by S D Smith
“Master Mills?” Heather asked, glancing back and forth between his face and Doctor Hendow. Hendow shook his head, though he worked on, and Heather worked on beside him, using her good arm to swab and stitch. She was experienced enough to know that this wound was unlikely to heal. He was hurt beyond their ability to help.
They worked hard for a long time, Heather’s hopes fading further each moment. Finally, their work was done, and they made Master Mills as comfortable as possible. “He is past our aid,” Doctor Hendow said as, frowning, he went to speak to the miner’s family.
Heather sagged into her chair back in her treatment room, a deep sadness settling on her. After indulging the welling despair for a little while, she stood and washed her hands, cleaned her instruments, and sorted out her satchel. She had a habit of making all ready in her bag after each patient encounter, whenever she had time. And she seemed to now. The flow of patients had slowed, and she was glad of the reorganizing task to distract her from the welling woe inside.
She took everything out of her bag and topped up the ointments and oils she used most often—or those she could with the clinic’s meager stores—then added more bandages and placed her now clean instruments back inside.
While Heather’s hands were busy with the tasks she had grown so accustomed to performing, her mind waded through the pain. She hated all the ways the world was broken, from the tyranny of Morbin down to a wounded rabbit in the District Four clinic. Down to Master Mills. She longed so desperately for the Mended Wood, for a mending that would remake the breaking world in a wonderful way. But was that just a dream? If it was, she would go on dreaming and doing all she could to see its awakening.
She found the battered purse holding the Green Ember and drew it out, holding the emerald gem to her heart. She traced her finger over the pattern etched on the back of the gem. Putting the gem away, she took out the small bottle of Aunt Jone’s tonic and glanced back at the door. “I’ve done it!” Aunt Jone had said. But the eccentric old doe had always said that sort of thing. Heather frowned. Then she shrugged, walked down the hall, and entered the surgery. Master Mills lay there, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. His eyes were closed. No one else was there.
Heather uncorked the tonic and, after tasting a drop on her tongue, peeled back his bandages and poured a drop into the ghastly wound. After replacing the bandages, she gently pulled open his mouth and let fall another drop inside. Then she closed her eyes and laid her hands tenderly on Master Mills’ head. She heard footsteps in the hallway, turned to see the clerk staring at her through the open door, and hurried back to her room.
Once back, she finished preparing her satchel for more work. In a little while, Doctor Hendow came in.
“Doctor Heather,” Hendow said in his professorial monotone, “I am sorry to say that I think we will lose Master Mills very soon. But we did all we could, and I was very grateful for your assistance today. I have never seen such excellent patient care in all my years as a practitioner of the healing arts. May I congratulate you on your technique and welcome you most enthusiastically,” all this with a straight, unchanged expression, “to our clinic. I am so profoundly happy to have you as a colleague.”
“I thank you, Doctor,” she said, smiling wearily. “I had good training. I look forward to serving with you.”
“As supervisor here,” he went on, his face expressionless and his tone flat, “I say you are most welcome, and we are delighted to have you here. Now go home.” With that, he turned, walked back into his surgery, and called for the next patient.
Heather frowned and shook her head. What an odd rabbit he is. Then, taking a quick inventory of her energy, she realized she was profoundly exhausted. Her hands were shaking.
There were few patients left waiting now. She realized with some satisfaction that she had helped, but she felt keenly the failure to save that haunted her every time she worked at healing. She could save seventy but would remember most vividly the one or two for whom she could do nothing.
“I want to save them all,” she whispered as she made her way home. “Why can’t I save them all?”
Chapter Seventeen
RETURN TO THE LEPERS’ DISTRICT
Heather woke from a long, refreshing afternoon nap. It was evening now, and she padded down into the main room to find supper waiting. Seared potatoes, with a loaf of potato bread. She passed on the potato tea, preferring water, which she drank in long gulps.
“I’m glad you slept,” Father said, beaming at her.
