The Sick Room

[boggle99]

He remembered the flies, fat and lazy, droning through the stale air. When he thought about the flies he could still smell that room, its sweet stench of sweat and corruption cut through with the acid of stale vomit. He could feel the heat prickling his skin and the dampness of the fever soaked sheets, the stickiness of the arms curled around him, as their clammy owners corpse cooled. His eyes hurt whenever he opened them, the little light in that dark place searing into them, his lips were cracked, his tongue felt like it was sticking to all of his mouth at once.

Time seemed stopped, or sped up, a hour passing in a blink but the fly crawling over his face taking years to make its journey. He tried to lift his arm to swat it away, nothing happened. The arms curled around him were cold and stiff now, a last embrace he couldn't break. It was dark, he should sleep. His skin wasn't burning any more, he was comfortable at last. Rough hands picked him up, water so cold it burned filled his mouth, dry lips sticking painfully to the horn of the water-skin. A small triangle of wood pressed into his hand, he ran his thumb over it, feeling three smooth raised drops polished by many years of rubbing. “Pray boy, pray to the mother for her mercy.” the gruff words in his ear, the world rocking as he was carried. The musky smell of ox replacing the stench of home, the crackling of flames in the distance.

The hand struck his face, cold and hard. “Focus!” the crone snapped, his mind was dragged back from that time ten years or so before. He was on the cusp of manhood now, somewhere between eighteen and twenty, he was laid out on a small bed, the sunlight slashing though the air as it pierced the gaps in the doors boards. The sickly sweet smell was in his nostrils, rot and decay, the flies that had dragged his mind off with them tumbled through the air. The crone he now knew as mother wringing her hand from the sting of the blow. The only man he had ever known as father standing by the door, a curved knife in the hands that had carried him away from the brothel that had been his childhood home. He concentrated, fighting through the fog in his mind as the fever burned his skin. He was in the sick room and it was time for his trials.

[boggle99]

The First Gift

Shivering he turned his head to the woman, even as his skin burned he shook so much he couldn't talk. His head still swam, the ache behind his eyes sapping his reason. Each breath hurt, panting shallowly to avoid a deep gulp that would set him coughing and retching onto the mouldy straw that covered the floor. There was no triangle of wood now, no trio of smooth drops that he ran his thumb over as he prayed. Not that it would be any use, no prayers for mercy would lift this from him, he had asked for it after all.

They camped outside of the city that night, the fires tearing through the slums a dull glow over the wall at their backs. The man stripped him and then wrapped him in blankets, forced water between his lips, and prayed with him. His fist enclosing the childs own, the pressure of it forcing the wooden triangle painfully into the boys palm. His fever broke, his head cleared, finally he fell asleep, deep and restful without the thrashing and sweating of the dreams. He awoke to the smell of smoke, drifting from the city but also from a small fire before him. A small iron cauldron suspended above it and the last remains of his old clothes, his old life, disintegrating in the glow beneath. He cried then, quietly, privately. Clutching the blanket about him, head bowed.

The man did not intrude. He spooned hot porridge into two bowls and set one on the grass at his bare feet, then he pulled out some clothes from a sack on the cart. A woollen shirt and cotton trousers, both undyed but roughly the right size, the boots found, hard leather, were too big however. Then he proceeded to feed the ox and break camp. When the boy had stopped crying, he felt like he had cried out his memories, his thoughts, his past, all had dripped off the tip of his nose and vanished into the grass, leaving him hollow. He looked at the wooden triangle still in his hand, he hung it about his neck using a thin string threaded through one corner. Without a word he got dressed, picked up the wooden bowl, cold now, and looked about. The fire had been scuffed out and the ox was yoked to the cart, with the exception of him and his bowl the rest of the camp had been stowed on that cart. The man, with rough strong hands, stretched down and helped pull him up to the seat beside him. Reaching out he tucked the wooden triangle under the boys shirt, then a prod from a long thin stick set the ox walking.

The cart crested a hill, smoke darkening the sky behind them, the boy didn't look back as the city slipped from view. In his hands was the wooden bowl, its cold grey contents oozing from side to side with the rocking of the cart. The man didn't look at him, his eyes on the rutted path ahead, for the first time the boy properly looked at him, studying the man as though the details of him would fill the emptiness inside. His shirt looked cheap but hardy, rough brown cloth with the sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms their deep tan speaking of a life outdoors. Trousers that had been patched so often it was hard to say which cloth was the original, a dappling of greys and dark browns. His close cropped beard and his hair were the colour of iron, with flecks of what the boy supposed was its original brown. Noticing him looking the man turned his head, finally intruding into the boys existence.“Eat boy. The mother didn't spare your life for you to starve.” He picked up the spoon and obeyed.

