"Death!” Keyshi exclaimed, as it burst out of the room, through the sleeping room door, whipping it open with such force, it violently slammed against the hutch in the hall which once belonged to Tyter's mother. Several of the dishes stored therein toppled from their shelves and crashed to the floor, shattering into a multitude of small pieces.
The loud, prolonged, clamor awakened Bourg from his deep, but troubled slumber. "What the?” he gasped as he grappled in the dark for his pullover, only to discover he was still wearing it. Grabbing a candle from his night stand, he fumbled with several firesticks to light it. When he was at last successful, he felt a rush of warm air brush through his beard as it extinguished the candle’s flame.
"Blast!" he cursed under his breath as he fumbled with several more fire sticks in an attempt to relight the candle. The more he tried, the more frustrated he became, and the more frustrated he became, the more urgently he tried, which only resulted in more bumbling and frustration. It’s a wonder he was able to light the candle at all, but light it he did - eventually.
As the candle's flame grew in intensity at the end of the wick, Bourg's eyes swept about the room, seeking familiarity with each flickering shadow dancing upon the walls.
The whole room was filled with the menacing sensation of an eerie, unseen presence. Although he no longer felt a warm breeze, the window curtains swayed back and forth betraying its presence. Immediately, Bourg pulled the candle near to his body, and cupped his large hand about it. He had struggled too long and too hard to give up this flame without a fight.
"Tyter. Tyter,” he called in a loud whisper as he stepped cautiously into the hallway between the sleeping rooms. “What's the. . .?" he gasped as his eyes widened like veget saucers.
The floor beneath him flickered with thousands of glittering eyes, which mischievously, twinkled up at him - or so it seemed in his already spooked state.
Raising himself onto the tips of his large hairy toes, he flitted gingerly among the glittery-eyed creatures until, with surprising agility, he hopped and twirled his way back into his own sleeping room. Safely inside, he quickly closed the door behind him, then gasped for a breath of fresh air. Something he’d failed to do even once throughout his fearful flight. Meanwhile, the candle in his quivering hand flickered wildly, causing a flurry of ominous shadows to dance about the small room.
"Tyter?" Bourg ejaculated with such a gush of anguish his breath extinguished the candle flame. Yet even in the darkness, or perhaps because of it, his love overcame his fear. Slowly he reopened the sleeping room door, while fumbling in his pullover pockets for another firestick. To his great relief, the glittery-eyed creatures, which had covered the hall floor only moments before, were gone.
"Tyter!" Bourg called again in a loud whisper, but still there was no answer. Slowly, he eased the door further open. Still, there was no sign of the mysterious eyes. Meanwhile, his search for more firesticks in his pullover pocket proved in vain. Fumbling his way back through the darkness to his night stand, he patted around its surface, hoping he had carelessly left one laying about, but his coarse hands found none. He had used them all up on the first lighting attempt.
He knew, however, there would be firesticks on the top shelf of the hutch at the end of the hallway. For this is where he had kept them out of Tyter’s reach when he was a much smaller lad. Now, keeping them there had become a habit which he had found no need to alter. If he wanted light, he would either have to wait until morning or venture down the dark hallway to Maadle’s hutch.
Bourg went back to the door and again peered out into the short hall. Still, no glittery eyes staring up at him. Were they gone, asleep - dead?
Bourg strained to hear the gentle hush of breathing from Tyter's room at the far end of the hall, but could hear nothing above the thunderous thumping of his own heart as it provided a steady rhythm for the horrendous howling of his own breath.
Slowly, he crept forward into the darkness. Each step fell like hammers in a stone quarry. The nine or ten to the hutch seemed more like a hundred. But, at last, he reached his journey's end, and quickly placed his hand on the shelf where he kept the firesticks. Nothing!
The blood drained from Bourg’s head. Then the darkness of the hall began to swirl about him, and his legs buckled beneath him. Instinctively, he reached out to steady himself from falling. In doing so, his hand brushed across the lower shelf, scattering a slew of tiny, familiar objects. The pouch of firesticks had fallen from their proper place to this lower shelf. This puzzled him just enough to bring him back to his senses, but he didn't take time trying to solve the mystery. He just stowed it away in the back of his mind, where he had stashed every other quandary he’d encountered recently.
