Besides, if the common folk formed any notion caretenders could actually heal someone, they might be expected to cure everyone - of everything. Just think how the whole profession would be treated by the loved ones of those who didn’t respond positively to some prescribed treatment. Why, they could be accused of being inept, or negligent, or worse, of actually causing someone's demise.
The whole profession would quickly lose its credibility. Then who would the people have to call upon to care for and console the living, while giving meaning to the deaths of their loved ones? No, some things were better not tampered with.
“It’s - it’s the - my son, Tyter. He. . . .” Bourg's voice choked back the words. His eyes were fixed straight at, but not focused on CB. The caretender placed his hand on the big male's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. His face beamed with an understanding smile - a caretender’s standard reaction to the healthy who are concerned for a loved one. Then he grabbed up his bag of potions which he always left on a small table beside the door, and out he sprang, leaving Bourg alone and confused in the doorway.
"Take a gulp from that bottle, there on that table,” CB called back to Bourg. "It will help you to get through this. When you're finished, be so kind to pull the door closed behind you. There's a pest of a summer breeze whipping up more than a bit of mischief tonight, I venture.” Then, as an after thought, he added, "You’re a mighty big fellow. You'd better make that two gulps."
Bourg stepped inside CB’s hut and glanced about for a moment. The place was very tidy and extremely clean. Very unlike his own. In fact, he hadn’t seen such a clean hut since he last visited Maadle and Talon many years before. But enough of such thoughts. He closed his eyes as if to dispel them. When he opened them again, his eyes fell upon a tall, narrow veget bottle on the small table by the door.
“This must be the one he meant,” Bourg thought.
When he pulled the stopper from the bottle, the very familiar odor of veget aid filled his nostrils. "Umph!” Bourg grumped, then drew the bottle under his nose and took a more discerning whiff. He was surprised not to detect any strange, or exotic aroma.
“It’s just veget-aide!” he concluded with a measure of disappointment, which almost enticed him to replace the stopper without even taking a swig. If it had been anybody but CB who had instructed him to take a gulp - two gulps, he might well have ignored them. But since it was CB, he decided to comply. Of all the caretenders in the whole of Nuttinnew, there was no other into whose care he would have committed the life of his young charge - his son.
Lifting the bottle to his lips he took one huge gulp, then the second. Wiping the dribble from his beard, he began to replace the bottle’s stopper, then reconsidered. Another swallow of veget aid may not do him much good, but it certainly couldn't do any harm either; besides, he was parched. Again, Bourg placed the bottle to his lips, tipped it up and let the contents fill his mouth. Swishing it from cheek to cheek, he tried to detect some taste other than veget aid. But finding none, he tipped back his head and took another large swallow.
"Hm. This may only be veget aid, but, by Veget, it’s the best I've ever tasted.” Again, Bourg filled his mouth and gulped a gulp three times that of an ordinary man. "Oh, my that's good,” he heard himself say. Then looking off in the direction of his own hut he could see CB just approaching his front door.
Quickly, Bourg tipped up the bottle for a fifth and final gulp bigger than the other two combined. It was a bit much and backed up into his nose. Hacking and coughing, he quickly re-plugged the bottle and replaced it on the table. Then pulling the door closed behind him, as he had been instructed, he dashed off toward his own hut.
Upon arriving at Bourg’s hut, CB paused at the closed door and raised his hand to knock. "You're becoming a foolish old male, CB,” he mused. "Who do you expect to answer the door - the sick child?” Placing his hand on the door handle, he paused momentarily to look back over his shoulder. He didn’t see Bourg following, so he decided to let himself in.
Slowly, he opened the door and peered into the dark room. A certain odor twinged his nose. It was the distinct odor associated with a hut lacking the benefit of a female's disposition to rid it of such stench. At the far side of the eating room he could see the glow of light in the hallway, presumably from a partially closed door wherein he would find the sick child.
Upon entering, the thought came to him that he had never been in this hut before. This struck him as an oddity for children generally required a considerable amount of physical maintenance throughout their elementary years.
