The Still

by David Feintuch

  The place was much larger than Hester’s cottage, and sturdily built. Several rooms. From the look of it, I’d—

  A mighty blow, in the small of my back. Paralyzed, I pitched headlong, gasping for breath. A leering peasant face. A shovel, raised high to strike again. Instead, the churl lowered the spade, seized me, hauled me to the mill.

  “Danar, look what I found!”

  The miller came out, wiping his hands. His eyes lit at the sight of me. “He came to us? What convenience, Jom. Bring him in.”

  “Let me go! I’m—” A fist knocked the breath out of me. They dragged me inside, held me against an oaken post, tied my hands behind it before I recovered from the blows.

  Grinning, Danar whipped out a knife. He flourished the blade under my chin. “Open your mouth!” The point of the blade lurched closer.

  I cried out, twisted my wrists against the rope with desperate strength. All to no avail.

  “Stick out your tongue!” The knife flicked.

  Frantic, I did as he bid. Instantly his fingers snatched my tongue, held it within my mouth. I gagged at the reek of garlic, and the rough fingers half down my throat.

  I tried to bite, but he held my mouth too wide. “You come to our village from a far place, and call me thief? I’ll cut it out at the root!” The knife wavered. I squealed.

  Jom said uneasily, “Danar, take care.”

  “Hear, boy? Any more talk about my stealing coin from that demented old woman and—” The knife sliced at air. I screeched, staring transfixed at the nicked and scarred blade. He laughed with the pleasure of it. “You won’t be telling any more lies, then, or ba, ba, ba, you’ll say. Nothing else!”

  His grip tightened, and he pulled my tongue half out. I screamed from the pain of it.

  Danar paused, as if reflecting. “No, best if I slit your throat, and make an end to it. Jom will throw what’s left of you into the river.”

  Blood from my lacerated wrists made my fingers slippery, but the rope would not give the merest trifle. My tongue frozen in his iron grasp, I begged and pleaded with my eyes.

  Jom said, “Please, Danar. He’ll heed, now. Look, he’s soiled himself.”

  “A coward as well.” Danar let go my tongue, slapped my face so hard my head whipped to the side, and ground against the post. My cheek went numb. “All right, Jom. Let him go, before the reek of him spoils my wheat.”

  A moment later, feet dragging like a rag doll, I felt myself half carried to the porch. A great kick sent me tumbling down the steps to the moist earth below. I lay stunned.

  Behind me, the door slammed.

  Holding my oozing mouth, I looked up into the wide eyes of a toddler. She picked her nose gravely. Footsteps. The mother hurried across the yard, snatched her child, disappeared into the house.

  I tried to stand, couldn’t manage it. Nonetheless, I had to remove myself, lest they come out and find me. I crawled along the path, mewling and whimpering, until a tree barred my way. Using it as a crutch, I staggered to my feet.

  My wrists stung like fire, as did my cheek. I stumbled down the trail, eyes too full to see, blundered at last into Ebon. It took me several tries to mount, but finally, exhausted, feet dangling, I lay over his neck and urged him homeward. The familiar scent of his flesh gave me the only comfort I might have, and I clung to him weeping as if to a nurse.

  After a time Ebon stopped. Dazedly, I looked about, realized we were at the cottage. I slid off his back. “Please, Rustin, be here.” But the supplies were gone, and the wagon. Lord of Nature, let him change his mind, hurry back to me. I lurched into the cottage, fell on my straw.

  No one was in the room, save myself. My tongue was horribly sore; each movement of my mouth brought a new throb of pain. Distracted, miserable, I rolled over onto my back, flung my arm over my eyes.

  After a time I became aware of a dreadful smell. I rolled onto my side. My breeches stuck to my skin. “No. Please, no!” I staggered outside, clawed in my saddlebag, hoping I’d misremembered.

  I hadn’t. There was no change of clothes.

  With a cry of despair I ran across the meadow to the brook, tearing off my shirt. On the bank, I hopped out of my boots, peeled off my fouled breeches, held them by two fingers, too ashamed to look. I plunged them into the stream, almost lost them to the force of the current. Gritting my teeth, I got a better grip, lay on my stomach, dunked them over and again. Then my jerkin, likewise soiled.