Looking up at the crone from his bed he remembered the salty taste of the cold porridge, its texture like the phlegm that choked him every time he coughed. “Do you want mercy?” She looked down at him, her voice sharp but not brittle. The old man stepped forward as she asked, the edge of that curved blade catching in the light. “Blink twice and your suffering is done, your trial will be ended.” Her voice softened as she looked down at her adopted son. Though it meant the sweat stung them terribly he opened his eyes as wide as he could, staring up at her. Her hand snaked out and gripped his trembling arm “Then breathe” she hissed. He opened his mouth and gulped in air, his lungs burned, the back of his throat felt like a open wound as he coughed but he did not stop. He felt his head begin to clear and the shaking lessen. “This is her first gift” said that gruff voice from by the door “Your will to survive.”

[Rasha]

Anxiously awaiting the next addition. Really good stuff! <3

[boggle99]

The Second Gift

The itching was interminable. As his head cleared the itching had filled it, sores and ulcers appearing on his hands and arms. Bloody puss already oozing from them from his scratching, the crone had stopped him, his hand still stinging from her blow. She had gone then, with the man, he didn't know for how long. The stink made him gag, a sweet smell with a acidic undertone that stuck in his throat as well as his nose. He wretched, his stomach clenching so hard it felt like his body was trying to turn itself inside out. All that came out was a thin trickle of bile and a groan, he spat the taste to the stinking rushes on the floor. It was late he realised, the light coming through the gaps in the door was soft and golden. It hit a small statue, set in a alcove in opposite corner to the head of his bed. It showed a naked woman, wrinkled skin covering boney limbs like a thin sheet that could fall away at any moment. Flat empty breasts sagging on her chest, ribs visible to either side. Her belly, however, was protruding and rotund, rigid skin marked by the strain of containing a gravid womb. Her hands rested on this belly, swollen knuckles and long torn fingernails caressing it. Her head was turned to the bed, a sunken mouth showing empty gums as she grinned at the bed, at him.

The itch was growing, his skin pink and puffy now. All he could think about was scratching it, of digging into his flesh and tearing it away until the itch was gone with it. He need to think of something, anything that would stop him obsessing, that would stop his hands from hovering over the sores ready to claw out the irritation. He thought of the path that had lead to this room, of what he had learned and why he had chosen to walk in through that door and kiss the gravid belly of the grinning hag in the corner.

The ox cart had been travelling for three days, past farmlands and into the woods, along narrow rutted tracks with the trees pressing in from either side. The boy had never seen trees like this before, he had always thought of trees as noble gentlemen, lining the rich stone streets he didn't dare to walk down. Each one solitary and proud, dignified and distinct from the others. These trees were a mob, a menacing mass that even light was timid in the face of, sidling weakly between the trunks. Dark shadows and odd shapes littering the ground, and the noise, as the wind blew these trees roared, the mobs angry cry that promised blood before the day was done. He shrunk towards Rough hands for the first time in the journey, abandoning the reticence of grief. He reached out a arm, wrapping it around the boy and holding tight, he didn't say a word, his eyes on a clearing ahead.

The clearing had a squat dwelling in it, dry stone walls and a thatched roof. Smoke drifted up from it's chimney, wooden shutters framed empty windows. A old woman stood, the boy had not seen her, she had been knelt in dark earth behind the rows of green. Her hands were dirty and her dress made of the same rough brown cloth as strong hands shirt. “Why, in the mothers name, have you brought home another mouth to feed?” He voice was sharp, she stared at Rough hands, he looked down as the cart came to a stop, not meeting her gaze. “I thought he could help out around the place, help you in the garden and me in the woods, when he is older. Neither of us are getting any younger after all.” His gruff voice was soft now, plaintive almost, “And we don't want for food.” He added after he had climbed down from the cart, offering a rough hand to help down the boy after him.

The woman sucked on her teeth, tilting her head as she examined the boy. He stood there, meekly looking at the earth as he felt her eyes taking him in. “What if he's missed, if people saw him leaving with you and come looking, then what?”
“He wont be missed, he is a orphan. I found him in a whore house, fever ridden with flies droning around his bed. A room where all but he had been carried off by one of the mothers children, he prayed and was spared.” Rough hands tone was sterner now, as he laid out the facts of the matter. A few words summing up all that the orphan was. The woman reached out and gripped his chin, she had sharp fingers and it hurt as she dragged his head up, looking closer at him. With her other hand she reached out and pulled on the string around his neck, the little triangle of wood swaying between them. For a eternity they stared into each others eyes, his a deep brown, hers a cloudy blue. He wanted to cry but the tears wouldn't come, she released his chin. “You should have said. The pot is full and the bread was baked this morning, I will air the sheets and fetch fresh straw for the bed in the loft while you eat.” She didn't look away from the orphan as she spoke, when she had finished she released the string, the wooden triangle slapping gently against his chest.

