’ you could have been by not killing him when you had the right and opportunity to do it!”
Boskos, Young Pere, and Peto stared at Shem.
Lek, who was passing by, stopped in his tracks and turned to his father.
Shem grew uncomfortable under their stares. “Now’s not the time, Perrin,” he murmured. He nodded to his oldest son in a manner that meant, Move along, and don’t ever ask about this. Lek obediently walked off, likely because he knew his brother Boskos wouldn’t let the matter drop too easily.
“So,” Boskos said casually, rummaging around in his bag, “this sounds like an interesting bit of history we’ve never been privy to.” He pulled out some bandages and another wrapped package. “I think this is a very appropriate time, Papa. You could have killed a man, and didn’t? Sounds like it would be a great story for the congregations to hear about self-mastery and shunning the ways of the world.” He unwrapped part of the package and held up a piece of bread covered in various shades of green.
Young Pere, anxious to hear of Shem’s experience with Thorne, nevertheless sneered in appreciation at the moldy bread.
“Not everything in history is necessary to remember, son,” Shem said through clenched teeth.
But Peto was watching Shem earnestly. “Did it have something to do with Jaytsy?” he whispered.
Shem’s eyes flared in fury.
Boskos, placing the bread on the wound, paused and saw the unexpected look in his father’s eyes. Young Pere noticed that just as quickly as it rose, the anger faded. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Uncle Shem livid before.
“Yes,” he said with such finality that they knew Shem wasn’t going to say anything more about it.
Boskos and Young Pere exchanged intrigued looks before Boskos unwrapped a long bandage and worked the end under Perrin’s leg.
“Shem,” Perrin said, “even if you had made more progress with him, it’s not as if any of that would have mattered after we left.”
Peto nodded in agreement as Shem shrugged.
Boskos finished wrapping. “Uncle Perrin, how does it feel?”
“What, you’re done?”
Boskos grinned. “Completely! Stitched and molded. You’re ready for anything. Except for hiking and long walks. You need to stay off of the leg for a couple of days. Fortunately, I brought a sling that we can rig on two of the horses—”
“No, absolutely not.” Perrin pushed himself upright. “I am not going to be carried.”
Boskos, wiping his hands on a cloth, wasn’t about to back down. “Look, your grandson and I just put in seven stitches—”
Perrin’s eyebrows shot up. “You let Young Pere stitch me?”
“He’s a natural. Did an excellent job.”
Young Pere beamed smugly and wiped off his hands, too.
“And Uncle Perrin, if you go walking around on that, you’ll tear them all out and we’ll have to put in seven more. I might even let some of your other grandchildren have a stab at it.”
Perrin studied his nephew. “You would’ve been a good fort surgeon.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Uncle Perrin,” said Boskos dismissively. “You really need to rest that leg. I’m fairly confident the wound is clean, but there’s no sense in aggravating it. You could ride one of the horses if you prefer. Take turns holding the little boys. I know they love riding with you. You could tell them all kinds of stories instead of racing up the trail. Now, tonight we’ll move you to the fire and you will stay there, understood?” He put his hands on his waist. “If you need anything, we’ll bring it to you. Right?”
“Yes, Dr. Zenos.” But Perrin’s smile had undertones of rebellion.
“Tomorrow morning I’ll take a look at it. Maybe we can take the mold off then. In the meantime, don’t disturb it.”
“Whatever you say.”
Boskos stood up and announced to the family, “He’s stitched up. Now, nobody bother him or jump on his leg or trip over him or challenge him to a race, understand?”
A variety of yeses and laughs acknowledged his warning.
Relf Shin and Cephas Briter walked over to help Perrin up.
“We already prepared a spot by the fire, Puggah. You should be comfortable there for the night. How’s it feel?” Cephas asked.
“It stings, but I’ll survive,” he said as he sat down where some logs had been set up as a seat and support. “Thank you, boys. The real pain will come when we get home. I promised your Muggah I’d be careful. How am I going to explain this to her?”
Chapter 10--“Does it ever hit you, just what we have?”