It made tentative lunges at me, each time headed off by my spear. The right side of its face was bleeding badly; Hermes had wounded its eye. The beast faltered whenever it stepped on its right foreleg. I circled around to that side, thrusting repeatedly with the spear. I caught its face; it flinched back; I pressed my advantage, stabbing strongly, cutting its face badly. The monster was on the defense now. I ran at it, full tilt, leaping to my left as I drew near. It did not turn in time to get away from my spear descending deep into its ribs. Spasms racked its form. It twitched and squirmed. It made no effort to lunge at me when I pulled out my spear. I thrust again, lower this time. I stabbed again until at last the animal moved no more.
I hurried to Hermes’ side. He was bleeding badly from the leg and torso. He panted and grimaced, grasping his side. He murmured something I could barely hear, much less understand. I pulled back his tunic to examine. Tooth marks punctured his torso. The leg looked even worse. The skin was shredded in places, and the holes of the bites revealed muscle. I pulled off my own tunic and wrapped it around his leg as a makeshift bandage, tying it with my bowstring. For his ribs I tied his tunic about him with a bit of twine we carried to repair traps. I gave him some water, then I examined myself. I was bleeding from some nasty scrapes on my forearms and my legs, but they weren’t serious. They stung a lot, but that’s all.
“Can you walk?” I asked. His scowl suggested he at least partly understood me. “No?” I helped him to his feet good foot, but he cried out. He would not be walking. I pulled his arm around my shoulder to half-carry him, but that just tugged at his ribs, drawing another outcry. I turned and squatted down, pulling his arms around me, picking him up piggy-back, eliciting another painful cry. I started to set him down.
“Go, go,” he muttered between clenched teeth. I hoisted him up and began walking back. I paused when we came back to the trail, uncertain which way to go. He waved a trembling hand to the left. With his continued directions I lumbered slowly back toward the cottage. Despite his short stature and slim build, Hermes was not particularly light. Maybe it was Wayworld’s gravity, maybe it was my own exhaustion. I didn’t dare set him down, as tired as I was, because I really wasn’t sure whether I could lift him again. He groaned and wept. I felt terrible for him. I trudged on, following his weakly gestured directions. I stumbled against a tree and nearly fell.
Finally the glen appeared ahead and the cottage came into view. The glen seemed so large, the cottage so far away. I was so hungry. By the time I finished dragging my feet one at a time toward the cottage and across the threshold, I nearly dropped Hermes onto his bed.
I turned and looked at him. His face was pale under his tanned complexion, his eyes dazed. He breathed shallowly. His skin was clammy. Blood caked his tunic and pants. I gave him water. He said, “Danyabad,” or something like that.
I set about tending his wounds. I wet a cloth and dabbed away the blood on his torso and leg. I knew I should disinfect the wounds, but wasn’t sure what to use. I opted for the fermented juice of the berries I’d picked earlier, but Hermes waved a feeble hand at it, then pointed to a clay jug on a shelf. I opened this and was immediately hit by a strong smell of alcohol—apparently Hermes knew someone with a still. He hissed sharply as I applied it the wounds and surrounding area. His eyes widened and he gasped in pain. I gave him a moment to relax, then continued.
When done with that I retrieved some of the ointments he’d made and applied them to some of the more superficial wounds. Some of the teeth marks gaped enough that I didn’t want to put mashed up plants on them. I bandaged his injuries with some clean cloth, gave him more to drink, and helped him settle down on the cot to rest. He lay down and was soon mercifully asleep.
I used the time to clean myself off, the blood dried and sticky by now. My own injuries were minor; I cleaned them. I set about preparing some stew, munching on fruit as I did so. Hermes stirred frequently, and woke a few times; I gave him water and he’d settle back down. When the stew was done I ate, and then next time he woke I helped him sit up and eat some stew. He sat up for a while and stared out the window.
I went about tending the garden and other chores that kept me near the cottage so that I could check on Hermes regularly. I thought about the mass of meat and hide going to waste out in the woods, but I couldn’t be sure I’d be able to find the beast, and was certain I wouldn’t be able to get it back by myself. Shame.