For the first few years he helped the crone, working in the gardens and learning her craft. He weeded and harvested. Learned to tend to the plants, which could be left and which needed constant care. She taught him to cook, to make poultices, stood by her side as she talked to him about the plague mother and she talked to him about disease. “The best infect you while you don't know it and have passed on before the signs begin to show. One that kills to quickly or shows itself within the day rarely spreads far”. He learnt to find the mother with his nose, fetid places, where the stink of corruption lingered, those belonged to her. His favourite time was autumn, when she would take him into the woods, to the other garden. They would wear thick gloves to stop the harvest from touching their skin, cutting it with sharp knives and making sure not to mix up one plant for another. Then all the windows would be opened and the other pot brought out, the one you did not cook food in. She taught him to hold his breath as they boiled down the crushed remains of those plants, going outside for deep breathes before returning to the cottage to stir it into a sticky paste that they then carefully put into jars and sealed the edges of the bungs with wax.

She taught him about the lean to at the back of the cottage, a wooden hut with a sweet stink, she called it the sick room and he was forbidden from entering it. Two types of people would come to that cottage, invariably to stay in that room. The first he called the fearful, almost always women, clutching their shawls about them bringing a sick child or loved one. They would give the crone something precious and the room would be opened, the loved one taken in. They always cried when they left, whether the orphan had to go to the secret garden to dig a grave or not. The other kind he called the hopeful, they came healthy and would be feasted the night before, talking in hushed words with strong hands and the crone as the orphan served food. Then Rough hands would fetch a curved dagger while the crone lead them into that room. Of the hopeful there were three outcomes he saw. Some were only in it for a day, Rough hands would leave the hut with that blade coated red and the orphan knew to go dig another grave. Some would leave after a couple of days, mockeries of what went in, shuffling and coughing, sores weeping on their skin. The ones he remembered stayed in for three days, they would come out looking pale, weak, but with a new set to their face that scared the orphan. These would be given some of the payments from the fearful, some of the wax sealed pots he helped to fill, and the blanket from the bed in that room.

He watched once, through a knot in the wood. A young woman kneeling and pressing her lips to the belly of a statue in the corner, he only knew of Rough hands behind him when he was gripped by the shoulder, it was the only time he was ever beaten as a punishment. The knot hole was filled.

The Crone and the Old man returned, he was limping. carrying a cauldron with steam rising from it. She had a large bowl, crushed plants at its bottom. She took a ladle and spooned water into the bowl till it was half full. The water stank with the herbs as she stirred it, then set it before him, as he watched she pulled out a small vial and poured in the contents. “The sores will become infected and spread, your arms will rot and die. Unless you clean them.” She nodded to bowl with her last sentence, the water still steaming, a vivid green now. Without hesitating he plunged his arms in, anything was better than this itching. He was wrong. It burned, his skin turning red instantly, but that was not the worst of it, the sores burned with more than heat, those that had been closed bursting open. The white yellow of their contents clouding the water. Those sores that had stopped bleeding started to again. He tried to scream but he couldn't, the pain freezing him, his chest, his arms, as he was overwhelmed. He thought of the shambling wrecks that left the hut, would that be so bad? He would still be alive, he could still serve the mother if they just removed his arms. No! He could just leave this place, let his mind run from the pain that seared his soul, surely he could do that. His happy place, the woods.

Shortly after that he was deemed old and enough to help Rough hands, he learned to hunt, to see and not be seen. The woods that once scared him became his ally, their shadows were for him to wait in, the rotting leaves at their base to muffle his foot falls. He learned patience, it is better to miss a opportunity than to waste a strike. Rough hands didn't talk to him about the mother like the crone did, he had few words, when he wanted to teach he talked of animals. “Venom and poison are the greatest tools of the predator and the prey. Venom allows what looks weak to bring down the strongest of beasts with a well placed strike. Poison means that the fiercest bear will not dare to eat the smallest vole.” These where the times he lived for, days or even weeks spent away. As he grew into a man he would more and more be left to his own devices in those woods. Gathering meat to be dried and salted before it would be carried back to the cottages larder. This was his space and he was confident here, overconfident.

