I want to thank Samurai Kat, Ahmose Nefertari Smith, Pepper Raskell, and
Some Weird Freaky Person for so kindly reviewing part one. Mr/s. Weird
Freaky? I'll go you one better. I'll update NOW. Here 'tis: part two. :D
***
Part Two: "Sweet Milk and Firelight."
***
Warm air filled his lungs and he slowly opened his eyes. They were gummy from sleep. A thatched roof rose up high above him.
And pain hit from every corner. So did fear. This was a strange place. He was unarmed. Moaning quietly, he shifted around, trying to get his bearings. Some blankets fell away.
Blankets?
His last memory was of cold snow, not a warm bed. He managed to raise his head a few inches. He lay on a clean mattress, raised a foot above an earth floor. Gray covers. Soft pillow. He let his head fall back and he grunted.
Clomp, clomp, clomp.
He looked to his left. The woman from the woods was coming to his side, blinking at him. He took her in, as much as his half-closed eyes would allow. She gently settled him back in position. The blankets floated up to his chin again. His panic was being replaced by curiosity.
"Who . . . are you?" he croaked.
"I am Uta," she said quietly, tucking him in. "And you are safe."
She smiled. He trusted her. He nodded faintly and put himself in her hands. For a moment he was left alone, but she returned with a small bucket and a rag. She dipped the cloth in the bucket. His forehead was bathed with cool water and she gently began to clean the crust from his eyes.
The water missed the healing scrapes and bruises on his cheek. It ran down his face and pooled near his chin. Some drops hit his collarbone. Others landed on his loose hair, or on the pillow. She wet the skin on his thick neck and blew on him, causing a cool breeze and few goosebumps. The cold was delicious.
He looked at her, questioning.
"You've been asleep for half a day. When I brought you here, you had a fever. Probably from your injuries. It's gone away, mostly. And you're thawed from the cold, now."
Jack blinked. He was trying to lose himself in the cool wetness on his face and neck and ignore the rest of his body. She saw his jaw twitch.
"Are you in pain?"
The samurai had his pride. He refused to look at her. Uta snorted and rolled her twinkling eyes.
"Men."
She was up and back in a minute, holding a fat leather pouch shaped like a tear drop. It had a wooden cap. Clambering up on the mattress, she laid the pouch on Jack's chest. It slopped about, full of liquid. He was puzzled. Uta wiggled behind him for support and pushed him up so he was almost sitting. Exhausted, he rested his head against her sternum.
"There we are," she said.
She grabbed the bag, uncapped it, and held it to the warrior's mouth.
"Drink."
Jack hesitated.
"Come on, don't be afraid. It will ease the pain, fill your belly, and make your scratchy throat go away. It's sweet milk."
He took a sip. Coated his mouth with the warm liquid. It tasted like sugar and mint and was as thick as cream. Encouraged by the gnarled hand cupping his chin and the gentle squeezing of the bag, he took another mouthful. And then another. It became a rhythm.
He closed his eyes, drank and drank and drank. The world fell away. Finally he stopped drinking and began to breathe deeply. He had a comfortable weight in his stomach, and a pair of firm arms around him. The pain was gone. He fell asleep.
Uta did not see this. She felt it. Jack had grown heavy and boneless against her. She capped the bag and got her charge on his back again. The horn of 'sweet milk' was hung on the far wall in its proper place. It was a mix of goat's milk, honey, mint, analgesic herbs, and crushed poppies. A powerful narcotic.
But there was work to do. Uta set her face, picked up another basket, and headed back to the bed. A small fire danced yellow and red in a metal grate behind her. And she uncovered Jack.
She sighed for him.
His face had been mostly spared from the attack. The rest of him was bruised and battered. She had striped his arms and legs white with cloth. There was one huge wrap around his chest. Most of her initial handiwork was holding, turning rust-colored and greenish and dry where scabs were forming underneath. His left ankle was broken. She'd set the bones. It was bandaged arch to calf, braced with a wooden splint, and supported by a small pillow.
She took off the wrap from his left thigh. The wound there was deep, weeping driblets of red. Probably from a claw. With a grunt, she uncapped a small jar. She emptied some green, mashed herbs into her palm and spread them into the cut like jelly to bread. Then came a fresh cloth.
She covered him with the blankets again from chin to toe, bunching the covers all around him. There was no sense in him getting cold again, or sick, on top of everything else. She plopped down on her cot and stared at the shadows on the wall. The firelight flickered on his sword, where she had propped it up.
