by Evren, S. K.
He thought about it. Cattle fence suddenly leapt to mind. It was the Ferns’ cattle fence! There was only one field that was between the forest from his cottage and the Ferns’ cattle fence. If he turned right and followed the fence, it would lead him straight toward the farm. He kept the fence on his left side, reaching out as he crawled to feel for the posts.
What would happen once he passed the last fence post? Sure, someone might see him, but then again, they might not. No one had noticed him yet. If he continued to feel only for breaks in the gaps, eventually, he’d pass that last post blindly. He needed to follow the rails to the posts. That way, when the fence turned, he could turn as well. He couldn’t crawl and feel the rails at the same time; they were too far off the ground. He wondered if he had the strength to stand.
Eager to find out, he crawled along until he found the next fence post. Pulling himself very close, he followed it up to where the rails joined. Placing a hand on each rail, he pulled his torso up the post. He seemed to be bent unnaturally, and, though he didn’t feel it yet, he was certain it wouldn’t be comfortable for long. He followed the post with his hands until they came to the second rail. He pulled himself up again and tried to settle his feet. He gripped the rails tightly, worried that he might topple over. The shadows of the fence no longer intruded on the haze of his vision, but the rattling of his movements increased.
Holding on to the rail, he tested his weight on his feet. His balance seemed different, almost missing. He wondered if it was another casualty of his fever. His weight didn’t seem to be much of a problem, but he definitely needed work on his balance.
Falteringly, he shifted his weight to his outstretched leg. Following with his hands on the rail, he clumsily stood on that leg and drew in the other. It was slow, slower than crawling, he admitted, but at least he could follow the fence rails. He was surprised by his strength, and almost equally alarmed by his lack of balance.
He slowly shifted his weight one leg at a time, always careful to follow with his hands. He weaved and wobbled, and caught himself from falling several times. As he went along the fence line, he realized that he did have some sense of balance. He could tell when he was leaning too far in one direction or another. At first, he thought it might just be that his arm was strained or slacked against the rails, and that was telling him that he was off-center. Eventually, one of the rails collapsed under his touch. Drothspar remained standing, though he did wobble. He took a step in the direction of the next post and found it with his hand. Pleased, he continued along the next rail, resting his hand lightly on the wood for guidance. He only leaned against it once for support. He was certain he’d have plenty of splinters from the old wood, but it didn’t matter because he could walk.
He followed the fence when it turned the corner and wondered why no one had noticed him yet. The fence ran right along the farm’s main structures; he should be close enough to see, but not so close as to be concealed behind barn or stable. Maybe it was night, he thought to himself, but surely their dogs would be barking wildly.
He stopped and listened. He had focused so much on walking, following, and balancing that he’d ignored the silence of the farm. There were no lowing cows, no muttering chickens. No shouts were bouncing back and forth between farmhands, and no dogs were barking at his approach. Those dogs always barked at his approach. They usually waited until he was fairly close; they were probably hoping to make him jump out of his skin. But he was near the farm structures themselves now, he was sure of it. The dogs had never let him get that close before. There was fun and there was duty, and those dogs never forgot which was the priority. He decided to call out to them.
Tilting his head back, he opened his mouth to yell and nothing happened. Maybe his throat was dry, he thought. He tried to swallow, but couldn’t tell if he’d succeeded or not. He tried to whistle, but failed. He decided to make whatever noise he could, and hit his hands along the fence rail. He heard his hand smack down solidly, and his body rattled at the motion. Nothing else stirred. He hit the fence three more times, and still no man or creature responded. He leaned his body against the rails of the fence and thought about his situation.
He looked up and noticed that his vision was getting slightly better. The dim haze that had been all he’d seen was beginning to get brighter. He thought he could make out the dark forms of the farm buildings in the distance, though their height and shapes seemed wrong. He wondered, briefly, if he could be somewhere else, but there were no other farms, occupied or abandoned, anywhere near this part of the forest. The Ferns had cut their land from the very forest itself. He wished he could call out, even if it was just to hear the sound of his own voice. Maybe the illness had taken it from him.
He was fairly certain it had been an illness which had laid him low. It was the only thing that could explain how so many of his faculties had been damaged. He wondered, then, how he’d gotten out into the forest. Could the fever have plucked him out of his bed and walked him out to find honey for some heat-oppressed reason? If that were true, he had probably just crawled himself away from whoever might be searching for him. If he could just find someone at the farm, maybe he could somehow explain what had happened and they could help him return home.
Home. He missed Li.
The thought struck him from out of the blue.
Li!
She was going to be out of her mind with worry about him! His own mind started racing at the idea of Li, alone and pacing, worrying about her wandering husband. She probably wasn’t just worrying; she was probably blaming herself for letting him get away in the first place. He imagined her sitting by their bed as he tossed and turned in fever. She had likely sat vigil all night long and fallen asleep. And, of course, he had chosen that time to go out for his walk. She was going to kill him…
Chapter 8 – Fence
Drothspar listened for the return of farmers and dogs. He walked back and forth along the fence for practice, noting that it had collapsed in several places. One broken rail on the fence might have escaped fixing for a day or so, but more than two would have been unacceptable. Mrs. Fern ran her farm like a little general, and she inspected it quite often. How could the fence have broken in so many places without her sending in forces to repair it? True, the search for the “Wandering Drothspar” might have distracted her, but had he really been gone that long?