CB opened his sack, took out a candle, and lit it and looked about the eating room. The furnishings were ungarnished to the point of overtly practical - again, typical for a male without benefit of a female's sensitivities. Then, CB gasped as his eyes spied a rather uncharacteristic piece of furniture standing in the hallway just outside the child’s sleeping room door. It appeared to be covered with glitter which reflected his candle light. Almost reverently, he walked toward Maadle's hutch.
As if in a trance, he stood before it with an expression of awe. Never had he seen such craftsmanship. He couldn’t resist touching it. Slowly, he raised his hand and gently caressed its smooth, ornate carvings. He found it an extremely sensuous sensation, not too unlike touching the uniquely feminine curves of a female - or so he would imagine.
“Um,” he moaned aloud, but thought, "what’s this big, burly beast of a male doing with such a beautiful piece of furniture? Where did he get it - from his mother? Not only is it made with the finest workmanship, but the very material from which it was carved, meant it could only have come from the prehistoric period. Only the Ancients, who had built Center House, could have created such a work of - of....”
The word he was searching for was "art.” However, since there was no appreciation for such, per se, in the little town of Nuttinnew, CB didn't understand what he was feeling, nor could he even imagine why he should be feeling anything at all. He just knew he was. This frightened him a little for he found himself sounding too much like his life long friend, Wudrick Pulpitt.
Although CB considered his friend to be a true scientists, he never thought of himself as one. Still, he’d been around Wudrick far too long not to engage in some scientific practices like observation and experimentation. For unlike his contemporaries, he was of the firm conviction that a caretender should be more than a passive witness to illness. Whereas, others were content to ease the pain of the dying, CB was convinced that somewhere within the combined knowledge of the caretenders was the means to do more for the patient - even to bring about healing. It was, of course, a heretical view, which his father had long ago admonished him to keep to himself and although he took the advice to heart, his mind never surrendered the notions, as he continued to always work toward that end.
Wudrick, on the other hand, was a theoretical scientist, preoccupied with mentally picking the world about him apart, and speculating on the whims of his own untamed imagination. Although CB would often find his curiosity piqued by Wudrick's conjectures, he never could find anything in Wudrick's theories he could translate into an ounce of practical application. Still, CB would listen to Wudrick’s grand illusions, finding them attractive and fascinating, even if totally impractical. To his knowledge, he was the only person who knew of Wudrick’s secret vocation, and there were times he wasn’t sure whether this was a curse or a blessing.
"He’ll - be alright - won’t he?” Bourg asked as he wobbled in the front doorway, bracing himself against the door jam to keep from falling over.
CB hadn’t heard Bourg arrive and the sudden words startled him out of his trance. Jerking his hand away from the hutch, as if he were afraid of being caught doing something he shouldn’t, he quickly bolted to Tyter’s door and swung ,it open, creating a gust of air which instantly extinguished the candle in his hand.
CB’s quick movements, in turn, startled Bourg, who immediately assumed the worst. "What - what's the matter? Is it ...? Is Tyter.
..? Fate! Tell me he’s not ....!”
Had it been in the light of day, Bourg would have seen the caretender's face flush red with embarrassment and/or shame. He had no idea if the lad was alive or dead. He had, temporarily, forgotten his reason for being in the hut. Such a thing had never happened to him before. Quickly, he spun his head around toward Tyter. His trained ears picked up Tyter's shallow, gasping breath.
"No, Bourg, he isn’t dead. Now, don't fret yourself. To be honest it doesn’t sound good, but ‘while there is yet life there is still hope for a Fateful recovery.’"
"Are - are you sure?” Bourg's voice broke forth in a pitch higher than usual. He had heard these same words of assurance so very long ago when Maadle lay on her death cot. For even as Talon lay sleeping at her side, Maadle’s sister had snuck in a caretender to check on her condition. Moments later he appeared before those gathered in the outer room and his lips formed those very words of assurance. Moments later, those same lips pronounced her dead.
"Sure? Indeed! The audacity to ask a caretender such a presumptuous question!” CB thought. Normally, the very question would have been most offensive to CB, but tonight he had little reason for foolish pride. Tonight he had allowed himself to be diverted from his life's pursuit, allowing an inanimate object to lure him down the dubious path of sensual pleasure.