Recovering a half dozen firesticks, he struck one, then another, until, after several attempts, he again had the candle lit. And again, the floor blazed with the multitude of bright, glittering eyes. He gasped and shuddered so hard the candle fell from his hand, but landed perfectly upright on the floor. The multitude of tiny eyes followed the flame and remained twinkling intensely at it.
For several moments Bourg stood completely still. He couldn’t imagine what the strange glittery-eyed creatures would do, now that he had attacked them - and with fire no less. He wanted to run, but he found himself frozen with fear. All he could do was await their reprisal. But the creatures remained as they had been, showing no movement other than the flickering of their eyes which danced in time to the flutter of the candle’s flame. As Bourg’s eyes became accustomed to the dim light, the first thing he realized was that the glittering eyes no longer appeared to be the quickened eyes of living creatures. Cautiously, curiously, he squatted down to get a better look.
In the light he could see the floor covered with a multitude of small, irregularly shaped objects. Slowly, he reached out his hand and touched one. It didn’t feel alive. Carefully, he picked it up and held it near the flame. It looked like a piece of broken pottery. A rush of relief filled him from head to toe.
“Eyes? Ha!” Bourg roared with relieved laughter. Then, as if someone had seen how foolish he had acted, he announced loudly and firmly, "I knew they weren’t monsters. Just broken dishes. Dishes?" It had suddenly dawned on Bourg what he was holding.
"Oh no, no, not Maadle's dishes!” His heart broke into as many pieces as the shattered dishes scattered all around him. "How could this have happened? Tyter, Tyter, what have you done? Tyter!”
Bourg was demonstratively upset. Nothing he knew in Nuttinnew was the same anymore, and neither was he. For the first time in his life he was mad - fighting mad - mad at Tyter. The dishes and the hutch were among the many items Talon had given to him on the night he’d vanished.
However, Bourg soon discovered that a single male with a child didn’t need two of every huthold furnishing. So, over the years he had given most of Talon and Maadle's belongings away as wedding presents to other couples who were in more immediate need of them. To Bourg this seemed more in line with Maadle’s character and didn’t figure Talon would mind since the odds were small he would ever return from Nocomback, the land of no return beyond the great rolling hills.
The hutch with its assemblage of fine earthenware was another matter. These belonged to Maadle, personally, having been bequeathed to her upon the death of her grammer, whom she most favored and dearly loved. Because of this, they held a special place in Maadle’s heart, and so, held a special place in Bourg’s heart, as well. Of all the furnishings in the hut, only these received a thorough dusting once a week - whether they needed it or not.
There were other special items in the hutch as well which Bourg didn’t, and wouldn’t, part with. They were all paraphernalia which Maadle had treasured most when she was alive. He was sure Tyter would want these items someday. Of course, the lad was but an infant when his mother died, so they wouldn’t trigger any fond memories in his mind - not like they did in Bourg’s own.
Yes, Bourg had memories - many memories. He remembered the way Maadl
e's eyes sparkled when she smiled. He remembered how she blushed with embarrassment at the least hint of praise. He remembered her delicate giggle when anything struck her in an amusing way. He also remembered the compassion in her eyes when she sat for hours at the bedside of a sick friend long after the caretenders had officially relinquished the remainder of their lives to Fate.
Yes, Bourg had all these remembrances and many more. He remembered how he felt when Talon asked him to be his best male at their wedding. He remembered the joy of life which bubbled up in his heart, and the sick sinking feeling that filled his stomach. For although Bourg would never admit it, even to himself, he loved Maadle Rult.
The very thought of it, though, was as out of sorts for Bourg as his wearing a bouquet of veget blossoms braided into his beard on Maadle’s wedding day. Maadle, herself, had done the braiding, or he never would have allowed himself to look so foolish. But Maadle loved it, so it was worth all the embarrassment it caused him for years to come.
