Falling From the Tree (Darshian Tales #2)

by Ann Somerville

  “Hope we find out who he belongs to soon,” Nym muttered as he took the weight of the board, his father at the head. Joti gave him a sharp look before turning his attention back to his patient.

  They laid the boy on the bed, and the sight of his blond, alien head against the pillows in this familiar place, nearly drove Nym out of the room in his anger. But he bit down hard on his temper, and no one seemed to notice anything amiss as Joti pulled up a stool and conducted a more careful examination. The boy was conscious, barely, and in a lot of pain. Joti pinched his skin in a couple of places and frowned. Whatever he’d discovered, didn’t please him.

  Finally, he rose and shooed everyone out in the hall. “Right—that’s a very sick young man,” he said to Nym’s father. “He can’t be moved, and will need constant nursing. Are you willing to take it on, Letu?”

  “Can’t you take him back to your house?” Pa said. “It’s hard to ask this of us now, you know that.”

  “Yes, I do,” the healer said, frowning again. “And I wouldn’t if there was a better alternative. He’s dehydrated and feverish—we need to get fluid into him, treat that broken arm, and then wait and see what other surprises he’s got in store. If I take him to the Prijian physicians, it’s as good as killing him, you know that.” Pa nodded, looking grim. “But I have no one at my house who can offer him the intensive nursing he needs.”

  “What about the cost?” Nym said gruffly. “Why should we pay for some Prij who invades our home?”

  “Nym, that’s enough,” Pa said, looking surprised at his outburst. “Simple decency demands we help this boy, at least until we find his people.”

  “I won’t charge, Letu,” Joti said, giving Nym a hard look. “All I want is your help in caring for him until he can be moved. Which won’t be for at least a week, probably two.”

  “Then we shall give that help for humanity’s sake. Nym, you and I will take this on. Jaika and your mother can manage the shop.”

  “Pa, I don’t—”

  His father cut him off. “Son—that boy could die. Do you want that on your conscience?”

  “I never asked him to come into the garden. We can’t help every Prij in Utuk.”

  “You’re not being asked to. You and I have the most medical knowledge of the five...four of us. Joti, what do we need to do?”

  “Pa, I’ll help if Nym doesn’t want to,” Jaika said. “I don’t care he’s Prijian.”

  “Thank you, daughter, but the boy’s tall and will need lifting. You can help though—start by getting a clean nightshirt. We need to get him out of those wet clothes, right, Joti?”

  “Yes, as soon as we can. We also need to get tea with honey into him, and a thin soup when he’s a little better.”

  “I’ll tell Ma and Lomi,” Jaika said. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  She hurried off. Nym stared sourly after her. She just thought this was a distraction, a bit of excitement. The defilement of their home didn’t matter to her at all.

  “Come on, Nym. We need to get this boy undressed and under some warm covers.” His father took it for granted he would follow, and of course Nym did, hating every moment of this.

  The boy had passed out again. One thing was for sure—he really did need clean, dry clothes. The ones he was wearing were dirty, wet and not good quality—fit only for burning in Nym’s unexpressed opinion, though he was used to the wretched clothing of the poor of this city. No one gave a damn if they had nothing to wear—Nym had never seen any charitable organisation working with the unfortunate, not like the ones the Darshianese ran here and in Urshek. “We’ll need to cut that shirt off,” Joti said. “We’ve no chance of getting the sleeve over his arm, and I want him jostled as little as possible.”

  Nym fetched a pair of scissors, and his father helped the healer remove the damp shirt. What was revealed, shocked them all. The bruises were deep and ugly, some looking bone deep, and of different shapes and sizes, like both fists and a weapon of some kind had been used. “Blessed gods,” Pa whispered. “Joti, that’s not the result of an accident.”

  Joti touched one dreadful bruise, his expression compassionate and sad. “No. Someone’s been beating this lad and for some time. These ones are recent, and of a piece with the marks on his face and his arm. If we were in Darshian, I’d call the authorities, but here....”

  “No,” Pa agreed. The army were not people they wanted to get involved with here. Their best bet was to get this boy back on his feet and out of the house as quickly as possible.