"When he is strong enough to speak, I will ask him who he is," Uta declared to the fire. "I must know who I have brought home."
END PART TWO.
More to come!
***
Part Two: "Sweet Milk and Firelight."
***
Warm air filled his lungs and he slowly opened his eyes. They were gummy from sleep. A thatched roof rose up high above him.
And pain hit from every corner. So did fear. This was a strange place. He was unarmed. Moaning quietly, he shifted around, trying to get his bearings. Some blankets fell away.
Blankets?
His last memory was of cold snow, not a warm bed. He managed to raise his head a few inches. He lay on a clean mattress, raised a foot above an earth floor. Gray covers. Soft pillow. He let his head fall back and he grunted.
Clomp, clomp, clomp.
He looked to his left. The woman from the woods was coming to his side, blinking at him. He took her in, as much as his half-closed eyes would allow. She gently settled him back in position. The blankets floated up to his chin again. His panic was being replaced by curiosity.
"Who . . . are you?" he croaked.
"I am Uta," she said quietly, tucking him in. "And you are safe."
She smiled. He trusted her. He nodded faintly and put himself in her hands. For a moment he was left alone, but she returned with a small bucket and a rag. She dipped the cloth in the bucket. His forehead was bathed with cool water and she gently began to clean the crust from his eyes.
The water missed the healing scrapes and bruises on his cheek. It ran down his face and pooled near his chin. Some drops hit his collarbone. Others landed on his loose hair, or on the pillow. She wet the skin on his thick neck and blew on him, causing a cool breeze and few goosebumps. The cold was delicious.
He looked at her, questioning.
"You've been asleep for half a day. When I brought you here, you had a fever. Probably from your injuries. It's gone away, mostly. And you're thawed from the cold, now."
Jack blinked. He was trying to lose himself in the cool wetness on his face and neck and ignore the rest of his body. She saw his jaw twitch.
"Are you in pain?"
The samurai had his pride. He refused to look at her. Uta snorted and rolled her twinkling eyes.
"Men."
She was up and back in a minute, holding a fat leather pouch shaped like a tear drop. It had a wooden cap. Clambering up on the mattress, she laid the pouch on Jack's chest. It slopped about, full of liquid. He was puzzled. Uta wiggled behind him for support and pushed him up so he was almost sitting. Exhausted, he rested his head against her sternum.
"There we are," she said.
She grabbed the bag, uncapped it, and held it to the warrior's mouth.
"Drink."
Jack hesitated.
"Come on, don't be afraid. It will ease the pain, fill your belly, and make your scratchy throat go away. It's sweet milk."
He took a sip. Coated his mouth with the warm liquid. It tasted like sugar and mint and was as thick as cream. Encouraged by the gnarled hand cupping his chin and the gentle squeezing of the bag, he took another mouthful. And then another. It became a rhythm.
He closed his eyes, drank and drank and drank. The world fell away. Finally he stopped drinking and began to breathe deeply. He had a comfortable weight in his stomach, and a pair of firm arms around him. The pain was gone. He fell asleep.
Uta did not see this. She felt it. Jack had grown heavy and boneless against her. She capped the bag and got her charge on his back again. The horn of 'sweet milk' was hung on the far wall in its proper place. It was a mix of goat's milk, honey, mint, analgesic herbs, and crushed poppies. A powerful narcotic.
But there was work to do. Uta set her face, picked up another basket, and headed back to the bed. A small fire danced yellow and red in a metal grate behind her. And she uncovered Jack.
She sighed for him.
His face had been mostly spared from the attack. The rest of him was bruised and battered. She had striped his arms and legs white with cloth. There was one huge wrap around his chest. Most of her initial handiwork was holding, turning rust-colored and greenish and dry where scabs were forming underneath. His left ankle was broken. She'd set the bones. It was bandaged arch to calf, braced with a wooden splint, and supported by a small pillow.
She took off the wrap from his left thigh. The wound there was deep, weeping driblets of red. Probably from a claw. With a grunt, she uncapped a small jar. She emptied some green, mashed herbs into her palm and spread them into the cut like jelly to bread. Then came a fresh cloth.
She covered him with the blankets again from chin to toe, bunching the covers all around him. There was no sense in him getting cold again, or sick, on top of everything else. She plopped down on her cot and stared at the shadows on the wall. The firelight flickered on his sword, where she had propped it up.
"When he is strong enough to speak, I will ask him who he is," Uta declared to the fire. "I must know who I have brought home."
END PART TWO.
More to come!