Dragon Talker
Page 16
Yuri ran after it. He couldn’t see the boar, but he could see the path it was making through the undergrowth. Fueled by fear and his newly given strength, Yuri could tell he was gaining on the boar. What he wondered was would he be able to catch the boar before the boar caught up with Bernard. Boar tusks were deadly and Yuri had seen more than one dead wolf that proved it.
Every time the boar came into view, Yuri would raise up his bow, slowing down in the process, and try to aim at the boar. Each time, the boar disappeared in the bushes before he could take his shot. Frustrated and knowing he was losing ground, Yuri threw down his bow and started running as fast as he could without the encumbrance of the bow. He could see Bernard now, running about twenty feet in front of him.
The boar was closing in on Bernard. As Yuri closed in on the boar, he pulled his knife from the sheath on his belt without losing his stride, closing the distance quickly. Yuri screamed, “No!” as he saw Bernard fall to the ground. Bernard, who had tripped on a branch, crashed to the ground. He rolled over on his back to see the boar, head down, charging from only five feet away.
Frozen in fear, Bernard watched the boar close the final feet. He also saw Yuri right behind the boar. At the last second, Bernard raised his feet to kick at the boar’s head. The boar raised its head, and tusks, into his little legs, tearing through his pants and carving into his legs. Bernard screamed in pain. The blow rolled him over, snapping his leg, and through all the pain, he knew the boar was going to gore him in the back. He balled himself up and waited for the blow.
The searing pain to his back never came. Instead, he heard Yuri tackle the boar with a loud thud of clashing bodies. Yuri was too late to stop the first attack of the boar, catching up to the boar just as the boar was gouging Bernard’s legs. He did tackle the boar from behind, the force of his blow carrying both of them over Bernard’s small body.
Yuri had stabbed the boar in the side as he tackled it, but the boar had spun around in his grasp so it was able to kick at Yuri’s chest. He barely felt the blows through the dragon scales, though the boar was squirming in his grasp. A front hoof clipped Yuri above his left eye. Blood immediately blocked the vision in that eye. He let go, more out of shock than pain. Squinting, Yuri watched the boar, which was unsteady on its feet. Yuri could see it bleeding slowly from the wound in its side.
It tried to circle around Yuri to get to Bernard, but Yuri kept blocking him. If I still had my bow, this would already be over, he thought. The knife in his hand was slick with blood, as was his hand. He switched the knife to his left hand and wiped the blood off his right hand on his pants, watching the boar the entire time. Returning the knife to his right hand, he turned it so the blade faced down, the dull side of the blade resting against his wrist.
“How are you doing, Bernard?” he asked.
Weakly, Bernard replied, “It hurts.”
Yuri didn’t dare turn his back to the boar, so he walked towards it instead. “Boar,” he shouted, “get lost!” The boar took a step back as Yuri approached, not sure what to make of him. Yuri kept walking. Yuri could tell the boar was having second thoughts. He ripped his shirt open, exposing the blue scales on his chest, yelling, “Come on!”
Yuri wasn’t sure if it was the wound, the shouting, or the scales, but the boar snorted once, turned, and ran into the underbrush. Yuri put the knife back in its sheath and ran to Bernard. “You’re safe now, Bernard. Let me take a look at those legs.”
Bernard was curled into a ball. At Yuri’s touch, he straightened a little. Seeing his left leg, Yuri was grateful to see only a few deep scratches, painful, but nothing too serious. Yuri winced at the sight of his right leg. Bernard’s lower leg was to the bone, a bone that was broken, and while his thigh wasn’t cut to the bone, he could see deep gouges in the muscle. Bernard’s skin was already white from loss of blood.
Yuri tore a strip off his shirt and wrapped it around Bernard’s thigh. It was soaked in blood immediately. Yuri threw off his jacket and took his shirt off. He ripped it in two, using half for the thigh wound and the other for the lower leg. “You’re going to be okay. I’m going to get you to help.” Yuri prayed that the old man they met on the road knew more about healing than he did.
