by Coral Walker
She stopped chewing. Feeling rather nauseated she swallowed the rest. Her heart throbbed as his pain echoed inside her body. She hated blood, every bit of her wanting to turn away from the sight of it, but she edged closer.
He pulled out the stopper of the bottle, and immediately a strong acrid smell filled the air. Puckering up his face, he poured the liquid over the wound. It hissed as it touched the raw flesh, forming a thin film of smoke above the wound. Teilo’s body was trembling terribly, shaking the branch they were resting on. His hand clenched and unclenched, and the bottle it was holding was about to slip from it. Swiftly she leant over to take it into her hand. As she did so, the wound was right before her eyes. It looked so appalling that she had to force her reluctant eyes back to it.
It needed stitches — she could easily tell, even though her medical knowledge was pathetically small. The thought of the needle poking through the bloodstained skin and flesh, however, was disturbing to her.
But Teilo, once the succession of spasms passed, took up the threaded needle and sucked in a deep breath before setting about sewing up the wound. Not with the slightest look or gesture did he waver or seek her assistance.
Of course, people as stoical as him do things on their own. She sat back watching, and a ripple of pique ran through her.
But he looked troubled, his face distorted from clenching the stick between his teeth — the wound was too wide for him to handle alone with one hand.
She reached out her hands.
At the touch of her hand on the warm swollen skin, an unexpected expression appeared and dominated his otherwise troubled face that was contorted in pain. With the distress gradually banished from his face, rhythmic breathing slowly returned to his chest. It was puzzling, as if he were experiencing something soothing and mystical, triggered by that touch.
Shaking her head to dismiss it as something beyond her comprehension, she was pleased, nevertheless.
The wound was closed and held in place under their three hands. With some trepidation she took over the needle.
She set out with her teeth clenched and her mind riveted, but her hand, shaking out of control, failed her. For a moment, she faltered, feeling inept with the needle in her hand. It wasn’t until she mentally pictured the blood, skin and flesh as nothing more than pieces of plastic, that her nerves settled, and so did her hands. After the first stitch, the rest became easier, although each time the sharp point of the needle poked through the fresh, she felt acutely the same pain at the same spot on her stomach.
The knot was now tied, and the leftover thread was cut. She gazed at the smoke rising as more of the pungent liquid was poured onto the wound, wondering at how quickly she had become so strong-nerved.
Teilo spat out the stick and lifted his head slightly to have a look at the finished work before settling down again, looking pale and exhausted.
She felt the sting of her eyes, and to her dismay she burst into a sob.
“Why are you crying?” asked Teilo, alarmed.
“It was just ... just that I hated doing that ... I thought I was going to kill you,” she sobbed more.
A grin formed on his face. “With the needle?”
The flicker of amusement in his tone annoyed her.
“What would have happened if my hand shook and stabbed you?”
Teilo nodded sympathetically. But Brianna was sure it wasn’t genuine — those boys would never understand.
“This has not been an ordinary day in my life. Watching Jack fight for his life, and then seeing the doctor die right in front of me, and then I have to stitch your wound.”
“The doctor?”
“I don’t know who he was, but he lived in the cottage on top of the cliff.”
“Jolar Badulilo, the local people call him doctor because he treats people who’re ill. Did you say he died in front of you?” His face darkened.
“They tied him up and burned him with his cottage, those men who chased us, and I saw him dying.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks again. She curled up her knees against her chin. She heard the rustling of the branches as Teilo shifted his position and edged towards her, and felt the immediate warmth spreading within her at the touch of his quiet torso. Taking in a last glimpse of the fading blue light, she closed her eyes.
Tomorrow, when she woke, it would be a new day.
22
Darkness
“Wh … wh … where am I?”
“My goodness, you talk,” came the whisper of a woman, hoarse but friendly. “Shush, quiet, or the lady might hear you.”
“It’s ni … ni … ght? S … so da … dar … k …” He slurred his words, and his tongue felt like a marshmallow.