He listened to the sounds of the fields and the oddly deserted structures. He heard the wind whistling through gaps in the buildings and shutters banging around windows. He also heard the squealing creak of rusty metal, some hinge, perhaps, on a sluggish shutter. Birds chirped, though not many. He leaned back against the fence and worried. His vision was dimming.
His concern grew as his hazy sight faded. What if the illness robbed him of his sight permanently? What if this haze was all he would ever see again? He slowed his thoughts down, trying to relax and think. If he lost his vision, he would compensate. Men had gone through the world blind before. He’d made it to this farm almost completely blind and with no help at all. He thought of all the scents he could still pick up, the fresh breeze and grass. A darker scent was there as well, like something long since burned, perhaps an old bonfire. He could hear the whispers in the trees and the songs of the birds. If he lost his sight, he would still find his way in the world, and still find a way to appreciate its beauty. He would still have Li.
He pushed aside his thoughts of a worried wife and imagined her smile. He thought about the way she always played with her ruby pendant. He loved the little clicking sound it made as she ran it along the chain. He would always have his memories.
His vision continued to dim, and he continued to encourage himself with what remained. He was worried, true, but he wouldn’t let his worry get the best of him. It was bad enough he’d wandered away in fever. He wouldn’t let himself be carried away while he was still reasonable and rational. Man could compensate for many things if faith allowed.
He stayed there, at the fence, wonder
ing about a world without sight. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. His sense of time was still lost. He wrestled back and forth between what he might miss in blindness and what beauty was still afforded him through his other senses.
Trying to focus on those other senses, he scented a coolness in the breeze. There was moisture in the air, and it carried with it the rumors of dewy, fragrant grass. An image of cool mornings blossomed into his mind, and he realized, not for the first time in his life, how powerful the sense of smell could be in triggering memory.
The fragrances that came to him brought to mind a flood of images regarding mornings. He remembered being a child and running through grassy fields shortly after the sun had risen. He didn’t remember why, because, as a child, he hadn’t needed a reason to run through the grass. He remembered waking early to attend school, and thought of how he had not welcomed the scent of mornings for many years of lessons.
The songs of birds began to intrude upon his thoughts, and again, he marveled at the beauty available to him without sight. He listened to their calls and crying. He wondered what the meaning of their music might be. Were they greetings or warnings? Were lovers calling out to each other, or were enemies threatening harm? Could they simply be chatting, or even singing the praises of the Maker? Did the birds, like the priests of the Order, greet the day in praise and prayer?
Greet the day, he thought to himself. Morning! He’d been so focused on the surface that he had not realized the substance! The scent of morning had come to him on the air, and the singing of the birds greeted the new day! Had so much time really passed? He had no feeling for it whatsoever. He could reason that he had moved from a certain course of thought to another, but he had no means to internally gauge exactly, or even imprecisely, how much time had elapsed.
He bent down from the fence post and felt for the grass. The feeling was still muted, but he found it, and he could feel the moisture there. He felt the dew of the morning. It was true! Time had passed from one day to the next. He listened, trying to pick up any sound that might come beyond the calling of the birds. He hoped to hear cows lowing their urgent pleas to be milked. Some few people, perhaps early sleepers that were also early risers, might have been left with the farm. If so, he thought, they would find him soon and lead him home.
The sounds he heard, however, were the same as before. The wind returned to whistle and rattle in the structures—and to encourage that rusty hinge to creak. No dogs ran from the forest barking at his presence in their territory. No farmhands came out to see what he needed. Strangely, none of the livestock complained of hunger or neglect. Morning should have been the busiest time on the farm. Even if he had arrived in the middle of the night, someone should have stirred by now.
Could they all have gone off to some sort of fair? That might explain why all the animals were missing, but surely they’d have left someone behind to tend the farm. Unless, of course, that someone had been enlisted to aid in the search for a feverish wanderer. Here he was, leaning against the fence of their farm, and perhaps they were out in the woods chasing him down. He tried to call out again, and again, no sound came. He continued to rattle strangely when he moved, though. He was about to investigate that sound when something new caught his attention.
Light, he could see light! Having finally crested the trees, the sun’s light poured down into the farm, and Drothspar could sense the growing brightness. His vision was still very hazy. He could barely see the blur of his hand in front of his face, but he was certain it was getting brighter. He was almost overjoyed that the darkness he’d experienced had actually been darkness and not the failing of his vision. He stared about at the shadows and thought that they might be slightly sharper than they had been the previous day.
