Bound Home
Chapter 7
South go the wildgeese, for leaves are now falling,
And the water is cold with a wind from the north.
I remember my home; but the Xiang River's curves
Are walled by the clouds of this southern country.
I go forward. I weep till my tears are spent.
I see a sail in the far sky.
Where is the ferry? Will somebody tell me?
It's growing rough. It's growing dark.
-Meng Haoran, Memories in Early Winter
The moon seems as if it will settle right into the desert sand, so low it hangs in the star-thick sky. He walks toward it with weaving steps. When he takes a swig from his wineskin, he tastes desert grit along with the flush of last harvest's grapes. The monk who sold it to him told him to be careful. New wine is hard on the flesh.
Guy thought it a good idea to take that wine and be careful with it by himself, in the wilderness, five miles from the city, in the dead of a winter night. The monk's words hold true. He now has no idea which direction will take him back to Acre. He feels warm despite the bitter cold. His breath mists into the air, and disappears.
He wonders now if this was why he left England. To be here, to be lost, to punish himself all over again because, no matter how hard he fought for his own goodness – no matter how hard Robin fought for it – he does not deserve to win. The scales are unbalanced. His few good deeds cannot atone for years of cruelty.
He did not come here to die, but if Fate will have him, it is honorable to give her the advantage. He thinks of it as a test – if there is any more punishment to be exacted for all his sins, then tonight he will gladly submit. He will drink, and he will stumble toward some horizon, and if by chance he reaches it...
A flash of movement catches his eye. He looks around, then up, and sees an owl flying on silent, snowy wing. It flaps once, then dives, and it skims the rocky ground for a split-second before swooping back up into the sky, its talons empty. He tries to follow its path, but loses sight of it when his gaze crosses the bright moon.
The owl's prey has escaped. Perhaps he, too, will survive the night.
But, he thinks as he takes another swallow of wine, there is time yet before dawn.
She wakes at the sound of someone banging on her door, and hurries to answer it. The stone floor has finally given up the heat it retained from the day, and the cold bites at her feet as she runs across. A gust of icy air greets her as she pulls open the door.
"You are the healer Saffiya?" a shadow asks.
"I am." Her eyes slowly adjust to the pale pink light of dawn. She sees two men clothed in shadows, and one of them is holding a limp body. She steps aside to let them enter.
"We were coming into the city," one of the men explains as she leads them to a table. "We happened upon him, nearly five miles out. He is cold as ice, but he still breathes."
She moves efficiently throughout the room to gather supplies, lighting candles as she goes. "Do either of you know of the physician Kalid?" She glances over her shoulder to see them nod, and realizes that one of the men is familiar to her – a Frenchman, a former soldier that she has treated before. "Go to him, and bring him here."
"We can trust him?"
She pauses in the middle of unfolding a sheet. "What do you mean?"
They gesture at the body. She turns, and looks. It is a man, bundled up in dark robes, his face obscured - but she can clearly see that he is a foreigner. "Kalid will help," she assures them. "Go now, quickly."
"Thank you," they say as they leave, but their gratitude falls on deaf ears. She is stopped completely, staring at the blue-pale body on her table. His black hair has fallen away from his face.
The linen sheet slips from her hands.