“It’s the patches that cover your eyes,” she chuckled.
Patches?
He puzzled over the mention of patches, seeking a grain of sense, but failed. He reached with his hands. Alien and detached, they felt like a puppet’s hands controlled by strings.
“Am … I … I … t … tied u … p?” he stuttered, feeling the peculiarity of the question.
“No,” came the answer, and then the voice was raised as if the owner of the voice was surprised by the question, “You don’t need to be bound.”
To prove her point, his right hand was grasped, raised, and dropped. “See, you can’t even move your fingers,” the voice said.
He couldn’t even move his fingers — how curious was that?
He searched for a reason. But rummaging in his mind, where everything was shattered and out of place, was onerous.
“Wh … y?” he questioned, shyly, hoping to be enlightened by the female owner of the hoarse whispers.
But she, unaware of his slurred utterance, went on chirping about something else.
“Prince Marcus came to see you today,” she said.
His heart jolted as the name “Marcus” flashed into his consciousness. He ferreted around in his mind, struggling to comprehend. There was nothing but murkiness. He was missing something — he felt it.
Something to do with the name “Marcus”.
“You were asleep, and he said he might come another day,” she said, “Another spoonful?”
His jaw was tugged open, and something was tipped into his mouth.
Funny, tasteless sludge.
“Use your tongue, swallow it,” she suggested, “or you might choke.”
Swallow? As he toyed with his tongue, the thick sludge toiled its way done his throat. Instantly, a spasm of coughing overcame him.
“I told you to use your tongue,” she said, as her hand shoved his head sideways.
“Did he eat?” Another woman’s voice, sweet with a ringing echo.
“Not much, my Lady.”
A few footsteps. A hand lifted one of his feet by the ankle. Promptly he felt a sharp sting as something spiky prodded the sole of his lifted foot. Unprepared, he gave out a moan.
His foot was dropped, and then his head was held by its cheekbones and manoeuvred back to its original position. Before he knew it, the eye patches were stripped off. At once, he was blinded by the sudden brightness.
“Tell me your name.”
He knew the voice, silky and sweet, with an obvious sharp edge. Through his fluttering eyelids, the pale blue cloud slowly took the shape of a face — eyes, nose, lips.
The red, rosy lips.
“J … Ja … ck” he mumbled, shaking.
“Are you sure?” she retorted, lips tightening into a straight line.
Abashed, but nevertheless encouraged, he felt the urge to tell her something. “I … am … Mar … Mar …” he ferreted for the name.
His jaw was tugged open by a brusque hand. Before he could do anything, two large drops of liquid fell straight onto his tongue.
As the touch of bitter-sweetness tingled the tip of his tongue, he felt an overwhelming sense of heaviness. Like being pulled by an invisible hand of lead, he saw himself sinking into the quicksand of sleepiness. He struggled, striving for a las
t glimpse of sense.
I am Marcus’ son.
23
Confide
When Marcus stepped onto the mosaic floor of white and black geometric patterns, the entire palace chamber fell suddenly into silence.
Lord Tulardigo had warned him, hadn’t he? Striding on, Marcus diverted his eyes, not once looking in his direction. It would be a great disappointment for Lord Tulardigo to see him here, at the court that was bubbling with tales of his mystifying return with Princess Zelda, and the perplexing possibility of their having three children.
King Lagos was sitting on his throne high up on the rostrum, eyes half shut as if lost in thought. Sitting next to him was the Queen. Marcus frowned on seeing her. If he was to be slaughtered, he preferred her out of sight. But behind the facade of classic elegance she effortlessly projected, she looked as if she had her own will, as stubborn and heavy as the chair she was sitting on.
The King didn’t move, unaware of his approach.
“Father,” Marcus called, kneeling down.
The fingers of the King’s right hand twitched a little. Bowing, Marcus took the hand and kissed it. When he let it go, it dangled limply by the side of the throne.