Yuri wrapped Bernard in his coat. Bernard passed out from the pain when Yuri picked him up. Yuri felt the blood running from the wounds roll across his right hand as he carried Bernard, but he tried not to think about it. Between blaming himself for taking such a young boy out into the woods, Yuri offered encouragement as he headed back to the wagon, “Hang in there, little one.”
Yuri didn’t know if he should run or not. Running, he would get there faster, but that would also shake Bernard more than walking. Which was more important, time or stability? Fear took over. The fear of Bernard dying because he was too slow, the fear of carrying another dead child in his arms. “You’re going to make it,” he said, as he picked up his pace. As he ran, he tried to use the new strength of his arms to cushion Bernard from the impact of his steps. He did his best to raise and lower Bernard to counter the rise and fall of his own body as he ran.
In between his worry about Bernard, a small voice is Yuri’s head kept shouting, “This isn’t fair, this isn’t fair.” It made him want to quit running, curl up on the ground, and wait for someone older to come and take care of things. Looking down at Bernard, Yuri felt shame that he could even think that while this boy’s life was on the line, but he could. He did. And he ran on through it all.
Chapter 32
Hental, on his own mission, was smiling as he entered Selma’s hut, immediately asking, “How are the goats?”
“You tell me, Hental. Go outside, see how they are, and then come in for some tea.”
This was new. Normally, Selma would tell Hental how the goats were doing and what, if anything, he needed to watch for, like a sore leg or possible sickness. Hental shrugged his shoulders, said, “Okay,” and headed back outside.
Each sheep had two names: Selma’s given name and Hental’s nickname, usually much less flattering. Daisy, for example, a beautiful but dimwitted sheep, earned the moniker, Daisy Dumb as Rocks. Oak, a large male goat that was not impressed with Hental and usually ignored him, was called Dragon Butt. A few actually had nice names, the friendly goat Primrose was nicknamed Fuzzy Face, in recognition of both the goat’s soft fur and how much Hental did like rubbing her face when she came up and nuzzled him.
As soon as he entered the pen, he looked for Primrose, asking, “Where’s Fuzzy Face?” Normally, she would be the first goat to come up and check him out, both to say hi and to look for a carrot or some other snack Hental sometimes had. Oak was circling behind Hental, which he did when he was planning on head-butting Hental’s behind. “Back off, Dragon Butt. I see you,” Hental scolded, pointing at Oak.
He kept his finger pointing at Oak as he looked around the pen, as if holding him in place with his finger. Primrose was lying in a corner. “There you are,” Hental said as he started walking over. “What’s wrong with you? No greeting?” As he got closer, Hental realized something was wrong. The goat was breathing shallowly and there were spots of scabby red skin throughout her coat. Hental wasn’t sure if the hair fell out or she gnawed the hair off, but he knew it was bad.
He put his hand on Primrose’s head. As she raised it feebly, he said, “It’s going to be okay. I’ll take care of you.” He looked around to see if any of the other goats where acting like Primrose. All the other goats were up and about, except an older goat named Willow - Blindy to Hental due to the fact that its vision was failing. “Okay, you two need to be separated. First, he gently carried Primrose to a small pen next to the window of the hut. This location made it easier to listen to whatever goat was in this pen from the hut. When a goat was really ill, it would be in the hut.
As he got in the pen, he realized it hadn’t been used in a while. “Wait till I get some new hay.” Primrose lay down immediately, though, too tired to stand. Hental brought in some fresh hay, and
when Primrose wouldn’t move to it, he picked her up and set her on it. “There. Now I’ll go get Blindy.” He brought in the second goat, setting it down in the new hay next to Primrose.