  I lay the soaking clothes on the grass, sat back, recoiled from the sensation. My loincloth was the worst of the lot; in a frenzy I tore it off. Naked, I leaned over the bank, held the loincloth in the bubbling water, scrubbed out the mess I’d made.

  I spread out the clothing. For a moment I cupped my hands under my arms, to restore feeling. Then, with nothing but water and my fingers, I did my best to wipe myself clean. When at last I was done, I washed my hand over and over.

  All my clothes lay sopping in the autumn sun. Spent and freezing, I sank naked to the ground, cuddled myself for comfort.

  Nothing had prepared me for such humiliation, such shame. My sword was with Ebon, at the cottage, else, I’d have used it on myself. Perhaps after a time I’d rouse myself and get it; for the moment, it seemed too much trouble.

  A few inches from my nose, a puddle of water had collected in a crevice. I had a raging thirst, but my tongue ached so badly I doubted I could swallow. Still, my hand crept forth. For a moment, it hovered over the still water.

  A bird called to its young. The limbs of the tree that shaded me rustled in the breeze. A beautiful day, a fine day, a lovely day to be alive. Unless you were Rodrigo of Caledon, bungler, fool, coward. Knave.

  My hand lay steady over the puddle. Mother’s visage floated. I meant you to be King, Roddy.

  Ah, Mother. I know the hopes we sifted, as you lay dying. It’s too late for that. Besides ...”

  I pressed my palm close to the water.

  Yes, Roddy?

  I confess: I’m still virgin, and make love to my hand, which no doubt pleases you. But, Mother, I’m not sure I’ve held to the True. Well, as to Elryc, I haven’t, really. So, let’s say there’ll be no Power in my life. It doesn’t matter. Ask you why? Because I’m not fit to be King; I’m unfit even to live.

  My hand trembled, touched the water. As it rippled, my reverie shattered. I lay for a long while. Then, with an effort, I sat.

  “No.” I spoke aloud, to the breeze. “It isn’t so.” I stood, cupped my groin for shyness, looked about, let go myself. “It’s their fault, not mine.” Consider: Rust swore himself to me, led me into this mindless venture, then ran away. Elryc plots against me. It was he who convinced them to flee to Cumber.

  “You hid while we fought for our lives!”

  I whirled, but the stableboy’s voice echoed only in my mind. “Shut thy mouth, lout!”

  Coward of Caledon!

  I covered my ears, but the voice was no longer Genard’s; it was my own.

  I cried, “I’m brave, and steady, and true!”

  I fell to my knees, atop my soaking breeks. The wet on my bare knees smashed the remnants of my illusion. Am I not coward? What, then?

  I put my forearm to my mouth, bit down in rage, let loose only when the toothmarks were deep in my skin.

  Yes, I’d hid under the table, at the first sign of fight. And I’d been petrified when the miller seemed about to slash my tongue. When he made as if to slit my throat I’d been transported beyond terror.

  Was it not understandable that I wanted life more than honor? Could I not live with that knowledge, and esteem the man I was?

  No.

  Not when I, Rodrigo Prince of Caledon, crouched naked and ashamed by a stream, wiping shit from my breeches.

  Life itself wasn’t worth that.

  “I won’t be coward.” It didn’t satisfy; I spoke again to the foaming stream. “I’ll be coward no more. I swear, by all that is holy, by every Rite ever devised by man, that I will have no fear of death—well, if I have fear
, it won’t matter. Do you hear, river? I shall not run from fear again. If it costs my life, let it be so.” My cheeks were wet.

  The river babbled on, uncaring.

  I picked up my soggy clothes, and my boots. “From this day forth, I am no coward.” Clutching my garments, still naked as the day I was born, I picked my way across the stones to the cottage.

  Part II

  Chapter 19

  I GATHERED ARMLOAD after armload of brush and fallen limbs, and built a huge fire in the hearth. I draped my clothes from the mantle, holding them in place with rocks, and sat shivering, feeding sticks to the flames.

  In my eagerness, I let the fire grow too hot. My jerkin began to smoke. I yanked it from the mantle, let go with a curse as it threatened to blister my hand. More cautiously, with a stick, I pulled down my breeches and loincloth. The breeks were still too wet to wear, but the loincloth was merely damp; gratefully, I put it on.

  I propped the breeches farther from the fire, and examined my shirt now that it had cooled. I sighed. It wasn’t my fault that sparks had burned tiny holes through the midriff. What did I know of drying clothes? That wasn’t my role in life.