“Yes,” Mother agreed, “but we heard about your day at the clinic. We’re so proud of you for facing such hard things with boldness.”
“That’s who you raised me to be,” she said. “That’s who we are. How was your day?”
“As good as can be expected,” Mother answered. “Morbin’s palace is in some disarray, which is always good to see. I didn’t hear much, sadly. I did see the wolf called Captain Blenk, who has taken the place of the white wolf and is in command of the ground forces. They have an alliance that was forged with Garlackson, and they renew it when the old leader is killed. To think, it was our Picket who ended Redeye Garlackson! But I saw Blenk renew the promise, and I heard them discussing plans in council. They seemed determined to destroy Cloud Mountain.”
“That would be a very sad thing,” Heather said, “but our friends will be gone by now; I’m sure of that.”
“I hope so,” Mother said. “I don’t like to think of Picket there.”
“Nor I,” Father agreed.
“They’re gone, I’m sure,” Heather repeated, thinking of all her friends and how they might fare in an evacuation. What would happen to Mrs. Weaver and the others who were older? She hoped they were all right.
“Gritch is in a panic—I’m sorry, Heather. Gritch is the appointed head of the household slaves in Morbin’s Lair. He hurried me off to Stitcher’s for the afternoon to help with the sewing.”
“And who is Stitcher?” Heather asked.
“He’s a lovely old rabbit with many gifts, among them making and repairing clothes.”
“That’s probably a much less trying way to make stitches than I’m used to,” Heather said.
“I suppose it is,” Mother replied.
“How about that cake?” Father asked.
“If you’re up for it,” she said, looking carefully at Heather.
“Oh, Mother,” Heather said, “we must live every day as if it’s our last. And we never know who we will lose. But those of us left behind must endure. We must…bear the cake.”
“Bear it into our bellies,” Father added, nodding vigorously.
Mother smirked and headed for the kitchen. “Potato cake, coming right up!”
* * *
A few hours later, after darkness had settled over the slave city of Akolan, Father and Heather crept out into the night. They wore dark clothing, talked softly, and took side streets and lanes.
“If we get stopped,” Father said, “say you were called out for medical care to the L.D.”
“Yes, Father,” Heather said, her heart beating fast. “But where are we really going?”
“The L.D.,” he said. “Follow me.”
“The Lepers’ District?” Heather asked. “Father, I don’t understand. I barely escaped from there.”
“Hurry now,” Father said, darting forward. She followed behind, her sense of dread growing.
They skirted the edge of District Four, as far as possible away from the wall and its several watchtowers. When they reached an alley covered in shadow, Father held up a hand.
“We’ll wait here a moment,” he said. “It’s good to avoid predictable patterns of movement. I never go the same way and never pause at the same points. They are brutal, these Wrongtreaders, but their overreliance on regulation and central power makes it possible to thwart them. At least in small ways.”
“Have you ever been tempted to join them?” Heather asked, nodding toward the wall and the Sixth District inside.
“For an easier life and an end to all the turmoil of resisting?”
“No,” he whispered. “They do worse than even you know, Heather,” he said. “Rabbits are forbidden to speak of it, but they force all our little ones into their school, which is nothing less than administration propaganda, and they turn them into their informers.”
“That’s vile,” Heather said, “and must sicken you as someone who values schooling so much.”
“It does, Heather. I still dream of the academy I always intended to begin at First Warren. But we are far from First Warren, and I haven’t told you everything about what they’re doing here.” He scowled, and the edge of his lip curled. “It gets much worse. About five percent of the students disappear each year, and their parents are told they have been taken to another prison camp to serve out their time. But before they go, I’ve learned, they give these younglings a special diet, a better diet, with fruits and varied vegetables, for a week or so leading up to their disappearance.” Father nodded and moved on. Heather ducked behind a low wall, then followed Father up the stone stairway on the side of a house at the edge of the District Four. Father lay down on the roof and gazed into the moonlit night, all around but with particular attention to the L.D. “We wait here a bit,” he said, slumping down low.