The previous day. He still wondered that the entire day could pass without some sense of elapsing time. He didn’t even feel tired. He hadn’t felt tired since he’d first awoken. He thought about that more seriously. He remembered the crawling, the walking, the waiting, and the worrying. All that had happened—strenuous activities of the body and mind—yet he was not tired.
Perhaps it had been the fever. If he had lain ill for many days, slept for countless hours, maybe he’d just slept so much that he’d built up a store of energy, like a silo for grain. The only other thought that occurred to him was that—maybe—he was just so excited to finally be awake that he couldn’t be tired or sleep. Possibly it was a combination of the two. Either way, he was awake.
His vision, though slightly clearer than before, was still not good. He thought about trying to get into the house but decided against it. First off, he reasoned, he’d be seen more easily outside than inside. Secondly, he wasn’t really sure which building was the house or which might be for storage. He could literally shut himself in a shed and out of everyone’s sight for days. That would round out the excursion nicely. Another thought that occurred to him was that he might very well open the door to the house and tumble down into the cellar, snapping his freshly wakened neck. Li would not be pleased if he’d run off just to get himself killed. No, he decided, the fence was the best place for now.
The passage of time still gnawed at his mind. He felt he needed to try to get a handle on how much time was passing. He knew that the fence he was leaning against ran east to west. If he took a broken rail and leaned it against the good rail, he could make a rudimentary sun-dial. Then, if he were to lie still beneath the broken rail, he’d be able to sense the passage of its shadow. He hoped. Only one way to find out, he thought to himself.
It was a strange experiment, designed to keep him occupied and alert as much as anything else. He considered the fact that he’d be lying down, and less likely to be seen, but someone might notice a body lying on the ground, too. Most likely they’d be looking for him to be horizontal anyway. He smiled to himself. Shouldn’t disappoint them.
He watched the progress of the shadow for what must have been hours. He was certain it must have been hours because the shadow had passed completely from his right to his left side.
Once again, he began to sense the dimming of his vision as the day passed into night. He looked up into the darkening haze searching for the shadow of the broken rail. He couldn’t find it. He knew that the night was progressing around him, though in its vast shadow, he had only his thoughts to mark its passage.
Chapter 9 – Structure
During the day, Drothspar’s activities and thoughts had focused on faith and hope. Now, in the night, with no light to guide him, he began to revisit the more negative aspects. Would his sight return, or simply taunt him with hazes light and dark? Was he at the right farm or even in the right region? What if he’d fallen ill in some other place, on a visit to family or friends? He could be anywhere. He admitted to himself that he was lost and alone. Even worse, he was without food or water.
He thought about the unnoticed time that had passed. He quickly tallied what he had done up until that point. Not once in what he could best describe as two days had he eaten or had anything to drink. He didn’t feel hungry. He didn’t feel thirsty, either. If he had been feverish, he was pretty sure he would not have eaten. He remembered having fevers when he was younger, and food was the last thought on his mind.
He stood up from his sun-dial experiment, hoping to encourage his thoughts with movement. As he did, that strange rattling sounded again. He was fairly certain it had sounded, somehow, within him. He moved again and listened to the sound. It was like metal, he thought, a large piece of metal on wood. He moved again and he felt it move with him. It was an odd feeling, as if it were coming from inside himself, but he could feel it moving, hitting him. The sounds of the metal hitting wood coincided with the feeling of something striking inside of him.
He lifted up his hand, trying to look at it in the darkness. He waved it before his face, and thought for a moment that he could see it. He moved to listen to the rattle, and tried to place his hand where he had felt the movement. His hand struck his rib cage, and he
felt about with his fingers. He had never before felt his ribs to be so prominent. He must have lost an incredible amount of weight. Running his finger over his ribs, he pushed in the space between them. His finger sank right in.
He tried very hard to remain calm, and he felt like he was doing a pretty good job. He couldn’t feel his heart racing in his chest, and his breathing didn’t seem to be excited. He tried to focus on his breathing. He seemed to have some sense of breathing, so he tried to stop it, to hold his breath. He seemed to be holding his breath, but he didn’t feel any burning in his lungs. He didn’t feel any need to breathe. He touched his hand to his neck, hoping to feel his pulse. His hand pushed deeper than he had expected, and what his fingers found was hard, solid.
He moved again, feeling the rattle move within himself. Reaching under his rib cage, he caught hold of something slim and hard. It was flat, perhaps an inch wide. He tugged at it, knowing it was lodged somewhere in his chest. It wouldn’t come down. He twisted it back and forth, trying to free it. As he twisted, something scraped in his rib cage and came loose. The weight fell free in his hand.
He ran his fingers up and down the flat of the object. Part of his mind screamed at the possibilities, and part of his mind urged him to remain calm. He thought. He thought, and he was aware of that thinking. Grasping on to that idea, he let his hand slide up the flat to a hard cross piece, about three inches across and curved downward. He calmly tried to accept the impossible reality of the truth. His hand moved over the cross piece and wrapped around the handle of the weapon. He took his other hand and placed it up into his rib cage as far as he could. He felt nothing other than structure.