Bourg could hardly keep his eyes open. His fill of warm veget soup always relaxed him, but never like this. Through blinking eyes, he could see CB standing beside Tyter’s cot. The caretender was right, there was nothing else he could do but wait for Fate to play its hand. Without a word, he turned and staggered down the hallway to his own sleeping room. CB could hear his footsteps crunching upon the bits of broken dishes, then there was a short silence, followed by the loud thud of Bourg collapsing on his cot.
"Thank Veget for that!" CB exclaimed aloud to himself. He had no idea what he would have done if Bourg would have collapsed right there in the doorway. He couldn’t have moved him - not by himself. He chuckled as he imagined himself crawling back and forth over the wellkeeper's slumbering, cumbersome frame every time he needed to get something from another room, or relieve himself. He decided he’d better remember to look in on Bourg to make sure he hadn’t overdosed on the mellowing concoction. It wasn’t uncommon for the sleeping potion to take effect right after a person ate something, but why this was so, was a mystery to CB.
Although it was still long before his normal breakfast time, the smell of warm veget soup seasoning the air made CB exceptionally hungry. Sufficiently enticed, he went into the eating room and found a bowl’s worth of veget soup left in the cooking pot. Bourg was in the habit of making enough to satisfy his own voracious appetite while leaving just enough to satisfy the hunger of his growing charge. By now the soup had cooled to air temperature, but CB was too hungry to take the time to reheat it.
After pouring the remains of the soup into the cleanest bowl he could find, he returned to Tyter's room, pulling an eating room chair behind him. Plopping himself down onto the chair, he began eating the soup while watching the bundle of youthful flesh quiver involuntarily on the cot. He felt compassion for the lad as he eagerly slurped in spoonfuls of surprisingly tasty soup.
It was at such difficult moments CB felt most tempted to use a special potion known only to himself which he kept in a small, green vial hidden in a special secret pocket sewn into his own, personal caretender’s bag. It was so well hidden because this particular concoction was the consummate pain reliever, to be used only in cases of the most extreme suffering, as unto death.
CB had inherited the mysterious potion from his father, who had sworn him to secrecy concerning its purpose and effect. His father had also made him swear never to use it except in the most grievous of circumstances. Being deathcot promises, these were two CB had kept most faithfully. In fact, he’d never even opened the green vial, let alone use its contents. There were two reasons for this.
One reason was, he could hardly believe the potion could really be as lethal as his father had described. The other reason was that he feared that it might well be. Often, as now, he had wondered if his father had ever actually used it. But it was an answer he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. So, he’d never asked father, nor was he ever told. Still, he couldn’t help but feel it was an answer which he already knew.
CB thought back to his childhood, to the time of the freak accident when old widow Bludge accidently got herself trapped beneath a collapsed wall of her dilapidated old hut. As best the caretenders could determine, nearly every bone in her frail body had been crushed and mangled. Strangely, it didn’t kill her right off. Stranger still, she remained cantankerously conscious of her condition replete with cankerous pain, and let it be known through her rancorous wailing which could be heard throughout the whole Nuttinnew.
Every time someone attempted to move any part of the wall which was crushing her, she would let out an even more horrific scream, as her life-fluid escaped her body and seeped into sand beneath her, staining it a bright red. It soon became apparent that the very same sandstone wall which was crushing her, was also applying the pressure which prevented her from hemorrhaging to death through the multiple lacerations etching her thin, aged skin.
Thus, the dilemma: If they began to remove the rubble, she would surely lose too much her life-fluid and die before they could dig her out and care for her. On the other hand, if they just left her buried beneath the wall, she would be slowly, agonizingly crushed death. Either way, it would be an appalling event of suffering, culminating in a horrible, undignified end.
Every caretender east and west of the well was called in to give an assessment of the situation. All agreed it was a most problematic challenge, but not even the most experienced caretenders volunteered to officially tackle it.
Perhaps their reluctance was because the solution was so obvious none dared say it aloud. The solution was, of course, for the widow to have the courtesy to just give up and die. But she didn’t. She wouldn’t. So hours upon hours passed with the old female’s inexhaustible wailing, tormenting the ears and minds of everyone in the town.
Some thought her voice was actually becoming stronger, and thereby all the more irritating, with the passage of time. By high noon over half the town had stuffed their ears with veget tufts. Although this helped to muffle the noise, it also had a tendency to cause an irritable itching deep down inside the ear where it could not be scratched without first removing the skull - or so is was postulated.
More than a few people had a fleeting thought of just how to put the widow Bludge out of her misery, and there own as well. Oh, they felt sorry enough for her, but after such a long duration of hearing the sounds of someone else's misery, one has a tendency to shift the pity towards oneself. However, since thoughts are often a long journey from action, the widow's wailing continued as her fellow Nuttinnewians scratched at their inner ears, up their nasal passages and in the furthermost corners of their mouths, trying to locate the definitive spot of the itch’s origin.
