Giver34

"Boil water," my uncle instructed, completely ignoring the man's comment. "And you," he said to the little girl, "tear strips of cloth apart and make certain they stay as free of dirt as possible."

They stared at him, blank-faced and wary.

"Have you all gone deaf or are you nothing but ignorant vagrants?"

All of them backed away and instantly busied themselves. Within moments the sound of fabric ripping and pots being rustled in their sack filled the uncomfortable silence.

My uncle said little to me, deciding that actions were stronger than words. He motioned for me to sit, which I did, and to show him my hand. Reluctantly I uncurled my fingers and allowed him to see the deep gash to the meaty part of my hand. I hadn't realized I'd cut myself, yet there was a hole filled with dirt, debris, and my own oozing blood.

"Oh, hell," I said under my breath.

He exhaled disapprovingly and sat back on his haunches. Girl stood nearby, her backside still wagging like a mother pleased to have found her son. I watched her to keep myself from crying, as I still felt the need to break down and sob uncontrollably.

The others, whom I despised, stood at a distance and observed with curiosity and fear. I sensed them drawing further away from my apparent madness, and as much as I wanted to hate them for it, I understood their apprehension. If I'd returned quietly, perhaps with food or wine—although I had no idea where I would have found either—they may have at least looked at me with indifference.

"You'll be fortunate if you ever play again," my uncle said quietly, his voice filled with anger.

There were so few times when he snapped at me that I couldn't help but bow my head in shame. Tears filled my eyes, treacherous emotions of self-deprecation and pity. I inhaled sharply as though it would keep me from breaking down, but my body shook and I knew I'd put myself on display.

"Calm down," he said. He sounded apologetic, mindful of how angry I'd become with myself. "Let me have a better look at it."

I think it began to hurt worse because I was suddenly afraid I'd ruined my only saving grace, my talent for creating music. My eyes closed tightly, sickness welling in my gut as I offered my hand and hoped he wouldn't come to the conclusion that I was now completely worthless.

"Can you feel this?"

White hot fire shot up my arm and I pulled away from him, cursing loudly in pain. It felt as though he'd stuck a hot iron through my hand.

"I suppose you can," he said with a wry smile. "That's a good sign. It means everything is still intact. Trust me, you want to feel pain."

I wanted to tell him I was always in pain, but I couldn't bear to speak. The world suddenly frightened me with acute and hideous dangers. I looked at him, saw how thin and fragile he'd become. It would be unlikely that I could survive one night alone, one night without him. If he died, so would I. Strangely I felt no sense of fear, merely the impatience of getting it over with as quickly as possible.

Cold settled in and I began to tremble. I stared down at my clothes and noticed the dozens of paw prints where Girl had stood over me and forced me to submit to her careful tending. Half-aware of my surroundings, I wondered what it would be like to have a human mother embrace me. The thought—or perhaps the cold—made me dazed with wonder. It was a beautiful and sickening fantasy, one I wanted and didn't want. I thought about how it would feel to have a mother run her fingers through my hair and kiss my temple, what it would feel like to merely sit with another and listen to their heart beat. It couldn't have been as wonderful as the nights I'd slept with my head on Girl's chest and listened to her breathe. It couldn't possibly be as comfortable as the mornings I woke to her kissing my hands and nudging me to play with her.

But I would never know. I decided it didn't matter what it felt like, and that made me angry.

"Here," the oldest of their clan said as he held out a kettle of steaming water. He'd come within ten feet of where I sat and then paused, unwilling to come near me.

"I can't reach it from there," my uncle said.

"Then I'll leave it for you."

"Bring it to me," he said gruffly. "And for god's sake, if you're old enough to be a man then act as one. What in the hell are you afraid of? A boy? My God, he's not even fifteen years of age and what are you? Twenty?"

"Nineteen," he corrected.

My uncle grunted. "An adolescent would hide from the sight of blood," he said, though it was perfectly clear that blood wasn't the cause for his fear.

To the accusations the man stiffened and stepped forward, his hardened eyes set on me as though I was about to challenge him. I looked away as he stood over me, afraid he'd speak directly to me when I had no desire to speak to him.

"Here," the man said.

My uncle looked up. "Where are the strips of cloth?"

The man looked as though he'd reply harshly, but instead he turned and walked to his sister, who stood looking as though she'd burst into tears. Well fed, dry, and without a gash in her hand, I didn't think she had the right to sob. Ignorant little toad, I wanted to say to her. Selfish little beast crying over nothing.

Unexpectedly she smiled at her brother. "I don't know if I did it correctly," she murmured.

"I'm sure you did fine, Lucia."

Her brother returned to my uncle's side and offered the strips of cloth. "I trust you have a needle and thread," he said blandly.

My uncle nodded. "I do," he answered. "But I don't have a steady hand to sew it up."

The man's lips parted as though he would protest, but my uncle didn't give him enough time to put up an argument.

"Which one of your sisters is good with sewing? Instruct her to come here and see to this. I'll clean it myself while you select the best one for the duty."

He was either so appalled or taken aback that he didn't offer any argument. Instead he turned and walked away, defeated by my uncle's assertive nature.

"They won't do it," I said once the man was at a safe distance from us.

"They will, or they'll leave at once," he replied.

How he could be certain was beyond me, but I nodded and attempted to smile. I found myself envious of his ability to say something and have it done. Such power in his words, despite his frail appearance. What a blessing he had with his booming voice. He had a gift like no other.

"You're fortunate you didn't hurt yourself much worse than this," he said, glancing at my face. "What would you have done if you'd broken your leg?"

I didn't reply. He already knew I was angry, which obviously meant I was unprepared to think of the consequences.

"Did you think I would allow them to harm you?" he asked, making no attempt to keep his voice hushed. When I didn't answer, he put his hand against my chin and forced me to meet his eye. He repeated his question.

My throat closed, but I managed to shake my head. We were outnumbered, I wanted to say. What chance did we stand if they attacked us? Instead I allowed my chin to touch my chest and a painful, hard lump of emotion to settle in my chest. No, I didn't think he'd allow them to harm me, but I didn't know how we'd protect ourselves for long.

"Never run, Erik," he said. "Never allow others to intimidate you."

He asked for the impossible, but I nodded and began to fidget. My hand had swelled, the pain becoming increasingly intense.

"Let's get you cleaned up and then you'll be able to rest a while. Sleep will make you feel better, don't you think?"

I nodded. "I hope so."

He ruffled my hair. "It won't hurt forever."

I was certain I had hurt every day of my life and would do so until death. For the first time on our travels, I found it impossible to believe him.