  It didn’t matter. My silver coin would be ample to buy another shirt. And food. I was now many hours without, and my stomach grew restive. A hen would be best, though I wasn’t quite sure how to pluck and dress a fowl. On our hunts, Griswold or a servant handled such trifles. A fish, on the other hand, I could fry. Well, there was no pan, but I could bake it on rocks. I’d watched Rustin, once. Fish or fowl for my dinner?

  I’d spin my silver pence to decide. I fished in my breeks for the coin purse.

  Nothing.

  Alarmed, I thrust my hand deep. No purse.

  “Lord of Nature, don’t do this!” I jammed my feet into my boots, dashed across the field to the stream.

  I fell on my hands and knees, swept the grass with my fingers, tore at the earth, blackened and broke my fingernails.

  The coin purse was gone. In my haste to wash the filth from my breeches, I’d let the brook have it. I tore off my shirt, plunged my arm deep into the searing cold stream. I could bear it only for a moment; I pulled out my arm, danced away the pain of the frigid water.

  Nonetheless, I gritted my teeth, bent again to the water, tried once more to sift the bottom.

  No coin.

  Desolate, I trudged back to the cottage, dragging my shirt behind.

  I would starve.

  By now my breeches were almost dry. I dressed, welcoming their warmth, not minding the sooty scent they bore. I slumped on the plank floor, stared at the crackling flames.

  Nothing turned out as it should; Lord of Nature himself was against me. Was it because I’d mocked the Rites? Did they reveal arcane truth I was too dense to see?

  My stomach growled. I curled myself before the fire, miserable beyond belief. Day passed into evening. At last, I raised my head.

  Hard as it might be to admit, perhaps some aspect of conducting a man’s life had escaped me. Though despair at his father’s treason had briefly unhinged him that night at the inn, Rustin seemed far more prepared for life’s vicissitudes than I.

  Perhaps I could follow his ways, learn from his manner. Always, until recently, he’d been generous of his time and care. One night he’d even bathed me, soaped my hair. Would he—

  No, I’d driven him away. My words had been justified, but he’d recoiled from them, and from me. Well, maybe I’d overreacted a trifle. Rust should have understood, though.

  So should Hester.

  And Fostrow.

  And Genard.

  Elryc too.

  As the last flames flickered into embers, I sat appalled.

  Was I so evil, that men turned their faces? Nothing else could explain their mass desertion.

  Outside, an owl hooted.

  Hester accused me of being selfish, making their lives a torment. Nonsense, wasn’t it? Or had I really done so? My heart began to sink.

  I’d ruined all. Was there still time to find them, somehow make amends?

  I began to gather my few things, suddenly afraid. What if they’d turned off the Cumber road, took some bypass I knew not? What if Rust spat in my face?

  What if I spent the rest of my days frightened, miserable, alone?

  “Roddy, what have you done?” None answered, but the floor creaked, and my back prickled with alarm. When one was alone, imps and demons gathered near. Mother had always warned me so.

  I tied my saddlebag tight, led Ebon from his grazing, mounted in the fading light. I could ride thrice as fast as the lumbering wagon could roll. With luck I’d find them. What I’d do then, I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t face a night in the cabin.

  “Let’s go, boy.” I patted Ebon’s flank. The night air was cool, and I shivered. There was no help for it. I flicked the reins, and we were off.

  The night was cold, and I reeled with hunger and exhaustion. My tongue still ached, but I spoke—babbled—to myself and Ebon, to stay awake, to stay sane.

  I was an insufferable fool. Where Rust kept his temper, I blazed in fury. Where he stopped to ponder, I charged ahead, thoughtless. I was a hopeless dunce. No wonder they all snickered behind my back; compared to my idiocy, my virginity was but a trifle. Even before we’d left Stryx, I’d raged and ranted at Uncle Mar, like the merest child.

  We climbed to the high point in the miserable road, began the long descent toward Shar’s Cross, and the cutoff to Cumber Gap.

  No wonder they all saw me as a youngsire; I acted the child. But that was no excuse, I was grown, or near so. Wasn’t I?

  Or was I ... Unpalatable as the idea might seem, I seized on it. Did a man’s feeling in my loins necessarily make me a man?