She imitated him, getting as comfortable as possible with her injured arm and other pains. She did feel much better than she had earlier. The nap must have set her up amazingly well.
“What does the diet have to do with where they go?” she asked.
“They don’t go anywhere, Heather,” he said with real anger. “They are fattening them up.”
“No!” Heather gasped.
“They end on Morbin’s table, as food for his dark rites,” he said, disgust twisting his mouth. Heather flushed and felt a sickening lurch in her belly. She was ready to vomit, but she swallowed hard and shook her head. He went on. “I’m sorry to tell you this, and there’s much more I could say. But I told you so you would know this and know it well. I never think of betraying the hope of the Mended Wood, where such things shall not be so. I never have, and I never will. I’d rather die than take sides with those whose cause is so drenched in innocent blood. And I’m heartbroken that any rabbit can turn a blind eye to it.”
“But what can we do?” she asked.
“Come and see,” he said, peering over the edge. Then he hurried down the steps and into the street. He motioned for her to follow and took off across the large gap between districts.
He ran into the Lepers’ District. She followed.
The reek met them. Mother had said that faint whiffs of the tremendous stench sometimes wafted as far as the middle of District Four. As they jogged into the streets of the Lepers’ District, right into the ramshackle huddle of hovels, Heather gagged at the horrific odor. Father fought off a throaty cough and pulled up his red neckerchief to cover his mouth and nose. Heather raised the red scarf at her neck to her mouth.
It helped a little.
She witnessed again the tents pitched indifferently all around, the battered shacks all askew and caked in ash. She marveled at such a significant contrast to the neat rows in the other areas of Akolan. And something about it felt wrong. She shook her head, inwardly scolding herself for her overly intense observation. What’s wrong is that these rabbits are ravaged by disease, and they need compassion.
She followed Father farther in, weaving between canvas homes and fighting the urge to retch at the disturbingly awful smell. No one would willingly come here unless they absolutely had to. That was plain. She held her satchel tight and inwardly recited her vows as a medic. Her mind filled with the memory of groaning noises and her heart raced.
“We’re almost there,” Father said, waving her forward toward the edge of the camp, where the shacks and tents were pitched awkwardly against the high pit wall. She nodded and hurried behind him, kicking up the grimy grey remnants of the falling ash.
Footsteps sounded behind her. Heather stopped and twisted to see several rabbits staggering through the street, one carrying a bright torch. Their faces were pinched in pain, and they groaned loudly as they stamped toward her. Mottled fur showed through ragged holes in their threadbare clothing. The torchbearer spotted Heather and pointed a shaking finger at her, and they all began stamping her way. Alarmed, she stepped back, tripping over a tent peg. She leapt up and turned around and around, scanning the streets. The mottled band of rabbits surged forward, but she could not find her father.
“Father!” she shouted. Her terrified cry echoed off the pit wall and resounded in the putrid air above the Lepers’ District.
Chapter Eighteen
NO WAY
Picket stood by Helmer as the gathered leaders of Harbone Citadel tried to talk his master out of his plan to enter First Warren. When it was clear that they wouldn’t be able to move him from his determined course, they gave up, breaking into several different murmuring conversations.
“If you are thus determined,” Lord Hewson said, holding up his hands for silence, “then I call for us to rest this night and to each reappear in the morning with ideas on how we might aid our allies in this…this adventure.”
Helmer nodded, and Picket could see that he was grateful.
“Till the morning, then,” Captain Redthaw said with a bow before turning to retire.
“I’m sure you need sleep, friends,” Lord Hewson said. “May I show you to your quarters?”
“Thank you,” Helmer replied. Picket followed the two old friends as they walked down the narrow tunnels of Harbone, reminiscing as they went about their childhood together and the mischief they got into as young soldiers.