CB’s father waited for all the other caretenders to appraise the widow’s situation and to proffer their assessments. Then, he alone volunteered to care for her while the others went into lengthy deliberations, detailing self-exalting feats through exaggerated tales of past situations which in someway could be twisted into having some relevance to the situation at hand. It was a necessary illusion, however, for no one had ever even heard of any circumstance as bizarre as what they now faced.
For several hours the elder CB knelt beside the suffering old female while the rest of the caretenders decided to move their discussions some distance away from the site and sound of the accident. Especially since they found it difficult to be heard over the widow's wailing. Even family and friends eventually retreated to the limited shelter of their huts.
The elder CB’s wife had also retreated to their hut, taking with her their son, the younger CB. There she fed him some veget crispies and sent him to his room for a nap (as if anyone could sleep with all the noise.) CB, however, was not in the mood for sleep. Through his sleeping room window he could see his father, kneeling down beside the poor widow Bludge. Although, it was some distance away, he was sure his father didn’t have any tufts in his ears to help block out the sound.
Being a loving lad, CB crawled out through the window, plucked a couple of tufts growing on a nearby veget plant, and skipped off toward his father. As he approached the sight, he could not believe how much noise the old female was making. Why he and his mother had just visited with her the week before and they could barely hear a word she was saying, her voice being so weak and frail like an old female's voice should sound.
He stopped several rods behind his father and waited for the widow to take a breath so he could tell his father he’d brought him some ear tufts. While he waited, he watched his father bend down until his lips were almost pressed against the old female’s ear, as if he were trying to tell her something and had to practically crawl inside her ear so she could hear it over her own wailing.
At first her screams continued unrestrained, but gradually they became softer and more irregular. From where CB was standing, he could see the widow's eyes open as wide as saucers, then dart back and forth, as she began to comprehend what his father was saying to her.
CB never heard a word
of what his father said, for he’d never raised his voice above a faint whisper. Whatever it was, only he and the widow Bludge would ever know. Eventually, the suffering old female became graciously quiet as CB’s father raised her face to his own. Silently, their eyes communicated a message void of words but full of meaning. Then the elder CB moved his hand to her mouth. It was the first time CB saw the small green vial.
Carefully, his father let two drops of its liquid contents fall onto the widow's parched lips. He licked his own lips as if demonstrating what he wanted her to do. Immediately, her eyes glistened with tears as the solution ran to the corners of her mouth. CB stood mesmerized as watched the old female's tongue darted to each corner, lapping up the clear liquid. Then, still staring deeply into his father’s eyes, she swallowed hard. A moment later he watched his father carefully rest her head on a pillow of soft sand, then gently run his hand over her furrowed brow and close her eyes.
The sudden stillness that followed seemed to roar out its silence as his father’s shuddering body remained hunched over her lifeless form. Then, as if some great, mystical event had come to its logical conclusion, his father straightened up sharply and quickly returned the small green vial to his caretender’s bag.
If CB had removed the tufts from his own ears, he would have heard the muffled sound of his father's sobbing. It was a sound he would hear on many a still and peaceful night while all of Nuttinnew was lost in slumber - all, that is, except the family of Caretender Bocononobono.
Composing himself, the elder CB turned about and was startled to find his own son standing right behind him. When their eyes met young CB noticed how red his father’s eyes were and wondered if it was from remorse or anger. Before he could decide, his father reached down and pulled the tufts from his ears.
"Isn't it your nap time, son?" he asked. "Go on back to the hut, now. Your mother will be in a fret wondering what’s become of you.” Then he patted CB on the head and sent him away.
On his way back to his hut CB passed by the relatives of the widow Bludge who were gathered in a mournful huddle. It was the only sign of grief he noticed, besides his father's. For although everyone else began to gather about expressing their token condolences, the truth was, hardly anyone planned to attend her funeral. In life she had been a rather cranky old thing. As for her tragic events surrounding her death? Well, she could have just as easily, and much more conveniently, died in her sleep. Either way, such were the mysterious workings of Fate, CB assumed figured.
He never saw that green vial again until years later, when he was being initiated into the secrets of caretending by his father. He had always wondered if his father knew he had seen him give the liquid from the green vial to the widow just before she died. After so many years, he wondered, himself, if he had really seen it, or if it was just the confused mind of an imaginative child, trapped in the narrowness of his own limited perception of reality. Whatever the truth was, it remained a secret CB allowed his father to take with him to the grave.
One truth was for certain, though. After that fateful day, his father was never the same. From that day onward he dedicated his life wholly to the art of caretending. Even when he wasn't actually attending to someone, he would spend hours mixing potions and talking with people about their illnesses, both past and present.
In later years, when his sight and hearing was almost gone, CB’s father would spend many private hours in his lab alone. But that all changed when one day CB brought home a curious, new acquaintance named Wudrick Pulpitt. CB didn’t know what his father’s fascination was with his odd, young companion, but they would spend hours upon hours together, discussing all manner of things which made absolutely no sense to poor CB. And although he would have denied it outright, he was always a bit envious of their relationship. On the other hand Wudrick spent so much time at the Bocononobonos, CB could hardly think of him as anything other than a brother.