He must be asleep. The thought slipped into his mind, quiet and unexpected, like a whisper.
He looked up, gazing into the King’s empty face that he remembered as full and vigorous, but was now hollow-cheeked and drawn like the face of a stranger, and his heart filled suddenly with pity.
“Marcus,” Queen Filliora was calling.
Moving over, Marcus knelt again and took the hand she extended to him into his. The hand was cold and shivered as his lips touched it. He lifted his head, concerned. A smile meandered across her lips, a tired and unhappy one, and it troubled his heart to see she was so sad.
As he descended from the rostrum, he noticed Prince Mapolos. It was rare to see his brother at Court, and the sight of him warmed him. Without a second thought, he beamed a smile and bowed his head in his direction.
But Mapolos turned his head away. Lifting his jaw, he stared at the ceiling. Instead, Lord Shusha, who was standing next to him, nodded an acknowledgement with his usual aloofness.
The bells of the palace began to peal. The sharp, crisp ringing sound reverberated across the chamber, resounding with soft peals from the bells far away in the city that were ringing to announce the opening of the Court to the whole populace.
When the last sound of the bells faded away, Lord Wosur stepped forward and started with a lengthy paean of praise for King Lagos. Dull and humdrum, it effectively drained every spirit lifted by the joyful chimes of the bells.
“For the benefit of the kingdom, we demand an explanation for the disappearance of Prince Marcus,” he said finally.
The chamber bubbled with sympathetic noises and nodding heads.
Lord Tulardigo had seen this was coming and had warned him. “Stay at home, stay away. Don’t come to Court. You will be grilled.”
“Prince Marcus has made it clear that he can’t remember anything about his disappearance,” answered Lord Sugulur, the youngest royal counsellor, standing a small distance away from Marcus.
With a subtle smile, Lord Wosur drew out a paper roll. “If the statement in this roll is true,” he said waving the roll, “his royal blood is contaminated, and he is no longer fit to be king.”
“King Lagos is unwell, and Prince Marcus is the only son fit to be king. So what do you propose? If we remove Prince Marcus, who shall be the King?” Lord Sugulur looked defiant as he spoke.
Marcus cast a curious glance at Lord Sugulur — he was a small man, but with a voice as deep and resonant as that of a larger man.
“I … I … do not propose anything but simply state the facts as they have been reported,” Lord Wosur spluttered, his face turning purple. “It came to my attention in a statement made by a resident named T. Upright.”
He spread the roll and continued, “According to her statement, she has witnessed the intimate behaviour between Prince Marcus and Princess Zeleanda, as the result of which, a child called Bo was born. They also adopted two outlandish children, Jack and Brianna, to live with them. The five of them formed a family under the name of ‘Goodman’, and settled on planet Erthar for twelve Earth years, which is about four Cygnore years.”
Marcus listened attentively, with curiosity just as acute as that of the men standing around him. When the chamber was unsettled with gasps and excited whispers, he felt the same emotion and almost laughed.
Since his return, the memory that he had always trusted was in tatters. He had tried many times to thread the pieces together in different ways, but none of them conveyed any meaning to him.
He could not be a father of three children out of thin air without his knowledge.
Lord Tulardigo strode forward and was now shoulder to shoulder with Lord Wosur. “Who’s this T. Upright, may I ask?”
“She …” Lord Wosur fluttered his eyes, looking a little uncomfortable. “She is an Ozzi, a permitted resident.”
“So she is an outlander herself.” A smile broke out on Lord Tulardigo’s broad face. “I’m not sure the magnificence of the palace Court should strain its ears to listen to the statement of an outlander.”
“We informed the King, and he granted permission.”
“May I pray for confirmation from his Majesty the King?”
All eyes turned to the King, who sat in the same pose as earlier, but with his head drooping.
The Queen spoke, in a soft but clear tone, “King Lagos is unwell. He is in no position to answer your question, my dear Lord. I shall speak on his behalf. If the King did grant you permission, Lord Wosur, I was unaware. But I am very aware that it isn’t proper to offend the noble ears of the palace Court with the tall tales of an outlander.”