For a split moment he glared accusingly back at the hutch as a preacher might glare at a harlot, knowing that, were it not for his belief in, and fear of, a vengeful god of absolutes, he would willfully and wantonly cast himself upon her, reveling in the succor of his god-given senses.
Fleeing the harlot, CB quickly stepped into Tyter's room, set his bag of potions on the night table floor, then bent down and placed his hand on Tyter’s forehead. It was then that he realized his patient wasn’t a child at all, but a young male moving rapidly into adulthood.
Bourg had followed him, but stopped in the doorway, afraid to enter. Sweat beads formed on his forehead as he shuffled his weight from one foot to the other, all the while wringing his huge, trembling hands. Both males were silent as they listened to the sound of Tyter’s shallow breathing.
Bourg was the first to break the silence. "He doesn't sound good, does he? No, by veget, he doesn't sound good at all. He's going to die, isn't he? Isn’t he?” Bourg lunged forward to Tyter's cot, fell on his knees and clutched the lad’s hand. “Oh, Veget, I'm as tough as a boulder. I have the strength of ten males, but I can't do anything for you. But don’t leave me, Tyter. Don’t leave me, son. Not like your ....” Bourg turned his large hairy face up toward CB, who was standing over him. “For Veget’s sake, do something! You've got to do something for him! I promised his father. I promised - him.”
The caretender recognized the characteristic sound of frantic panic: the sound humans make when they find themselves desperately grasping at shadows in the dark while a loved one lies teetering on the threshold of Death's door. "I'll do all I can, so that your loved one will not suffer in this illness, while Fate resolves to either restore him to us, well and cheerful, or take him from us and return him to the sands of the ancestors."
The words were well rehearsed. Taught to him by his own father! In fact, he could recite them from memory before he could remember which parent to call maumi and which to call paupi. It is no wonder then that he had never really considered their meaning. Somehow they helped to put at ease, those fraught with grief, which is what they were meant to do.
Tonight, however, as he spoke them to this broken hearted giant, kneeling before him, each word struck not only his ears, but his heart, as well. Somewhere in the back of his mind a recent proclamation of Wudrick Pulpitt rebounded in his brain over and over again.
"The more I study the Ancients who built Center House,” Wudrick proclaimed, “the more I am convinced that somewhere along the way we have lost some great truth. We proclaim life in Nuttinnew has always been the same. Yet, we see evidence to the contrary, but choose to ignore it. The Ancients meant for us to have more than we now have, I am sure of it! But we have become content with our own puny-minded existence. We are afraid to change anything lest we go the way of the Ancients. But this is wrong! We must be willing to believe we can do more to improve ourselves and our lives. Fate may be the definitive decision maker when it comes to matters of life or death, but maybe Fate expects us to be an active participant in the making of that decision. Or, perhaps Fate doesn’t determine our futures at all. Perhaps, we are the determiners of Fate.”
These were rebellious words to be sure, but somehow CB felt Wudrick was onto something, even if he didn't understand exactly what he was saying. It was like the feeling he had about the hutch. A person can know something is true even if one cannot precisely express the source of that knowledge or provide a logical argument to sustain it.
CB was a male who had spent his entire life dealing with life and death, and of one thing he was certain: for every truth there loomed an opposite and equal truth. Long ago this lead him to the conclusion that if everything were true then nothing could truly be true - and that was the only truth of which he was truly certain.
Another, more tangible truth, which seemed to carry greater validity than most, was that the scope of human love was potentially without limits. Staring beneath Bourg's thick bushy brows were a pair of dark blue, tear-laden eyes, expressing no less love and concern than the gentle eyes of a caring mother looking into the face of her own dying child. If only CB could find the practical application for Wudrick's elaborate conjectures. For the time being all he could do was what he had always done under such circumstances: try to ease the suffering of both the loving one and the loved one.