  Bayard and my cousins were married, and considered adult, though no older than I. True, Mar supervised his son’s holdings, gave him to spend, collected his debts. But that was because Uncle Mar was overbearing, not because he saw Bayard as yet a youth.

  A haze of doubt, nonetheless. I sucked at it greedily. If I were boy yet, and not man, I could lay down some smidgen of my burden. It would be pleasant to be cared for, if only for awhile.

  Slipping from the saddle, I jerked myself awake and clung to Ebon’s mane. Be careful, Roddy. But hurry. You want to catch up to them before—

  A bird screamed in the night, and I with him. I lashed Ebon’s flank, and we thundered under the dark canopy. Did a demon lurk, waiting to seize me, eat my liver while I thrashed in helpless agony? Rustin, I’ll say anything, do anything, for the comfort of your arm. Hester—even you. Feed me warm soup, tell me all will be well ...

  “Aiyee!” A smashing blow to my chest. I toppled head over heels off Ebon’s rump, landed with a thud. Ebon galloped on, but the sound of his step slowed.

  I lay still, too terrified to look. What imp of the night had clubbed me from my saddle? Had he fangs, rending teeth? Wicked claws? Trembling, I buried my head under my hands. So much for an end to cowardice.

  No.

  Cowardice was in my acts, not my fears.

  I gritted my teeth, forced, my glance upward. No imp. No prancing demon. Nothing, save the low-hanging branch that had knocked me from my mount.

  Groaning, I got to my feet. “Ebon!” I staggered down the road. “Horse, where are you?” Ten steps, in dark. Fifty. “Cursed beast, foul hateful thing, stop hiding! You evil spawn of a mule and—oh, bless you. Hold still, boy. Wait.” I clutched the pommel, rested my head against Ebon’s side, waited ’til the pounding of my heart slowed.

  Aching from chest to spine, head to toe, I slowly climbed upon my patient stallion. “On, boy. But not so fast.” I clicked my teeth, jerked the reins. We cantered on. I bent my legs, leaned low, rested my head on Ebon’s mane.

  The moon floated high. At first it meant an end to my fears, but eventually the shadows took on renewed menace. Jouncing in the saddle, I squinted at shapes I couldn’t make out, flinched when the breeze caused one of them to move.

  From time to
time I slowed Ebon to a walk, to conserve him. A cold wind pierced my every pore, and was all that kept me awake. Once, when the stream came close to the road, I got down to drink, but managed only a few mouthfuls before dread overcame my thirst. Only Hester knew which part of the forest was benign, and which swallowed adventurers in the night.

  Kicking at the stirrup to remount, I clung to Ebon until a wave of giddiness passed. The ache of my empty stomach merged with my other miseries.

  We cantered on down the road. I grew more fearful with each passing moment. Unless I found Hester’s cart, I’d be begging on the pike, and I suspected the country folk would give me short shrift.

  Why hadn’t I the sense to chase after Rust and Hester the day they’d left? I’d have avoided my humiliation by Danar. Even now, the memory of washing my clothes drove me near tears. “Ebon, why didn’t I realize?”

  Because you’re a young fool, he said in horse talk, through my grip on his mane. A child in man’s garb. An insolent youth.

  I tried constantly to shift my weight; I was saddle sore, and my damp breeches chafed my thighs.

  Riding as if in a dream, an eerie landscape floating past, I clung to Ebon ’til at last the road joined a wider path. Dizzy, I groped for direction.

  Shar’s Cross lay ahead, and past it, the way back to Stryx. Cumber lay at the end of the other fork. I had but to follow the stream, the same one that chuckled past Hester’s cottage.

  Why was I confused? I’d been here but a few scant days past, to sell my sword—Rustin’s sword. I flushed. I’d been so arrogant, and to make it worse I’d spurned his protest.

  We hurried on, into the dawn. After a time I was sure I’d chosen the right road; Shar was nowhere to be seen. But where were my companions? Surely they’d stopped for the night, and in that case I should be upon them. Had they turned off the road; would I miss them entirely?

  It was a chance I couldn’t take, and in any event I was reeling with exhaustion. I walked Ebon awhile, dismounted, walked him some more. Then I loosened his saddle, hobbled him to graze, sank to the ground, my back against a tree. If the cart rumbled past, I’d hear it. If not, I’d ride on, after a while.