Some creatures, by their very nature, are not meant to be partnered, he consoled himself. Now, as he picked up the splintered pieces of a shattered memory, he could feel that same sick feeling in his stomach once again.
"Tyter. Where are you, lad? See what you've done, here? Why I've a mind to...,” Bourg's voice raised, revealing more pain than anger. When Tyter didn’t answer, Bourg rose quickly to his feet, and sensed a presence encircling the hall. Everything about him seemed to quiver ever so slightly as if some presence had just brushed passed. Yet, he could see nothing. A tingling sensation shot up his spine as he eased cautiously to Tyter's door, which had rebounded back to the position where Bourg had left it.
The candlelight flickered into the sleeping room, revealing Tyter still sprawled out on his cot with the lower half of his cover twisted tightly about his legs, as if he had spun around and around in his sleep. While the upper half lay dangling to the floor as if feverishly cast off.
"Tyter? Are you alright, son?” Bourg barely whispered. There was no reply. For the first time all evening Bourg became more concerned for Tyter than himself. Rushing to Tyter’s side, he placed his big hands on the lad's clammy shoulder. Tyter let out a slight whimper, but didn’t move. Bourg placed his hand to Tyter’s forehead. The heat of the fever penetrated its callouses and seared Bourg's heart.
Just then, the flicker of the candlelight began to play cruel tricks, first revealing young Tyter's face, then Maadle's. As the images flipped back and forth, Bourg's mind switched from present to past and back again. One instant he saw young Tyter lying on his cot, with the light of the flickering candle glistening off the sweat beads covering his bare skin. Then the image changed to the face of the beautiful, young Maadle; her pale skin shining in the moonlight; just as it had on the eve of her death. Even, then her greatest concern was to comfort those who came to mourn her plight: death by the Dreaded Drought Disease.
"The Dreaded Drought Disease?” Bourg's mind tried to reject the thought as soon as it was formed, but what else could Tyter have - the sudden onset, the hot, damp skin? "Blast!" Bourg roared.
Quickly, he removed the twisted sheets from around Tyter's legs and laid a fresh, thin cot cover over his hot, moist body. Lovingly, he placed his huge, trembling hand on his cheek and whispered.
"Tyter. Tyter, can you hear me, son? I’m going away for just a bit to collect a caretender. He'll know what to do for you. So don't you worry, son. You'll be alright. You'll be ...,” Bourg choked on his words as tears streamed from his swollen eyes and cascaded down his thick, black beard to the corners of his mouth, where they moistened his lips and coated his tongue with their natural salinity.
"I'll - I'll be back as quickly as I can. I won't let anything happen to you. By veget, I won't let this death take you from me, too. Just hang onto life, son. Don't give up.” Bourg wiped away the perspiration from Tyter's forehead with a loving swipe of his large, trembling thumb. Then he lit the candle on Tyter's night stand.
Instead of feeling the heat of the fire, Bourg’s face was engulfed by a sudden gust of warm wind which cooled his face as the tears covering it rapidly evaporated. At the same time, the candle flame flickered violently, but didn’t extinguish. A moment later the partially closed curtain over Tyter's sleeping room window flared outward as the gust exited the room.
"By Veget!" Bourg cursed in response to the unusual experience. Although he couldn’t explain it, he was sure of one thing: the strange presence he’d felt earlier, whatever it was, was now gone. This realization put him somewhat at ease, for he had nearly convinced himself the unseen presence was none other than Fate’s envoy, Death, coming to claim his son.
“You stay right there, lad. Don't you dare leave me like your parents did!” With those parting words, he dashed off toward the hut of the nearest caretender - a fellow everyone called CB.
Keyshi looked back into the hut, through the open window it had just exited. Never had it felt so impassioned, especially when the young human male gave off a loud groaning sound, followed by mournful whimpers, as he thrashed about, twisting his cover every which way as if wrestling it for cot dominance.