"Now, now. I'll take good care of him. You just move back and give us both some room. Why don't you make yourself a bowl of warm veget mush? You’re tired and worried right now. That's very understandable. You'll feel better once you've renewed your strength. I promise you. Go on. Go on, now. Do what your caretender says. That’s an order!"
Bourg wanted to object, but like everyone else in Nuttinnew, he believed the only right thing to do for a sick loved one was to do whatever the caretender ordered. So, heavy of heart, the big male's shoulders fell into a slump as he slowly rose from his knees and teetered, wobbly-kneed, out of the room. In the hall he bent down and picked up a piece of a broken dish. Then, looking back over his shoulder, he watched CB roll Tyter over onto his stomach, and place a damp cloth on the back of his neck. Next he began to remove the bandages from Tyter's buttock.
"He’s got a burn, but I'm not sure how,” Bourg explained. “Strangest business, though, it looks like one of those things that fell out of the sky. It - er - I put some veget ointment on it - didn't know what else to do. You don’t think I caused Tyter to get sick, do you? I mean, I didn’t, did I?"
CB listened to Bourg's words as he unwrapped the bandages. Again, he could hear the high pitched indicators of fear and desperation. CB knew how miserable Bourg would feel if he were somehow to blame for the child’s illness. But as hard as that would be, knowing would have actually made the situation easier on him. For, at least, he would have someone to blame. It’s not the known that makes such events so unbearable for humans. It’s the unknown.
CB studied the burn carefully then turned to Bourg. The facial expression he saw matched the voice. Bourg's eyes were wide and glazed with tears as they stared at the half naked youth quivering on the cot.
"Bourg. Bourg, look at me!" CB ordered. Bourg's eyes flashed to meet his, then darted nervously back to Tyter. "I said, look at me!" again, CB demanded. He knew he could talk to Bourg until he was blue in the face, but until he had the suffering male’s undivided attention, he couldn't commune with him.
Bourg's hollow eyes looked like dark spots sunk into the thick hair covering his entire face. The sight made CB shudder.
"Bourg, you did just fine. You did the best you could - the best anyone could. Now go get something into your stomach. You need to keep up your strength with plenty of food - an
d rest. Judging from what’s happened at the well today, I'd say you'll have a long day of it tomorrow. You take care of the well. I'll take care of your son."
"The well? The well! Who’ll check the water level in the well?” A series of concerns began cascading through Bourg’s mind, promising to keep his thoughts preoccupied while he prepared a fresh pot of veget soup. When it was ready to eat, he aligned the eating room table with Tyter's door so he could keep an eye on his young charge. However, CB made him move it.
By the time Bourg finished eating, CB had redressed Tyter's burn, applied several different ointments to various parts of Tyter's feverish body and forced a half cup of a most horrible smelling concoction down his throat.
After Bourg licked the last residue of the mush from his bowl, he returned to Tyter's door. He still had no idea how he and Loden were going to check the well level on the following morning. "How’s he doing?" he asked in a tone far less anxious than before eating. In fact, he was now feeling quite mellow as he teetered in the door way.
CB turned and looked into his eyes. The hollow look of fear and panic had been replaced with the soft glow of drowsy acquiescence. "The sleeping potion is taking effect - at last,” CB concluded.
The concoction in the flask from which he’d told Bourg to drink was a solution of veget juice laced with one of the many secret potions known only to caretenders. He’d never administered it to a person of Bourg's stature before, being twice as massive as the ordinary male. That’s why he’d told him to take two gulps instead of one. Of course, CB never considered that the size of Bourg's gulp might be twice that of the ordinary male or that Bourg might take it upon himself to take extra gulps.
"Why don't you lie down on your cot, Bourg? There is nothing for you to do now. We'll just have to wait and see if the fever breaks soon, or if Fate - well, we'll just hope for favorable results." CB would have preferred to sound more positive, but he was convinced in his own mind the young male was dying and nothing he did would change that fact. He’d already done all he knew to do for him. He had bathed him, anointed him with various ointments and smothered him in cot covers to burn out the fever. Now, all he could do was do what caretenders were taught to do best: hope for a quick end to the ordeal, one way or the other.
Pieces: Book One, The Rending Page 15