Chapter Thirty-Seven

The next morning, Lognar came to wake them early with a light breakfast. He had heard tell of bad storms in the west, and thus the faster they could get the wheat in, the better off his family would be in the long run. And so, stiff and sore, the companions split off to their duties.

"Madam Finuala, you's to help Ragna wi' preserving t'day," Lognar reminded her.

"I know," she said resignedly, flexing her aching fingers. "Where am I to go?"

He motioned for her to follow, and she trudged after him through the muddy barnyard to the back door of the farmhouse. "Make sure she 'members to bring us luncheon early," he grunted. "'ll be a scorcher t'day."

Aravis, though she was not overwhelmed with delight at the idea of spending the whole day with Ragna, could not help but be relieved that she also would be spending the whole day indoors, out of the sun. Lognar opened the door to the farmhouse and motioned her in, and then he was gone.

The house was dark and smoky. As her eyes adjusted, Aravis could see that it was a typical farmer's house—built long and low, no walls other than the four outer ones. Boundaries and privacy were established by bear hides and hanging tapestries of a quality much lesser than could be seen in a castle or palace, and they were stained with smoke and age. Somewhere in the far corner, a baby fussed, and there was the homey sound of a mother humming to it.

Ragna was in the middle of the building, squatting over a low fire. As Aravis came further in, she glanced up and said, "Oh, are you up, then?"

"Yes," Aravis said wryly.

"Good. There's quite a bit o' preservin' to do t'day. Summer strawberries—vegetables—acorns—"

"Yes, well, let's get to work, then."

Ragna straightened and motioned to the fire. "I've got t'strawberries cookin' already. Keep stirrin'—don't let 'em bubble. I'll go get the rest of t'things."

Aravis, now resigned to her fate, knelt down by the hot hearth and stirred the mass of steaming pink goo that sizzled in an iron pot. It smelled delicious, much as she disliked to admit.

Ragna soon returned with her arms and apron laden with bushels of fruits and vegetables and a mortar and pestle, and then she went back for a multitude of small stone jars. Aravis gazed at these little containers and realized with a sinking heart that she would be expected to fill them all that day.

And so they worked, the heat and smoke of the fire making Aravis wish she had been allowed to work outside, where at last there was fresh air, though it was growing sticky and heavy. A few hours into the morning, she and Ragna brought clay jars of cold well water out to the workers, and the sun burned her eyes. It was getting more and more oppressive as they strode across the mown field towards the workers, and as they watched, Cor laid down his sickle, wiped his brow lingeringly, and then tugged his tunic over his head. Aravis had seen men remove their shirts—and certainly Cor more than once—but there was something intimate about the way he did it this time, slowly and with his back to the mid-morning sun.

"Aravis."

Ram's low voice startled her out of her introspection, and she saw that Ragna had left her side and gone right to Cor with her water jug. She cleared her throat. "Er—sorry."

He eyed her as he drank deeply from the ladle. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, why wouldn't I be?"

The ginger man shrugged his huge bare shoulders. Aravis saw that under the thick coppery hair on his breast there were a few faint scars. "You've seemed a bit distracted lately, 'sall."

"Aren't we all?" she sighed.

Ram smiled and moved off so Dor could have a go at the water.

Descending back into the smoky depths of the farmhouse was near torture after the fresh air of outdoors, but Aravis held her chin high and scrubbed squash for mashing as Ragna went on and on about how to make a smooth squash soup without milk. If there was one thing she had to begrudging give the redhead, it was that she knew her foodstuffs. There wasn't a vegetable or legume that Ragna couldn't pickle, preserve, or mash into a stew of sorts.

Still, Aravis thought, listening to her go on, it was incomprehensible to her that anyone could be so genuinely dense.

"D'you reckon," Ragna said suddenly in the midst of a monologue about the right time of the month to pick radishes, "that plants 'ave little brains?"

"What?" Aravis replied with confusion.

"You know," Ragna pressed, pouring a bit of wax over the cork of the jar she had just finished filling with pickled pears, "they alwa's grow at exac'ly the same time o'year! Ever' year! D'you reckon they 'ave little brains what tell 'em when to pop up?"

Aravis looked at her for a long moment. "No," she said at last, scrubbing the last squash with more vigor than was necessary.