  Nym helped Pa remove the boy’s trousers and seeing his underwear was just as damp, stripped him completely. Under his clothes, he was milk-pale, the curls at his groin a pale red gold, only a little darker than the blond hair on his head. But the most obvious feature were the hideous bruises—someone clearly liked to use this boy as a punching bag.

  The boy struggled a bit and cried out weakly as Joti splinted and bound his arm, but though the healer did his best with his voice and his gentle touch to calm him, he offered no drugs. He explained as he took them aside while he washed his hands. “I daren’t give him anything with that concussion,” he said. “But he needs to rest, and certainly not stand or exert himself. I’ll have to resplint the arm when the swelling goes down. Someone needs to sit with him, try and give him liquids, reassure him. You can see, both of you, that he’s been badly treated. I want him to feel safe, at least while he’s here.”

  “And he’ll be gone in two weeks,” Nym said.

  “He’ll be gone when he has a safe place to return to,” his father said firmly. “Nym, he’s but a child. I’m surprised at your attitude.”

  “I don’t want him here,” Nym said. “He’ll bring trouble, and we’ve had enough sorrow this year.” Enough for a lifetime.

  “That’s true enough,” Joti said in a mild tone. “And if there was a decent alternative, I’d not burden you or this house. But fate often plays tricks with us, and for whatever reason, he’s landed here. Don’t make him suffer for your bad temper, Nym. Someone’s already done that to him. I’d never have thought you a person to wish another ill.”

  “I don’t, I just—” Nym clenched his jaw. He sounded petulant and childish. Joti was right—fate did not respect grief or sorrow. “How can we make him drink if he’s unconscious?”

  “You can’t, and you mustn’t try, because you’ll make him choke. You’ll have to rouse him, help him to drink while he’s awake. I’m worried he’s got an infection since he’s so hot, but that might be the exposure. How long could he have been out there, do you think?”

  “Days,” Nym admitted. “I’ve not been in the garden for at least three, and I only checked behind the shed because of those boys we had hiding there a while ago—you remember, Pa?”

  “Yes. How long do you think he’s been like that, Joti?”

  “Easily two, three days—it’s the dehydration that’s worrying me as much as the concussion.”

  A moan made them all turn, and they found the boy trying to sit. “Shhh, shhh,” Joti said, going to him immediately to soothe him. “Calm down, you’re safe and with friends,” he said, which was a pissing presumption, Nym thought.

  Jaika came in with a tray and a nightshirt over her arm—Nym hoped it was one of his. Surely not even Jaika would be so callous to use any of the others. “Is he all right?” she asked, coming up to peer curiously at their guest.

  “He’ll be fine,” his father said. “Now go and help your Ma. The boy needs quiet, so I want you to stay out of here, do you understand? No messing around, Jai-chi.”

  “I won’t,” she said, sounding only a little sulky. “Are you and Nym going to spend all your time in here?”

  “No. Leave that to me, miss. Off you go.”

  She pouted at Pa but then left the room. His father handed the tray to Nym. “Son, you’ll need to take over for now. I’ve got a few things to do before I’m free. Joti will explain, and you can tell me. I’ll be back in an hour. Joti, if you need anything,
just ask.”

  Joti bowed a little. “This kindness will bless your house, Letu. Pour some of that tea, Nym. Bring a spoon, then you come sit here. Yes, here, right by him. Now, young man, this is Nym. Can you open your eyes for me? Can you hear me? Move your fingers if you can.”

  There was a twitch of the boy’s good hand, but it could have been a coincidence—he didn’t really seem to be awake, even though his eyes were half-open. Now Nym was sitting so close to him, he could really appreciate the severity of the bruising on the boy’s face and jaw, and see the lumps on his head. Why would someone beat another human being up in this manner? What had the boy done to provoke it?

  Joti had fetched one of the cloths provided to dry his hands, and put it under the boy’s chin. “Nym, I want you to spoon a little—a very little—tea into his mouth when he’s awake like this. Wait until he swallows.”

  “I know how to feed someone tea,” Nym ground out. “It’s not like I don’t have experience.”

  The healer finally realised just how upset he was by all this. “My apologies, Nym. Of course you know how to do this, and this young fellow is benefiting from a sorrow which he cannot know anything about. Don’t hold it against him, I beg you.”