Hental looked around the little pen, thinking about what they needed and what he should do. “Water,” he said out loud, and went and brought a pail of water from the trough in the main pen. The goats, though, did not look like they had the strength to get up and go to the water so Hental cupped a little water in his hand and kneeled down in front of Primrose. He put his hand in front of her mouth, saying, “Here you go. Drink a little water.”
Primrose sniffed his hand and took a few licks of the water. “Good girl.” He rubbed her face with his free hand. As he did, he could feel the heat emanating from her nose. “A fever and scabs, what am I going to do with you, Fuzzy Face?” Primrose stopped drinking after a few licks and laid her head back down on the ground. Hental did the same thing with Willow, then headed back into the hut.
Selma had her back turned to the door and was gathering some items from a shelf on the wall. She turned, asking, “So how is our flock?” By her tone, Hental knew she had heard him talking to the sheep, or already knew that some were sick before he went out.
“Pretty good,” Hental replied, “but Fuzz…Primrose and Willow are sick.”
“What are their symptoms?”
Hental suddenly felt grown up, realizing he was having an adult conversation with Selma. He stood a little taller and tried to sound like one of the grownups in a village meeting. “Well, they are weak. Both of ‘em just want to lay down, and they’re missing wool, with scabs where they chewed it off.”
“How do you know they chewed it off?”
“Um…the scabs?” Hental suddenly wasn’t sure if he was right.
Selma smiled, “It could be, Hental. You are a good little shepherd. Are there blisters anywhere?”
“I didn’t see any.” Hental paused and thought about it, “No, no blisters. I woulda saw them. And they are hot to touch.”
“They are fighting something, then. Not just allergies. What,” she asked, looking at him carefully, “are we going to do?”
Hental knew this was a test and he did not want to fail. “Check their poop?”
“Always wise. I knew there was a reason I liked you, Hental. What else?” She didn’t move in her chair, but Hental could practically see her thoughts moving in her head, thoughts like: is this boy smart enough to care for the goats? Has he been paying attention or just running around? Is he still a boy or is he becoming a man?
He didn’t want to disappoint her, and he also had the feeling that if she was proud of him, his father would be, too. His father never had anything but appreciative words to say about Selma, even when others criticized her for one thing or another. “Well,” Hental was both going back in his mind thinking of what Selma had done in the past. “We should make a bath and add Yarrow for them to soak in.”
“Very good, Hental. Yarrow is great for fevers. What about the sores?” she asked.
“That’s easy, make a chamomile poultice. My mom does that all the time when we get cuts.” Hental was smiling.
“I think you are going to be an excellent herder, Hental.”
Hental shook his head. “I don’t know, I just like goats.”
“That,” smiled Selma, “is the first requirement of a good herder.” She paused. Hental wasn’t sure why. Finally, she sighed and said, “You know where I keep everything, so get to work on making that poultice, and instead of a bath for the two, let’s make it a strong tea they can drink. If you weren’t using the poultice, I’d do the bath. The two can work really well together, get it from both sides.”
Hental was a little confused. He had thought more was going on besides deciding on treatment. Still, Selma was often hard to figure out. She did things her own way and wasn’t afraid to go against tradition, common sense, or the will of other villagers. And, he thought, she’s almost always right when she does. That thought both put a smile on his face and then he also felt a wave of sadness, knowing that she would not be around for much longer. He didn’t say any of this; he didn’t know how, so he went to work making the poultice instead.
After making the chamomile poultice, Hental headed out to apply it to the two goats. Selma followed him out and stayed outside the pen, watching Hental and encouraging him. “Don’t just charge in there like a momma boar protecting her young, Hental. Let them know you are here to help. It isn’t just the medicine a shepherd gives that helps a goat heal, it’s the shepherd, too.”
“I know,” Hental replied, faking exasperation. In reality, he was going to head straight in, grab a goat, and apply the medicine, whether they were ready for it or liked it. He slowed his gait and went to Primrose first. “Hey Fuzzy Face,” he said gently. “I have some medicine here to make you feel better.” He put it under her nose so she could smell it. “I’m going to put it on your sores and you’ll start feeling better, I promise.”