“Remember when you and Airen dropped rotten pumpkins on those sailors in their dress uniforms,” Lord Hewson asked, smiling, “just as all the pretty does arrived?”
Airen. Helmer’s twin sister. Picket wanted to hear more about her, but at the same time it made him think of Heather, and his heart was sad.
“The pumpkins were your idea!” Helmer answered. “But when the deed was done, you were off courting Lynn.”
“We had a great view of the whole thing from the pavilion, as did most of the officers. How we laughed! I think she was impressed that I knew the rabbits who’d done it.”
“Her father was in the army, wasn’t he?”
“He was,” Hewson said, “so she loved seeing the sailors get blitzed like that.”
“I didn’t want to go through with it,” Helmer said. “I was concerned about my rank and getting disciplined. But Airen, she wouldn’t hear of it. She called me every form of coward you could think of and teased me mercilessly until I agreed to join in.”
“Oh, Airen,” Hewson said, smiling, “what a corker! I’ve never met her like again.”
“Nor I,” Helmer said. They walked on in silence, a heaviness descending on them.
Picket spoke up. “Were the sailors and soldiers at odds?” he asked.
“In those days,” Lord Hewson answered, “we could afford a petty rivalry. The truth is, they had dominated the water for so long that they had little to do, so we poked at them for their ceremony and for missing out on many of the battles.”
“But they were a brave bunch, that’s for sure,” Helmer added. “When we did need them, like in Kingston and Two Rivers, they showed their mettle.”
“Indeed,” Hewson said, unlocking a door and pushing it open. “Here we are, bucks. Pull the bell if you need anything at all. We have servants on call through the night.”
“Fancy,” Helmer said. “You know we’re both lowborn, right?”
“I couldn’t help but notice,” Hewson said with mock severity.
“I’ve almost been afraid to ask,” Helmer said, his face turning earnest. “But Lynn, Lady Hewson, is she okay?”
“She has been unwell for some time, but she is alive,” Hewson said. “We have seven children, Helmer. Four are here, and the other three are at Blackstone.”
“You must be very proud of
them.”
“I am. They are good children, all. The oldest, Gantlin, is an officer here, and the next two, Gwen and Perry, are medics. The youngest buck, whom I would particularly like you to meet, is in school here.”
“I would love to meet him,” Helmer said.
“Then I’ll bring young Helmer by tomorrow,” Hewson said. Helmer looked down. “I’ll take my leave,” Hewson went on. “I shall see you both in the morning. Captain Picket, it’s an honor to have you here.”
“Thank you, Lord Hewson,” Picket said, bowing neatly. “I am so grateful for your generosity and kind welcome.”
“Helmer,” Lord Hewson, said, but he didn’t continue. The two bucks embraced, and Picket looked down, eyes shining. He touched his black scarf, thought of Jo and Cole, and hoped they and the princess were all right.
* * *
After breakfast the next day, at which young Helmer met his namesake, another council was called. This one had a more martial air than the previous day’s deliberation. Uniforms, most with some sign of rank and the Harbone arms, dominated the room. Picket liked the Harbone arms, the white tree with the seven yellow stars. He liked these rabbits. Emma had brought back a good report of them from her time there during the blue fever outbreak, and Picket had so far found that all she said was true.
Lord Hewson called the room to order. “Well, bucks,” he said, “you have been briefed on the objective. We must get these two into First Warren. I know. You will say it cannot be done, and that is what most, if not all, of us believe. But we must find a way. Lord Captain Helmer?”
“Thank you, Lord Hewson,” Helmer said, rising while his friend sat down. “We are grateful for your offer to help, even though you dislike the decision. We have ideas for how we might enter First Warren, but we need your operational intelligence. We know the city is surrounded by the reinforced old wall, that the gates are all closed and the ground around the wall is charred and burnt and cut back for some great distance—the Black Gap, as you call it—making it impossible to cross without being seen by the raptor sentinels.”