  Nym swallowed his anger. He was shaming himself and his family by his temper. “I’m trying not to...what else do I need to do?” He managed to get a little tea between slack, bruised lips, though most of it ran out. At least the boy didn’t choke, and the next spoonful went down properly. “How much does he need to drink?”

  “As much as he’ll take, though I doubt it’ll be much. He’ll probably want to vomit, I’m warning you—that concussion will be making him sick to his stomach, as you saw from the state of his clothes. Talk to him, keep him awake. Other than rest and support, the only treatment is time and kindness.” Joti stroked the boy’s forehead gently, which soothed him a little. “Rest, young man. You’re in good hands.”

  He stood, then rested his hand on Nym’s shoulder. “I’ll come back this evening, then twice a day until he’s on the mend. Send for me if there’s any change, or you need help. You know, he’s very lucky you found him when you did—you probably saved his life. I’ll see you later.”

  Nym nodded politely as the healer left, but inwardly he was screaming with rage. Why did it have to be this stranger whose life was saved and not...? He looked down at their patient, and felt such a wave of hatred towards him that he could have strangled him with his bare hands for the offence of continuing to breathe. It wasn’t fair—why him, and not...?

  He realised he was crying, and stood abruptly. He went over to the window, blew his nose and tried to get his composure back. Would this ever get any easier? He looked over, saw the coil of braided hair on the shelf, and his eyes filled again. Of all the things about that time which really, really hurt, the one that stood out the most—strangely, it seemed to him—was that long braid being cut. He remembered his mother holding it in her hands, tears streaming down her face. Pa taking it from her and placing it reverently where it sat now, then going back to this very bed and drawing the sheet gently up over pale, silent features. That morning had been the worst time of Nym’s entire life. All this happening now felt like he was being mocked.

  A sound from their guest made him turn, and he hastily wiped his eyes before taking his seat, propping the boy up on his arm, and determinedly beginning to feed him sips of tea. Get well, then get out of my life. Leave me to my grief—you’re not welcome.

  Landing Softly: 3

  Jembis couldn’t fight clear of the fog in his brain, no matter how hard he tried to concentrate, or rouse himself. People spoke to him, and he thought he answered, but moments later all he could recall was that they had spoken, not what they had said or what he’d replied. Gradually he realised he was in a house, and that the people around him were Darshianese, though they spoke to him in good Prijian. There were male and female voices—mostly kind, mostly gentle, though there was one who sounded cold a lot of the time. But that voice rarely spoke. The faces were kind too, though his sight was as muddled as his brain.

  How had he ended up in a Darshianese house? And how long had he been here? He couldn’t track time any better than the conversation—his life was a series of short periods of wakefulness and pain, with people asking him questions and poking him gently, feeding him welcome sips of sweet tea, and then unknown time spent asleep, waking sometimes when it was light, sometimes when it was dark. There was always someone there, though. A girl who talked a lot and made his head ache. A woman with a sad face and gentle hands. An older man, a big, strong fellow who handled him carefully and spoke to him respectfully. Another man—the healer, he thought—with greying hair and a kind manner, who apologised for hurting him as he tended his arm and other injuries.

  And then there was a young man who was there the most often, who spoke the least. He was careful with Jembis, but without the kind words the healer used. He was skilled, but his expression as he worked was one of distaste. Jembis was a little afraid of this one, and hoped he could escape from wherever this was, soon. If the good will that had taken him under shelter was already crumbling, he didn’t want to be around when it finally disappeared. He was too vulnerable right now, and aware he was now all alone in the world.

  He had felt sick and in pain for so long, and thinking was such an effort, that he had little choice for now but to drift along in this dreary fog. The nausea lessened little by little, and the tea was occasionally replaced by a light soup which was very good and as much as his stomach could handle. His arm ached abominably and from the look of the bindings on it, it was a bad break—would he ever get the use of it back? He didn’t like to ask. He didn’t want to upset these people at all, at least until he could stand on his own. Right now, he couldn’t even piss on his own. He wondered who these strangers were, and why they were helping him. No one seemed to think they needed to explain—or perhaps they had and he’d forgotten. Thoughts skittered in and out of his head like angry rodents and with as little purpose, so it wasn’t unlikely he’d been told.