By evening Hermes looked much better. His color had improved his skin wasn’t clammy, and his appetite better. He was obviously still in pain, moving stiffly and grimacing all the while. I changed his bandages and washed the soiled ones. Then I made simple crutches for Hermes. He was sleeping when I finished. I left the lamp dimly burning when I went to bed.
Hermes was awake when I woke. I helped him with the crutches to go out and relieve himself. He moved slowly and painfully, but he was looking better than the day before. I helped him back to cottage and made sure he got breakfast. Then I tended trails as quickly as possible.
Finding the furrygator proved to be easier than I had expected: we left quite a trail of crushed feather ferns and upturned lichen. Scavengers had already taken a good chunk of the creature, but the tail and the left haunch were largely unscathed, so I took them. I decided not to bother taking the hide, as it was in pretty bad shape, what with the battle wounds and damage from scavengers. I headed back to the cottage to find Hermes sleeping again. He woke when I entered. I started roasting the haunch and chopped up the tail for stew and jerky. Interesting note: nothing on Wayworld tasted like chicken.
Now I was hunter, gatherer, farmer, cook, and nurse. I felt nervous taking care of Hermes, knowing nothing about medicine. I wasn’t even sure I remembered CPR. A little minor first aid, sure, but Hermes’ injuries really ought to have stitches. Soup and bandages were about all I could do for him.
I went about afternoon chores, starting with gardening. Most of our gourds were gone. They hadn’t been when I left that morning. I had assumed our trap thief and garden thief were the same. I was still sure that the furrygator had demolished our traps and stolen our game, but now I knew it wasn’t what was taking food from the garden.
Hermes hobbled out of the cottage on his crutches about the time I made this discovery. I showed him the gourd plants and tried to pantomime that they were missing. He scowled at the revelation. Or maybe he scowled because he didn’t understand me. Or maybe because he just scowled most of the time. I scoured the woods near the glen for signs of our thief, but I was no tracker. There were trails aplenty, so there were plenty of places to access the clearing without leaving a trace that I could see. Hermes was trying to garden when I returned. I shooed him back to his cot and continued about my business.
The next morning, Hermes’ injuries were showing signs of infection. His wounded calf was swollen and the skin around the wounds was growing red and seeping fluid. His chest looked better than the leg, but it, too, was reddening. He hissed when I cleaned them with alcohol. I applied fresh bandages and went about the day.
The traps on the trails looked undisturbed. No new broken ones. I made the trip short to get back quickly—I wanted to keep a close eye on Hermes. He ate little that day. My own injuries looked a little infected, but not enough to be overly worrisome.
The following morning I found red streaks reaching up Hermes’ calf, nearly to his knee. I was sure that was a bad thing. He felt warm. I was scared. I was already doing everything I knew to do. Hermes was offering no suggestions. I stayed close to the cottage and checked on him frequently. He sat up and lay down, but that was the extent of his activity. He barely ate. He slept restlessly.
By the time evening fell, he was very hot, yet shivering. His wounds were festering and oozing pus and blood. I never really slept that night, but stayed up watching him under the lamplight, dozing moments at a time. He muttered unintelligibly in his sleep. He woke up the next morning with a racking cough. Even a layman could tell Hermes was getting much worse.
<
br /> Helplessness and despair gnawed at me. My sole surviving lifeline might be dying. Then came shame: I was worried about me. I wasn’t the one wounded and sick; Hermes was. Class act, Diggs. Nice.
I was scared. Once again, my safety net was gone. But I was also scared of watching another human being waste away and suffer in front of me. I’d never faced a death or serious illness. And here was a man who, though he didn’t really want to, had taken me into his home, fed and clothed me, taught me. And I could do so little to help him.
Could I go get help? No, I didn’t even know the way out of here. Hermes’ best hope was for me to stay with him and play amateur medic. Cursing myself silently for my own narcissism, I returned to my morning tasks, which took much more time alone.