It was several more hours before Ragna stirred from her musings on food. "Egads," she shrieked, leaping from her seat, "it's long pas' luncheon—I've forgot t'bring 'em food—"

"They'll be wilting," Aravis said dryly.

"No, don't get up," Ragna cut across her. "Those turnips 'ave to be stirred jus' so—you stay an' stir, I'll bring t'menfolk their luncheon."

Aravis sank back down on the stool and sullenly poked at the turnips that were pickling over the fire, resenting their dull grey color. It was quiet in the cottage without Ragna's persistent chatter, and soft snoring from the shady bed in the corner told her that the mother and new baby were napping.

Ragna came back in a swirl of sunshine and smiles. She was pinker than usual, and the silly little smile on her lips didn't dissipate as she added more turnips to the pot and took a face full of turnip-y steam.

"Why so happy?" Aravis said darkly after a while, finally unable to tolerate it any longer.

Ragna quirked an eyebrow at her, still wearing that insipid smile. "Y'know Cadoc, don't ye'?"

"Wh—oh, him. Yes."

"What's 'e like?"

The question startled Aravis slightly. Usually girls like this couldn't wait to tell her what 'secrets' they'd learned about him—never had they asked her what Cor was like as a person.

She cleared her throat and stirred the turnips. "He's a scoundrel, really. You wouldn't like him."

Ragna's face fell. "But—'e seems so sweet—"

"He's really not. He likes drinking and making small children cry."

"'ow do you know 'im?"

For the first time in her life, Aravis was tempted to lie and say that she was Cor's wife—who was there to challenge her at that moment? Ragna would cow, leave Cor alone, and let them get on in peace.

"We grew up together," she ended up saying bitterly.

"So you're not—"

"No."

Ragna brightened significantly. "I think 'e's a real catch," she said triumphantly, swinging the cauldron off the fire and starting to ladle the turnips into the jars.

There was a sudden, stomach-churning noise in the back, and the baby started to wail. "What's that?" Ragna cried, trying to turn around.

Aravis, who had been facing the open door, stood up and said grimly, "Well, your catch just vomited all over the doorstop."

She swept to the door as Ram, his tunic tied around his head to shield it from the sun, came stumbling in with Cor hanging off him, looking terrible indeed with skin the color of old porridge.

"He collapsed just a few minutes ago," Ram said breathlessly, helping Cor onto a stool. "Said he was dizzy and—" He broke off as Cor nearly fell from the stool again.

"'e looks well bad," Ragna squeaked.

Aravis went up to him and looked intently at his face. His eyes were half-open, and he didn't focus on her, even when she gripped his jaw in one hand and forced his lolling head to stay upright. "Cor," she said fiercely, shaking his head a little. "Look at me. Look at me—"

He was making an effort, she could tell, but his eyes soon rolled back in his head. She pulled one of his eyelids up and looked at the bright blue eye underneath; the pupil was widely dilated, but what did that signify, since they were in a dark room.

"Tell me exactly what happened," she shot at Ram, who was wiping beads of sweat from his forehead.

"We were working—he said he was thirsty—we kept working. During lunch he didn't eat much, said he felt off, didn't want to drink much—then he went down like a sack of flour. We lifted him up, he vomited and wasn't breathing right, so I brought him back here—he vomited again—"

Aravis put a hand on Cor's forehead and cheek. He was breathing shallowly and burning up like he had a fever, but there was no sheen of sweat on his skin, so it couldn't be that. She ran a hand across his bare stomach, looking for a strange lump or sore under the skin, but nothing; he didn't even respond beyond a low groan when she pinched his arm to look for discharge.

Then it hit her. She felt stupid and dense for a moment—how many times had she seen this before? They called it Wrath of Tash sometimes, or Tashbaani Fever, for the burning summer heat struck down even the strongest and healthiest Calormenes.

"He has sunstroke," she said immediately. "Get him down—put him down on the ground—no, near the door, not the fire. Ragna, douse it."

"But the turni—"

"Douse the fire, Ragna!"

Ram laid Cor flat on his back on the ground near the open door, where a slight breeze was blowing. Aravis found a few tea towels and shoved them under Cor's head, ignoring his moaning.