The men had caught him plucking a pheasant, his bow propped against a tree to far to grab. There was three of them, each in studded leathers, all had short blades at their hips. A sigil of a blue bird perched in a leafless green oak stitched over their hearts. One held a bow with a arrow nocked, he was the furthest away, stood atop a little rise in-between the others. To his right one advanced low, his short sword drawn in his left hand, his steps slow and careful. The one to his left had his hand resting on the head of a hatchet in his belt, he walked upright unconcerned, it was his presence that had alerted the man that he was not alone. “Poaching the lords birds” Hatchet on his right tutted and shook his head. “Give us no trouble and it will just be your hand.” Hatchet added. Short sword on his right sniggered as hatchet spoke, Archer remained silent, ready to draw and fire if the man ran.
The man cleared his throat “These are common woods” he focused on keeping his voice clear and calm. His throat betrayed him. The words cracked, as they still did occasionally, with his breaking voice. “Not any more they aint” was Hatchets jeering response as he took another step closer.

He didn't see the arrow, he heard it. The twang of a bowstring, the rustle of its fletchings, the wet thump as it buried itself into the chest of Archer. Time slowed, he felt his heart slamming in his chest, Archer took a half step backwards, the black feathers of the arrow like the needles of a pine that had sprouted from his chest. The man leapt, covering the distance to Hatchet, a axe needed to be swung whereas Short sword on his right could easily stab him in a grapple. Time, he didn't have much time, he needed to deal with Hatchet before that blade found his back, he could think about where the arrow that had killed archer had come from later.

He slammed into Hatchet, grabbing for his free hand, yanking it away from the dagger at his belt. He felt the haft of the axe dig into his shoulder as they fell, that was alright don't let him draw anything with a point. How long did he have till Short sword stabbed him in the back? He had one of Hatchets wrists in both of his hands, he wrenched and twisted it while putting the weight of his body on the axe arm. Panting, grunting, blood rushing in his ears, the arm resisted the turn, the gap between his shoulder blades itched as it waited for the thrust that must be seconds away. He brought the free hand to his mouth and bit into it, holding it with his teeth, letting it pull him over as it writhed, the hot blood coating his tongue, his teeth aching from the strain. It' didn't matter, with Hatchets hand in his mouth his own were free, they found the dagger, ripped it from Hatchets belt. The axe arm squirming under his body as he did so, opening his mouth he reared back and then drove that dagger down in a frenzy. Till the leather tunic had rivers flowing along its creased valleys, onto the leaf strewn ground. He span, looking for Short sword, Rough hands stood there, left calf soaked in blood from a cut above the knee. A curved blade in his right hand a quiver on his back. The blood foamed from Short swords neck as he sat, slumped over.

It took the man the best part of the day to drag Archer to the cottage. Rough hands limping by his side. Archers breathing was wet, shallow and sucking, the arrow still sprouting from his right breast. He was burning with fever and pale by the time they got him to the sick rooms bed, the Crone knelt by him all night, giving him drink and listening to his whispered words. The man was sent back out, to move the remaining bodies to the other garden where they wouldn't be found. On his return he heard the news, the old lord was dead and the new one intended to enforce his claim to the woods. Rough hands looked pale now, for the first time he looked like a old man, a match for the Crone. Still he prepared a pack, in the morning he would set off for the city to see about the new lord, if he even made it that far. That night the man stole into the sickroom, he lit the candle and knelt before the statue, if he passed the trials he would go, he could do it. He turned his head towards the door, the crone stood there, a hand outstretched, she lowered it as he kissed the mothers belly.

His cheek stung, she had struck him again. “I told you, focus!” He looked at his hands, he had drawn them back from the water, his head swimming from the pain. “Run from pain and you will never stop. Life is pain, feel it, how it makes your heart pound, only living things hurt and pain confirms you are alive. Embrace it, fall into it, don't waste your energy trying to resist it.” She spoke fast and urgently, her hands resting on his shoulders as she got closer. “Birth, pain, death, rot, new life. That is the cycle, master that pain and master your fate, otherwise you are it's slave.” He broke her gaze, looking down into the bowl, already the itching was spreading past his elbows. He plunged his arms back into the water, at first he screamed, he shook, he moaned. The pain didn't lessen, it filled him, it found that hollow part, the bit he had closed off riding on that cart. It broke its dyke and filled that too, for the first time in a age he cried, he felt the pain he had ignored, the emotions he thought had flowed out of his eyes and into the earth. The pain brought them back and he was himself once more. The boy opened his eyes, vision blurred with tears, arms burning, he laughed and he sobbed, he didn't retreat from the water. “This is her second gift” Said that gruff voice from by the door “your freedom”.