Hermes only got worse. Soon he wasn’t eating and was barely drinking. I had to keep him draped in wet cloths to combat his fever. I barely left the cottage, neglecting the traps and hunting—only going to the garden to pick a little food. I cleansed his wounds the best I could and washed the dressings. The sores were puckered, red, and oozing.
Three or four days in, I ran behind on washing the makeshift bandages. I thought Keeping him bandaged isn’t helping much. Maybe his wounds need to air out? So I left him uncovered as I washed the dressings. He wasn’t shivering, so I left the blankets off, as well. The cottage had grown stuffy and warm, so I left the door open and propped open the windows. I knew I could be making a huge mistake, but I was pretty sure he was dying anyway. I washed the dressing and hung them to dry, tended the garden, and ate outside by the door, leaning up against the wall.
I woke suddenly from an unplanned nap. For days I had barely slept. I was exhausted. I was shocked to see how far the sun had moved—I had been asleep for hours. I picked myself up and went inside to check on my patient.
Hermes was asleep. I found, to my horror, Wayworld bugs and flies crawling about on his wounds. Sick to my stomach by the sight, I brushed them away rapidly. Kicking myself and cursing my negligence, I retrieved the driest of the bandages and immediately covered him back up. When next he roused, I managed to get him to drink some water.
That night and into the next morning, Hermes was more awake, but in obvious pain. I cast about for some means of relieving his distress. The best I could think of was the berry wine. I hesitated, knowing that alcohol was a blood thinner. As wounded as he was, I couldn’t imagine him bleeding a lot would be a good idea. But I was desperate. He was dying. The least I could do was ease his pain. The wine wasn’t all that strong. I hesitated, but chose to add a little of the cleansing alcohol, silently hoping it wasn’t something deadly. But again, he was dying anyway.
He drank with only a little encouragement. I kept offering him more until he refused and slipped back into sleep. Exhausted, I slept too. I woke mid-morning to find Hermes faintly awake, his face showing his pain. I gave him more of the souped-up wine. He drank and fell back to slumber.
When next I changed his dressings, I saw movement. Opening the window shutters for more light, I looked closely to see hundreds of tiny crawling mites in his wounds. I shuddered, fighting to keep down the bile that rose to my throat. Hastily I washed the sores until I saw no more, then applied fresh bandages. No wonder Hermes was in pain! He was being eaten by thousands of little monsters.
I doubled my checks on his bandages. Each time I found the tiny bugs. Each time I washed them out. Each time there were more. Either there were eggs still hatching, or the wounds went deeper than I realized and the tiny brutes were hiding. I opted for a deeper cleansing.
I found a water or wine skin, filled it with water, and, holding the mouth near the wounds, squirted water into each wound with as much pressure as I could muster. I had the foresight to tuck a leather apron underneath him to keep the water off his mattress. I needed to refill the skin several times to get them all. I repeated this process each time I changed his dressings. Each time I found fewer of the mites.
I repeated this another day. I was keeping Hermes as drunk as he’d let me. By the time the mites were gone, his wounds looked almost fresh, were it not for the obvious reddening of the skin nearby. I did my best to keep him clean and comfortable, trying not to think about what I would do after he died.
Miraculously, though, he improved. His fever faded. His wounds stopped festering. He slept better. After several more days, he was sitting up briefly and eating soup. He would quickly fall back to sleep, and interacted little while awake, but he was mending. He relished the fortified berry wine. He still showed signs of pain, but the wine helped him through it, mostly by helping him sleep.
At lunch one day he ate enough soup that he vomited all over himself and his bed. Disgusted, I cleaned him up and helped him over to the bench while I cleaned his cot. He sat, half awake and drained by the ordeal. When I was done, I helped him back over to the bed. He looked green and feeble. He fell asleep shivering slightly. He talked in his half-sleep. “You no supposed to be here,” he muttered, mumbling in quiet, heavily-accented, but still comprehensible English.
“What did you say?” I half-shouted.
“Not supposed to be here,” he said sleepily. “Nobody supposed to be here… only me… my home… my prison. Not yours. Only… me…” His voice faded off as he drifted to sleep.
