Black Sea Horan: Alim and Alsu

Rose woke abruptly to the sound of Caesar braying outside, and groggily sat up. The morning sun pouring through the doorway showed she'd slept all night. Suddenly remembering, she twisted around to check Thorsten, but he was still lying exactly as he'd been the night before, no change – but she could see color in his face this morning.

She reached a hand to see if she could wake him, when suddenly the reason for Caesar's noise burst into her brain: a man's voice, talking soothingly to the donkey. And it was coming closer to the hut.

She sprang to her feet, looking around wildly – and spied the handle of the long knife Thorsten had bought at the market in Caffa, sticking out from the nearest pannier. She grabbed it and planted her feet apart, holding it out like a sword pointed at the doorless entry a yard away, her heart in her throat, and waited.

Whoever it was, he paused a few feet away and called out, but she kept silent. The man slowly walked up to the door, appearing at the frame – and jerked back at the sight of her knife. They stared at each other a moment, wide-eyed, each as startled as the other.

He was ancient. And tiny. Shorter and skinnier than she was. But he was also carrying a scythe, holding the long handle slanted in front of him like a weapon, and he looked as tough as old leather.

He caught sight of Thorsten lying silent and still behind her, then glanced around as if to make sure there was only the two of them. Then he started speaking to her, and she'd never wished so hard for anything as she did at that moment, that she understood what he was saying. But then he carefully leaned over and dropped his scythe on the ground, and even nudged it towards her with his toe, while making reassuring motions with his hands.

The point of her knife slowly sank in her trembling hands, then tears were dripping uncontrollably down her cheeks. The old man smiled at her, almost toothless, and gingerly walked towards Thorsten, motioning between himself and the man on the ground. Rose nodded, and turned to watch him as he creaked slowly to his knees and checked Thorsten out carefully.

When he climbed slowly back to his feet, joints popping, he tried to tell her something, but obviously she didn't understand. So he went back to hand semaphore, conveying somehow that it was OK, he was going to help them. He walked out the door, reached (grunting softly) for the scythe, but then just leaned it against the wall inside the door, where she could get it. Then he grinned at her again, motioned "stay put", and he was gone.

Rose ran the two steps to the doorway on shaking legs, leaning against the frame to watch the old man shuffle across the grass and up the path over the hill. He was out of sight in minutes.

Not knowing what else to do, she went back to Thorsten's side, but there was no change, so she went out to Caesar, taking a water bag with her. The donkey was grateful for the drink, and she stayed with him for a few minutes, stroking his neck and thanking him for helping her the night before. He'd apparently cleaned up all the windfall apples he could reach; she really should have policed the yard before staking him out. She hoped he'd be all right, but then, donkeys did have iron constitutions – or so she'd been told.

A strange rattling sound suddenly brought her out of her reverie, and she whirled back to the hill to see a very odd sight. The old man was back, dragging along a ramshackle little two-wheeled wooden cart behind him, while an equally ancient old woman, albeit even tinier, was incongruously pushing it from behind. They rattled into the yard and stopped near the hut, then both of them hobbled over to Rose, yammering to each other and to her. The old lady seemed as cheerful and friendly as her supposed husband, and she peered kindly up into Rose's face, then patted her hand soothingly.

The old man was trying to tell her something, pointing here and there. "I'm sorry, I don't understand," she replied, helplessly. So he took her by the hand and pulled her to the cart. Then he pointed back to Caesar, then the cart, then inside the hut to Thorsten, bent his arms as if carrying a baby, and finally mimed a roof.

"Oh!" Catching on, she nodded, and he grinned so infectiously she couldn't help but smile back. Rose ran to untie Caesar and led him to the cart, where the old man took over, hitching the little donkey up to it.

Getting Thorsten out to the cart was a little easier with three humans, even if none of them were very strong. Still, they made it out, Rose at his shoulders and each of the others with a leg. She started to turn sideways to put Thorsten in the back of the cart alone, but the old man stopped her and somehow conveyed that she should get in, too, to hold him steady, and so she did, cradling his head and torso while his feet hung over the other side. The couple resumed their places as if it had been rehearsed, and the little caravan started their journey, the old man leading a willing Caesar while the old woman walked behind, helping to push once more.

Rose hoped for her sake that it wasn't far, and it wasn't. About a quarter of a mile over the low hill, they came to an ancient stone farmhouse, chickens clucking in the yard and pigs grunting from the pen at the far end. Pulling right up to the door, the woman called out something to the old man and hobbled quickly inside for a couple of minutes while they waited. When she came back out, they reversed the previous maneuver and managed to carry Thorsten inside the house and to a pallet she'd apparently just arranged by the fireplace. Stretched out once more on the blankets, Thorsten almost looked like he was simply asleep.

The man went outside to see to Caesar and the cart, while his wife fussed about, bringing some water and a cloth so Rose could bathe Thorsten's face – and her own, and shortly handing her a bowl of some thin but delicious soup, chattering and clucking like a stereotypical grandmother all the while. Helpless to do anything else, Rose sat on the floor by Thorsten's side and watched, feeling all the tension of the past night – no, the past weeks – drain slowly away. She was still worried for her companion, but felt like maybe things would work out anyway.

The door opened again and the old man began bringing their panniers inside – he'd apparently taken Caesar and the cart back for all their stuff. She smiled a thank you and he waved it off. Rose leaned back against the wall, letting her mind just drift.

And then, so softly she almost didn't hear it, Thorsten moaned. Her eyes flew open with a gasp, and she reached for his shoulder, breathlessly saying his name.

He started to turn his head on the pallet – and winced, groaning louder as he rolled over the wound. He lifted a hand to his head, and finally, finally, his eyes cracked open. They slowly focused on her face leaning over him, and then his brow furrowed.

"Owwwwwwwwwwwww," was all he said.

^..^

A short time later, explanations duly made, and a quick examination and interrogation revealing no further injuries save a massive but diffuse bruise on his back where he'd landed, Thorsten's head and shoulders were propped up on his pack, and he was weakly speaking with the couple. He wasn't familiar with their precise dialect, but at least communication was established – and so were their hosts' names: Alim and Alsu. They had apparently lived in the old house for many years, but if they had ever had any family, there was no sign now.

Then Alsu, the wife, brought Rose another bowl of soup for Thorsten, putting it and a spoon in her hands with a smile and another rattled-off sentence. She hobbled off, shooing Alim away as well, and Rose turned to the makeshift bed just in time to see a pained look cross the invalid's face. "Owwwwww!" he complained, too quiet for the others to hear, but heartfelt.

"What?" she asked, concerned. What new pain was this?

Thorsten slowly turned his head and looked at her, his face flushed. "She called me your father," he finally admitted.

Rose couldn't help it. She cracked up, although she tried to do it quietly, and then tried hard to stifle it at the offended look on his face. She scooped up a spoonful of soup and held it carefully out. "Come on, papa," she coaxed, teasing. "You need to eat."

His eyes narrowed, and he positively glared at her. His mouth stayed firmly shut against the soup.

Amusement warred with shame, which slowly won. The spoon sank down into the bowl again, and she bit her lips, caught between blushing and giggling.

"I'm sorry," she managed to choke out. "Please forgive me."

Teeth clenched like a toddler resisting the spoon, he rasped out, "As long as you promise never to call me that again."

"I promise." She took a couple of breaths to get rid of the last of the humor, then told him quietly, looking down at the soup rather than his face, "You're my savior, and my friend – but you're definitely not a father figure."

His glare slowly softened, and then he finally opened his mouth and let her feed him.