"How do you know it's sunstroke?" Ram asked, setting Cor's feet on another stack of towels.

Aravis spared him a glance. "I'm Calormene, Ram. Remember? Sunstroke is a rite of passage for us. I know exactly what to do—leave him to me. Now fetch me water—lots of it. And as cold as you can get it. Ragna, have you any ice?"

The woman paused and looked shifty. "N…no…"

"Ragna, he will die if we do not cool him down. Have you got any ice?"

Ragna squeaked and scurried off.

The baby was still crying, but Aravis ignored it and bent over Cor. "Cor, can you hear me?" she said clearly and loudly, right over his nose. "Cor, it's Aravis. Try to open your eyes."

He turned his head weakly to the side and his eyelids fluttered, but there no sign of the bright blue.

"Cor. Stop being ridiculous. Open your eyes this instant!" She accompanied her words with a sharp pat on the jaw.

He did not respond, but it made no matter, for Ram had returned with buckets of water. "Douse his trousers," she said immediately. "No—better yet—take them off. We have to cool him down."

"Not my trousers," came a slurred voice.

Aravis looked down and saw a glimmer of blue as Cor wobbily shook his head back and forth. "Not…my trousers, no…"

"Don't be silly, Cor."
"Aravis, no…I'll tell…Father…"

"You won't tell him anything if I let you die, so shut up. Ram, if you would—"

Ram draped a towel across Cor's stomach for modesty purposes and pulled the dirty trousers off from under it, then took a bucket of water and began pouring it all over him. Cor moaned.

"You have stupid skinny chicken legs, Cor," Aravis said to him. She took a cloth and, soaking it in the cool well water from one of the buckets, began patting down his chest and stomach, running the cloth under his chin and across the back of his neck for good measure.

Ragna came slowly back into the farmhouse with a small package held reverently out before her. "I got t'ice," she said solemnly. "Wha's left o'it, anyhow."

Aravis took it from her and, unwrapping it, ran it across Cor's hot forehead and then applied it quickly to his abdomen, where the heat had been cooking his gut. "Get him to drink, Ragna," she said.

Ragna filled a little jar with some of the water and knelt by Cor's head. "Drink this, Cadoc," she crooned, stroking his hair and brushing the jar against his jaw. Cor turned his head away.

"His name is Cor," Aravis reminded her darkly.

"Drink, Cor," Ragna obediently whispered. Cor wouldn't.

Pushing the ice into Ram's hands with an exasperated sigh, Aravis moved over and pulled the jar out of Ragna's hands. "Cor, if you don't drink, I'll have Ram remove the towel," she said, and shoved the jar against his lips. The water poured out and over his chin, and he sputtered, but then his throat began to bob, and he drank noisily.

Ragna looked hurt, but Aravis ignored her and went back to cooling Cor down with her combination of ice and wet towels. Eventually, he began shivering violently, and Aravis feared he was getting worse, but then the shivering subsided, some color began to come back in his cheeks, and then—her heart leapt—his eyelids fluttered and those bright blue eyes looked dead into hers.

"Feeling better?" she asked, smoothing a damp cloth across his forehead.

"A bit," he croaked. "Have a massive headache now, though."

"That's normal. Just relax."

"Can I have my pants back now?"

She had to smile a bit. "In a few minutes, when you can sit up. Then Ragna will find you somewhere cool and dark to lie down in so you can rest."

At the mention of Ragna, Cor turned his head. "Yes, Ragna—where is she?"

Ragna was there immediately, crooning something Aravis couldn't hear, so she got up abruptly and went about clearing the mess they'd made. Ram helped her, his big bare chest seeming to take up half the room. "You made some clear decisions, lass," he said after a moment of silence. "I'll admit, even I didn't know what to do."

"When one lives in a desert, one learns its sicknesses," she said automatically.

Ram looked at her. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Just fine, thanks. I'll go hang these towels up to dry."