Hermes. Spoke. English! Broken, perhaps. Not a native speaker. But curse him, he spoke English. All this time and he could speak to me, but refused to? Lying to me with his silence and his confused looks. Not answering the hundreds of questions I had about who he was, how he had come here, when he had come here. Letting me guess at his foreign snippets of language and vague gestures! I wasn’t forgetting about all he had taught me, but how much more he could have taught me if only he had spoken English to me?
“Blast you, Hermes!” I shouted. “You speak English! You lying sack of —” But Hermes was very soundly asleep. Either that, or he did a good job of faking it. I glared at him for a long time. What was his game? Why pretend to not understand me? Angrily I gathered my meager belongings together, flinging them hastily into my knapsack. “Fine!” I shouted as I passed the door. “I’m not supposed to be here? Now I’m gone. You can rot!” I walked in long, swift strides across the glen and out the path that, as far as I could tell, had led me here to start with.
Chapter 8: The Departure
I walked an hour, perhaps, fuming and cursing the entire way, past the trails I had memorized over the last several weeks. I’d go back to Ami, to the tupa. I had always been welcome there. They’d said as much. I was one of them. My only pakren wanted nothing to do with me, but the tupa had treated me like family. They valued my handiwork, unskilled as it was. They hailed me as a great hunter.
To Hermes, I was nothing but a burden and a nuisance. So much so, that he’d spent nearly a month shutting me out with the pretense of incomprehension, refusing to look me in the face. Letting me bandage his wounds and clean his vomit, all the while he—
All the while, he was still sick and badly wounded. He was making improvement, but he would die without help. My steps faltered.
Fine! He could die on his own if he hated my presence that much! I started walking again.
Then I stopped. Hermes had taken me in and taught me to take care of myself. He didn’t have to.
He chose to.
Against his own obvious desires, he had given me food, shelter, and most of all, knowledge. I wouldn’t have died without him, because I could have stayed with the tupa. But they didn’t know how to feed a human. Hermes did. As old as he was, and living in the wilderness on an alien world, Hermes was strong and healthy. He had learned to provide for himself, and was teaching me. With the tupa, I might or might not have lived a long and healthy life. I might have suffered nutritional deficiencies, or been inadvertently poisoned.
But mostly, I couldn’t walk away and let another hren suffer and die alone. I leaned my head against a blue skinned tree that smelled like ginger, breathing slowly, trying to let my anger dissipate. When at last I’
d calmed down, I turned about face and started walking back. An hour later, I realized I was lost.
The game trails in the woods twisted about randomly. Many were poorly defined. Plus, I had not paid attention to the route, since my sole concern was leaving, and had not planned to return. Now I was staring at a narrow gully that I knew I hadn’t passed before. I traveled down the gully, hoping it would take me to the brook that ran near Hermes’ cottage. It did not. At least, not in the time I traveled it before giving up and moving back in a different direction. Rain set in and was coming down hard. The woods were growing dark as nightfall approached. Eventually I found my way back to familiar paths that led back to the clearing.
I heard Hermes before I saw him. He was shouting as I approached the cottage. I heard another voice, low and guttural. Readying my spear, I dashed into the door. A dark shape flung something against the wall. I heard Hermes cry out again. I couldn’t tell what was attacking the hermit, but it was big. I thrust my spear into the shadow and it was answered by an enraged bellow. The beast turned to me and rushed forward, massive paws pummeling me and knocking me back outside. As it pursued me, I saw it was no beast, but a shokhung.
He snorted as he leapt at me. I brought up my spear, hitting the center of his chest but sliding off bone. He growled and leapt again, lowering his head and ramming my torso with the bony ridge that ran down the center, leaving me winded and struggling to keep my feet.
I had no time to catch my breath—the shokhung was on me at once, clawing and punching. He grabbed me around the chest and squeezed, his ape-like strength pushing out what little was left of my breath. But he didn’t shake me or throw me, just glared at me and squeezed, growling all the while.
Diggory's World (Wayworld Book 1) Page 14