He set the batch of poultice down. With one hand, he patted Primrose’s head gently. With the other, he started carefully covering her wounds with the poultice. Primrose continued to lie still during the entire process. When he was done, Hental leaned down and kissed her on the head. “You’ll be okay. I’ll bring some good tea to drink later.”
As Selma watched, Hental repeated the process with Willow. “You’re doing a good job, Hental. Remember a sick animal is an extra sensitive animal.”
“Okay,” Hental replied, thinking to himself, I know that, but also adjusting the way he was applying the poultice to Willow. He was slower and light to the touch.
“That’s it,” Selma said, “Goats aren’t people. You can’t think as if they are a person, but always move to thinking like them. They aren’t shaped like us, they don’t eat like us, and they don’t understand words. It’s all tone and action, Hental, tone and action.”
“I know,” replied Hental, even as he made a mental note to remember: animals don’t understand words. They get tone and action. Then, Hental had an unexpected insight about animals. They talk through tone and action. He actually paused as he had that thought. This was a new idea. Of course he could tell when some animals were angry, hissing, growling, swooping down at him, but he hadn’t thought about telling their other emotions.
Just as quickly as this thought entered his mind, another jumped in. He knew Oak, or Dragon Butt, was sick. The pink spots flashed in his mind, which was the most obvious sign, but the goat also didn’t rush him as he entered. Pointing at the goat had never worked before and Hental realized it didn’t work this time either.
“I think Dra…Oak is sick, too,” he told Selma.
“Let’s take a look, then.”
This ought to be a fun time, Hental thought sarcastically. He never got along with Oak and could only imagine how difficult the goat would be when it was not feeling good. He whispered conspiratorially to Willow, “Now I’ll go do the same with ol’ Dragon Butt.”
Louder, he stood up and said, “Okay, Oak, it is your turn.” Walking into the pen, he thought about Oak. Oak was cranky, stubborn, and liked to fight. No wonder Selma liked him, Hental thought, he’s like her. Then he heard Selma’s earlier words run through his head: tone and action, tone and action. He knew the tone immediately, firm. Anything else would just lead to trouble. That was the only tone that worked on him, besides with his mother, and he knew his relationship to Oak was anything but motherly.
Before getting too close, Hental tried to think about being a goat. You’re stupid, he thought, but can see what’s coming. He knew that, and was almost ready to consider they weren’t as stupid as he thought, but not quite yet. “So, how are you today, Oak?” he asked cautiously. As he did, he looked him over. There were red spots on his side, the ones he saw earlier. Now, if I was a goat, he thought, side sores aren’t that big a deal, but I wouldn’t want them touched. My little goat armpits, though, sores there would slow me down. Is that why you didn’t charge me today?
Selma smiled. There were adults in the village that would be more than happy to have and take care of her goats after she died. She didn’t like most of them. Still, she wasn’t about to give them to a boy just out of spite, even a boy she liked like Hental. She knew Hental had a temper and a stubborn streak, two things she liked, but before she would put her goats in his charge, she needed to know that he had really learned all the things she had been informally teaching him.
Hental didn’t know, would never know, that the night before, Selma had rubbed a poison ivy extract on these three particular goats. She knew he would take care of Primrose because she was his favorite. What she was most interested in how he would treat the weakest, Willow, and the one he didn’t like, Oak. She gave out a little laugh, thinking how mad Hental would be if he knew she did this. It was one of the reasons she picked him two years ago to start helping with the herd. His father hadn’t been sure, but he trusted her and was also one of the few adults in the village she had any tolerance for.
She turned her attention back to Hental as he finished putting the poultice on Oak. She watched him get down on all four to look under Oak, keeping one hand up between Oak’s head and his, just in case Oak got any ideas about butting him while he was down there. She asked, “What are you thinking?”