Aravis didn't go back inside again that day. After hanging up the towels, she found herself wandering back up to the pasture where the horses were grazing lazily; Inga trotted up to her when she slipped through the gate, nuzzling her pockets for treats. Aravis scratched her warm neck. She had the most velvety nose of any horse Aravis had ever ridden, and she loved running her palm across it, even though it made Inga snort. There was a strip of pink in the middle of her grey lip, and Aravis liked to think of it as her rebellious streak; she ran her finger down it and then found herself looking at Inga's fine grey face through a haze of tears. The creature whickered softly and nosed her shoulder, but nothing could stop the teardrops now; she was just glad no one was there to see her let them out.

When dinner came around, Lognar brought her a plate of baked squash and honeyed ham, but she chose to eat it in the pasture, saying she had a headache and needed the fresh air.

Night was starting to fall when the fence railing she was sitting on wobbled and warped, and she looked over to see Cor, wrapped in a blanket, making himself comfortable next to her. "You didn't come down for dinner," he said.

"You shouldn't be up and about yet."

"It's cooling off now. I feel much better."

Aravis was quiet for a while. "Ragna is sweet on you."

"I know. She's lovely, isn't she?"

"Mm."

They watched the horses for a minute or two, and Aravis was starting to feel the pressure of a question bubbling up inside her—a question she'd been wanting to ask for ages, it felt like—but before she could articulate it, there was a distant shout, and Cor turned around. "Ragna wants me," he said apologetically, and then he clambered down and was gone.

A few minutes later, the rail bobbled again, and Aravis found herself with the question fully formed and on the tip of her tongue, but when she turned, she saw Ram, not Cor, and the question died instantly.

"You're not all right," he said, gazing out at the pasture, a soft blue color now that the sun had set.

She didn't answer.

"In my line of work," Ram went on, "one learns quite a lot about people. All kinds of people. And you'd be surprised how alike they all are. Narnians are just like Calormenes who are just like Archenlanders. We're all one and the same, we are. The same problems, the same vices, the same grief…it shows up in everyone. I've learned to read it. I've learned to see people, Aravis—see people the way they can't see themselves. Can't or won't."

"What is your line of work?" she asked.

He smiled and shook his great ginger head. "You, lass, are very clever. But you hide behind that. Don't think people don't notice—when you are insecure or scared, you get brilliant. Or arrogant. I see that. I understand that, too. And what I see right now…I see a very frightened little girl. How old are you?"

"I'll be nineteen in October," she said softly.

"See? Hardly a woman grown. No age to have lived what you've lived. I can see it in your face, you know—you carry all of it in your eyes. They get hard and flinty sometimes, Aravis, and you look like an old, tired woman. It's how you look now—how you've looked for weeks. What is it that you're carrying around, Aravis, that makes you feel so old?"

She shrugged halfheartedly.

"No, you know what it is. In fact, I can see it—I can read it in your face. Something about the prince hurts you, doesn't it? No, don't shake your head. I've never see you more brilliant than when you have been with Cor lately—like a diamond, glittering and beautiful but old. Old and worn-out."

"I just—"

Ram waited.

"I just…I wish…" Aravis stared intently at the horses in the fading light. "He forgets me. All the time. Until I fix something—then it's like it was when we were children—so close it's like we share a soul. But then a pretty face comes along—someone new and exciting—and then I'm just Aravis again."

He nodded sagely. "His Highness has fallen into the trap that so many young men fall into."

"And he never learns his lesson," she added bitterly, running her fingers across the line of scarring that had formed on the back of her head.

"When do they?" Ram echoed.

"I don't know what to do. He's doing his duty, verbatim—find a wife. I'm doing my duty, verbatim—help him. But I hate every second of it."

"He's going to be king," Ram replied. Aravis looked at him dryly. "He is going to have to get used to taking wise counsel. Speak to him in a way he'll listen, Aravis. If anyone could do it, you could."

"He won't listen," she said quietly. "We'll row again."

"If another row is what it takes for him to realize he's not the only person in your friendship…"

She had to smile a bit, and Ram heaved a sigh and got down from the fence. "Romith has the first watch," he said to her as he stretched. "You're not on rotation tonight, so get some good rest."

"I will, Ram. Thank you."

"Goodnight, Aravis."

He went back down the hill, and Aravis turned to the pasture. The moon was coming out, and the soft light gently illuminated the horses as they dozed with their heads bobbing, and Aravis breathed deeply of the cool air. Only eight more months to go.