Lord Wosur’s face turned grey, and he dropped promptly on both knees. “I beg your forgiveness, your Majesty. I didn’t mean to …”
Queen Filliora stopped him with a firm gesture of her right hand. “You are forgiven, Lord Wosur. Arise, I pray.” She turned to glance over the chamber. “What Lord Sugulur said was right. It’s an unfortunate time for the Palace when the King is unwell. Instead of picking up gossip and scare-mongering, we need to stick to what we know. Of course, where there is doubt, there will always be rumours. Prince Marcus lost his memory of the events during the years he disappeared, which means one thing — he is an unchanged man, fit as he ever was to be the future King. Unless solid evidence emerges, or the Prince recovers his memory, I pray, let the matter rest!”
“Very wise, your Majesty.” Lord Shusha stepped forward, hands pressed against his chest and bowed to the Queen.
The Queen’s calmness seemed ruffled at the sight of the tall, willowy figure in front of her, and her face turned pale, and then purple.
Indifferent to the Queen’s discomfort, Lord Shusha spoke, “I agree with you wholeheartedly, my Queen. We must close our ears to the groundless rumours, but we have to prepare our hearts for unexpected difficulties. Especially, since Prince Marcus and Lady Cici’s engagement is taking place in a few days, just as it would have had Prince Marcus never disappeared. As Cici’s father, I pray for clarity and certainty. My Queen, may I ask what solid evidence you are seeking to prove the accusation of T. Upright?”
The Queen hesitated.
Lord Tulardigo took over. “The presence of the three children and their admission of the relationship, if I may suggest.”
The Queen nodded her approval.
“That’s fair,” Lord Shusha’s lips curved into a smile, and he bowed his head again. “Forgive me for asking, but what will happen if the three children are found, and the tale is proven to be true?”
The Queen’s glance found its way to Lord Tulardigo, who coughed slightly before speaking, “Why ask? Lord Shusha, you excel in law and are the one behind the building of the New Temple of Justice. Isn’t the law crystal clear in your mind?”
“It’s clear indeed, Lord T
ulardigo. It’s so clear that I’m startled by both its clarity and cruelty. But the law is the law. Let me make it clear. The punishment for intimate behaviour between a Baran and a Rionean is death — by feeding both offenders to the bokwas.”
The chamber was perturbed at this stark pronouncement.
Lord Shusha waited until it was quiet again before continuing, “Of course, we have a more lenient option for a royal prince.”
There were some nervous coughs, and the air was tight with expectation.
“He can be spared and forgiven if he redeems himself by putting the cause of his transgression — Princess Zeleanda — to death with his own hands.”
“How? Cut her throat with a knife or feed her to the bokwas?” a bold noble shouted out loud from the audience.
“There are buttons and a suspended cage to be installed in the New Temple of Justice, aren’t there, Lord Shusha?” said another nobleman waving his arms. “With a press of a button, the cage will fall to the bottom of the bokwa’s hole, taking all the offenders with it. It’s clean, no blood, no mess.”
“Where are you leading us Lord Shusha?” the Queen cried. “Remember, without the three children, the accusation is unfounded. Why should you bother us with these details? The engagement is imminent. Couldn’t you just put faith in your future son-in-law?”
“As a parent, my dearest Queen, my heart is as heavy as yours. I’ve seen my daughter sinking into her lonely darkness during the many days when we had no sign of Prince Marcus. She suffered almost as much as you did. The return of Prince Marcus doesn’t free her from her prison unless the Prince is again the one we once knew. If the worst circumstances come about, and the three children are found, as well as Princess Zeleanda, may I ask Prince Marcus …?”
He turned to locate Marcus in the front row and fixed his dark gaze upon him. “If I offer you the button, and pressing it would prove your innocence and allow us to continue our path as if you had never been away for a single day, would you press it?”