A loud groan brought CB out of his recollections. His patient had done a pretty good job kicking off nearly all the covers, which CB quickly spread back over him. "Got to sweat out the heat, lad. I don't know any other way of helping you.”
Again Tyter gave out a mournful groan and kicked at the covers he had just tucked under the cot pad. CB studied Tyter. He was fairly sure the lad had the Dreaded Drought Disease, and if he was right, there was nothing he could do to make his passing painless.
CB sat down in his chair, picked up his potion bag and reached in. Pushing aside several potions on the bottom, he cleared the way to pull back a flap which allowed him to work his fingers into the corner of the lining and pull out a small green vial. Handling it very gently, he held it before the flickering light of the candle.
Only twice had CB seriously considered using this potentially lethal potion. And both times just the thought of purposely ending a life almost made him vomit. He was, after all, a caretender. It wasn’t his decision to choose between life and death - only to make the road to either end a little easier for his patient and their relatives.
On the other hand, he held in his hand the very power he shunned. He was so tired of all the human suffering. "If someone is going to die anyway. Wouldn’t it better to allow them to do so without such horrible suffering?" was the question he had so often asked himself.
His mind raced back to the last minor drought. Oh, how his patients suffered, no matter what he did for them. In the end the only real relief came with death. If he was right about Tyter's illness, the lad was just at the beginning of his suffering.
He had always heard the Dreaded Drought Disease likened unto a root of the veget plant cast as a log into the fire. At first the flames are small, because the root is full of the fluid of life. But in time the root dries out and the flames grow larger and hotter until the root itself becomes so hot, the flames themselves, die away and all that is left is the searing embers, devouring the very heart of the root until there is nothing left but dry ash. Then, when the ember goes cold, whatever is left is removed from the fire and poured out upon the sand from whence the root came. Just as we too, are returned to the soil from whence we came. For it is the nature of life to end in death, so that life might be renewed.
CB was never comfortable with this analogy, but it was a tale he’d often told, for it somehow comforted people in their grief, though he didn’t know why. It was just one more lie caretenders learned to tell people, because they can’t bring themselves to tell them the truth. How can they? They don’t know the truth themselves. But as his father had once told him, sometimes any answer is better than, "I don't know!"
CB wondered what lie he would tell Bourg in the morning if he took young Tyter's life that night. Should he say he died of natural causes? Or should he tell him the truth? CB gripped the vial tightly in his hand and leaned forward.
"Oh, Veget, I’m going to vomit!" he cursed - then did.
Chapter 7
The ridge at the edge of the earth gave off a cadmium glow, basking in the blush of the impending dawn, as Keyshi drifted aimlessly among the miles of rolling hills surrounding the little town of Nuttinnew. Several times it had decided to flee far from the collection of human habitats and reassert its prankish nature elsewhere, but its heart was not into playfulness. It’s emotional essence was somberly focused on a singular young human lying - dying - on a sweat soaked cot. Even this perplexed Keyshi. For until it arrived in Nuttinnew it had not known it was capable of feeling such sadness. How it longed for that simpler life when it never thought of consequences for prankish deeds and never felt the torment of guilt.
"It's Old Tonc's fault!” Keyshi hissed over the sand. But it didn't matter what had caused it. Keyshi had what humans call a heart, and that changed everything. To have a heart is to sense a destiny and Keyshi knew its destiny was somehow tied to the human town of Nuttinnew.
The very thought of it made Keyshi quiver. Every instinctual reflex of its being was poised to flee far, far away from that dreadful place, but Keyshi knew without knowing that it co
uld not. So slowly, and most reluctantly, Keyshi turned about and drifted back towards Nuttinnew. Such is the stuff of which heroes are made.
***** ***** *****
Destiny paints a fine line with a broad brush and fills the canvas of life with the most imposing array of living hues. Where brush and canvas meet many lives are forever changed. Even as the bright hues of the new day brushed back the dark shades of night, destiny had already begun to sweep across the blank canvas of yet another living being.
Brindle's body tingled her awake just like it did every time she dreamed she was deep within the belly of the well. The tingling was not a bad feeling - quite the contrary! It was the most glorious feeling she had ever experienced. In this particular dream she saw. . . now, what was it? She couldn't remember. A person? Yes, but who? Oh, she just couldn't remember. Agitation replaced the tingling.
"Blash!” she swore aloud, then quickly muffled her mouth with the hem of her sleeping garment which had risen up under her armpits through the sultry night. She preferred to sleep naked, but her parents forbade it. She wondered if the big, scary, hairy wellkeeper permitted Tyter to sleep naked. Her face flushed at the thought, but she wasn’t sure why.
"Thyda!" she exclaimed as a fragment of her dream returned to her. "Thyda, shic! Bawy shic!" she cried as she jumped from her cot and sprang to her sleeping room window which faced the well.
At the well she saw the eastern wellkeeper, Loden, with another young fellow. Together they were looking down into its depths. Some distance from them she saw a third male walking toward Tyter's hut.
Pieces: Book One, The Rending Page 16