Keyshi's thoughts raced back to Old Tonc’s description of the dying female lying in the gutter. But even what it had imagined then left it ill prepared for the reality of human suffering. All the horrible feelings Keyshi felt while listening to the old northern wind now reverberated in every molecule of its being, until it felt like it would burst. This was not a fun place to be for a prank playing summer breeze. All it wanted to do was escape this place of human torment and this event called death.
Keyshi dashed eastward, passing over the hole in the ground which had nearly destroyed its very essence; over the hut of the sleeping young female it had somehow come to be fond of; over the mysteriously sealed hut with the strange muffled voices within. Soon, it had left behind all that could be called Nuttinnew, and found itself speeding along through gentle, rolling foothills. There, where the only sound it could hear was the rush of its own breath, Keyshi slowed to rest.
Meanwhile, Bourg raced toward the caretender’s hut.
CB, as the caretender was known, was but one in the long line of Bocononobonos who had successfully taken up the profession of caretending. In fact, so renowned was their treatment that a common saying arose among the people to the west of the well: "A Caretender Bocononobono is a caretender's caretender.” What they really said was, "A CB is a caretender's caretender.” For inevitably whenever someone ventured an attempt to actually pronounce the name, they usually became hopelessly lost somewhere among the “nono”s.
Even the Bocononobonos took to calling themselves the CB family and everyone probably would have forgotten what their real name was, if some distant relative hadn’t had the foresight to engrave the family sir name over the front entryway of his hut.
In the distance, Bourg heard the well seat rattle. Turning his head toward the sound, he saw a puff of sand spurt up into the air. “Humph! It’s one of those pesky summer breezes,” he thought, then for a split moment wondered if it was the same one that had caused such a stir in his hut.
“Aha!” he exclaimed. It suddenly dawned on him what must have happened earlier. It must have been that breeze which caused the door to slam against the hutch causing his - er, Tyter's dishes to topple from their resting places, sending them crashing to the hall floor, thus shattering them into thousands of small pieces. “Blast you, you troublemaker! You heartbreaker!” Bourg cursed, as he halted at CB’s door and raised his hand to knock.
CB awoke, as if by instinct, just in time to hear cursing outside his door. Recognizing Bourg’s voice, he didn’t wait for a knock to get up from his cot. For not once, in all the years CB had taken over his father’s caretending practice had Bourg solicited his services. Hearing him at his door, now, in the middle of the night, could only mean one thing: he was in dire need of them now. When the knock came, it was in the form of urgent pounding.
Slipping quickly into a clean pullover, CB w
ent into the eating room and splashed a meager amount of water on his face to rinse away the sleep goo from his eyes, then fanned his dampened face with his hands. The rapid evaporation gave him momentary relief from the evening heat. Peering through a window coverings, he saw Bourg raising his hand to more ferociously strike the unanswered door. But before he could, CB flung it open and greeted him with the customary caretender's greeting.
"All wisdom I have been given is yours for the asking. How may I care for you and your loved ones?"
Caretenders are not doctors, in the sense that they do not allege to cure anyone. Their sole purpose is to make the life of the sick a little less uncomfortable until the natural processes of life take the ailing person down the road to either recovery or death. The prognosis is quite simple and always the same: all is in Fate’s hands.
Of course, they do have their little sack of potions which have been handed down from generation to generation. At times, some of these actually altered the presumed natural course of events - or seemed to anyway. However, nothing could be counted on one hundred percent of the time. So even with these occasional “miracles,” Fate still held the upper hand. Therefore, the caretenders never spoke of these anomalies to the common folk, except in the most general way.
Even so, if someone actually recovered from a severe ailment, the caretenders were sufficiently lavished with praise and rewards. On the other hand, if the individual died, well, it was simply a matter of Fate. Still, many potions did seem to have a remarkable influence over the course of many illnesses.
However, caretenders were not scientists either, so no one even considered performing empirical studies on which potions worked best on which illnesses, and in what quantities or doses. Years of experience had told them that given the same potions and treatment, one person might recover, while another might die.
Any suggestion that the caretenders might be able to do more for their patients was met with the immutable response: that’s how it is because that’s how it’s always been. Anything different would be change.
Pieces: Book One, The Rending Page 14