  As time went by, he felt less drowsy—in fact, sleep was harder in coming now, because the pain in his head and arm was enough to keep him awake. He became completely aware of his surroundings for the first time, could make sense of it now he saw it by daylight and with eyes that were something like normal. For once, he was alone—that might mean he was doing better, but he didn’t know. He was lying on a narrow, comfortable bed in a small, airy room. For some reason, he’d thought he was in a larger chamber but he’d not really got any clear impression before. Everything was neat and clean, and cheery pictures of animals and plants hung here and there on the walls, brightening the room further. His jacket was on a hook by the door, and on the floor near it, was his pack, or what looked like it anyway. He was wearing something soft, like a loose shirt—not his own, obviously. He felt down lower—no drawers. He supposed that made sense.

  “Ah, you’re awake—ready for more soup?”

  He turned his head a little. It was the young, unfriendly man. “Uh...I’m not really hungry.” He took care to use Darshianese, though his words were slow and thick, like his thoughts.

  “You speak our tongue?”

  Jembis nodded, then winced—his head hurt with any movement. “Where am I?”

  “My family’s home. The one you broke into. Don’t you remember?”

  He couldn’t, not at all—he hadn’t broken into anyone’s house, surely. “Um, no?”

  The man just grunted. “Well you did—found you in the garden, all beaten up. Who did that to you?”

  Jembis stared. He didn’t know this man, and didn’t know if he could trust him—he didn’t want anyone to look for his father or contact him at all. “Don’t remember,” he lied.

  “Right,” the man said sceptically. “You’re Jembis? Who’s Cecu?”

  “Uh...my pet. A lizard.”

  For some reason, that made the man laugh dryly. “Ah. So much for us thinking it wa
s your sister or something. How old are you?”

  Jembis didn’t like this interrogation or the man’s tone, and he was determined not to give him any reason to hand him over to the authorities. “Nineteen.”

  “Yes, of course you are. And I’m the sovereign of Kuprij. Well, since you’re awake, you must be better. Which means you can leave soon.”

  The tone made it very clear he thought this was a good thing. “Uh...how long have I been here?” At some point they’d slipped back into speaking Prijian—the man’s accent was pretty good. “And what’s your name?”

  “Nym. This is the house of Letu and Karin. Our home. You’ve been here ten days. Long enough.”

  Nym stared at him with hostile eyes, and Jembis cringed a little. This man wished him ill, no doubt about it. “Can I leave now?”

  Another short, humourless laugh. “I wish you could. Healer Joti would have my balls though. He’ll be here this afternoon. You can ask him when you can go. I’m just here to feed you and help you piss. If you don’t need either of those things, then I’ve got things to do.”

  At Jembis’s lack of response, Nym snorted and stomped out. Jembis felt bludgeoned by his anger, and afraid. He had to get out of here. But first, he had to try standing up on his own.

  So much easier said than done. The dizziness which he’d thought had gone, was only sleeping, and came back in force as he got to his feet—for a few moments, he thought he would throw up, but he hung onto the headboard and swallowed hard, and nothing came up. Moving had set all the aches and pains in his body screaming, and his arm was a sharp agony every time he shifted it. The pain he could ignore, mostly—but the uselessness of his right arm and hand was a problem. Removing the long shirt in which he’d been dressed was going to be impossible without help, and he really didn’t want to ask for help from the departed Nym. He had to at least get his trousers on, and his boots—but he had to find them first.

  His boots were behind his pack—they looked freshly cleaned and oiled, which he’d not been expecting. He managed to get his pack open, and found his spare shirt and pants still neatly folded in there, just as he’d put them. No one had been rummaging around, or they’d been careful at least, to put things back tidily. Getting the trousers on was almost beyond him—he had no hope of tying the waist band closed, and had to use a bit of rope he had in his pack to hold things together. No idea where his belt was. By the time he was done, he looked ridiculous—the long shirt stuffed into his pants, the rope holding them up—he’d be picked up in a minute by the army. If he could just find his belt....