Boots Chapter 4

Boots awoke late the next morning after a night of fitful sleep. Despite the brewed potions his mother had eased down his throat, nightmares and pain had plagued his rest. Over and over the axe fell and the pain sliced through him. A jumble of faces, being accused and sentenced, floated through his sleep. He rolled over, seeing the bloody bandage at the end of his arm. He could not feel his fingers, could not wiggle them either. He felt a deep sense of despair that was rivalled by the aching dryness of his throat and the queasy emptiness of his belly. He vaguely remembered vomiting into a bucket. 

Too tired to think beyond the present, he drank deeply from the jug of water by the bed. A handful of dried berries and nuts from a small bowl followed. Then he rolled over and sought a deeper sleep. 

When he awoke for the second time, it was well past noon hour. The cottage was still empty. He held up his bandaged arm and inspected it. He pressed it gingerly and winced. It hurt. He tried again to wiggle his fingers; really all he achieved was some painful twitches. What did that mean? He had heard of men losing limbs but still being able to feel them for months afterward. He remembered the moment before the axe fell, someone had jostled both him and the guards holding him. Had that moment of distraction cost him more than his crimes merited? 

He was hit by another wave of sickness, but there was no relieving this by emptying his stomach. It was the twining of guilt and anger that sat like two snakes in his belly. Tears welled up in his eyes and he brushed them away irritably. 

He took a few steadying breaths and tried to think of something else. The golden window of afternoon sunlight beckoned to him from across the room. He thought of the sweet, clear water he could draw up from the well. It would be so refreshing to go outside. 

He carefully sat up on the edge of the bed, huddling his right arm against his chest, feeling a little queasy but ready to try and stand. He was a few steps from the bed when his mother entered through the back doorway, a basket under her arm and her broad-brimmed hat on her head. She was followed by a man that it took Boots a moment to recognize, outlined as he was by the sunlight. 

It was Captain Burig. He had to stoop to go through the door, and the motion immediately made Boots self-conscious of how shabby and small their dwelling must seem. But the captain surveyed the room with interest and curiosity; clearly taking in how the rough table did not match the fine chair in the corner. 

He seemed at ease in the space, even though the simple interior was at odds with his fine riding boots and crisp, dark soldier’s garb. As he leaned closer to inspect the large chair and its fine pillows, the shafts of sunlight from the window caught the silver and gold emblems and badges that studded his uniform, a winking reminder of his importance. 

If Boots’ mother was in any way impressed by, or anxious about, the man’s presence she did not show it, instead she looked distinctly disapproving. 

“You can speak to him now. I need to gather some things from the forest to look after my son,” she said curtly. “Boots, I am going to get more pricklethumb for the pain. While I’m gone you should sit down. You’ll be lightheaded soon enough. And make sure you drink some water.” 

Boots wondered at her tone and braced himself for an affronted retort from the captain at being treated so brusquely. Instead, the man bowed and said with complete sincerity, “you honour me, Meranin, I know this is difficult.” 

“You think you do,” she said cryptically, almost challengingly. And she swept from the little cottage, showing as much dignity in her simple villager’s garb as the captain in his snappy uniform. The man rose from his bow when she had left then turned to Boots expectantly. 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Boots said, not caring if it sounded rude. 

All he wanted to do was sit, and maybe feel sorry for himself, and he eased himself into a chair by the table. His mother was right, he was already lightheaded having just walked from the bed. He wanted nothing more than to go back to bed and sleep through this day and into the next. 

Burig gave Boots a half smile, “I’m afraid you don’t have much choice. Your mother has spoken.” Burig dragged a stool over and sat himself across the table from Boots. “Boots. That used to be a more common name. From folk tales, isn’t it?” 

“So common a name that many people have stopped using it. Who wants to be named after a fairy story?” Boots muttered. 

Burig named a few of the tales that featured a man named Boots, who was always a third son, or poor farmer, or burdened by fate with a cruel stepmother. 

“Boots and the Ogre, Boots and the Glass Hill, Boots and the Golden Apples… never quite the hero of the story, more an ordinary man meeting extraordinary things, and somehow coming out the better for it.” 

Boots shrugged and said, “I suppose.” He had long made peace with his name and the many tales attached to it. 

The captain studied Boots a little longer, it made Boots hunch up his shoulders. 

“My name is Captain Burig,” he said, by way of introduction. 

“I know,” Boots said. 

“You do? I did not think your mother would have –ah I suppose, you gathered as much from the encounter in the field. Or maybe it was when we met the day before,” Burig said, watching Boots carefully. Boots schooled his features as Burig landed on the truth and continued onwards, “but the other boy was not Siggu, was it?” 

Boots’ face became set as a stone and he refused to look at Burig, not wanting to give anything away. As far as Boots knew, Colin was clear of any suspicion or danger. The punishment had been meted out and he had paid the price, let the captain muse as much as he wanted to, Boots was not going to admit to anything else. 

“No need for such stoicism as that, Boots,” Burig said, trying to set Boots at ease, “I am only trying to put all the pieces in place, I prefer it that way, and I regret that that is not what happened yesterday. Bridda, the commander, I am sure you know her now, deeply regrets what happened. She did not know that the guards would be so zealous.” 

“It wasn’t the guards,” Boots muttered. 

“What’s that?” Burig asked. 

“I said it wasn’t the guards,” Boots said louder. His head was still cloudy, his arm hurt and he was starting to sweat uncomfortably, but his anger straightened his spine a little. 

“Sure, the guards were there, but that – that bastard noble had every intention to take whatever he wanted. Whatever, my hand, my life. He didn’t care. He didn’t care at all, he just wanted revenge.” 

“And you’re angry,” Burig said. 

“Of course I’m angry!” Boots said, turning to Burig, “they cut off my goddamn hand!” 

Boots quickly looked away again and ran his left hand over his face to try and disguise the tears building up in his eyes. He managed to brush them away. 

“It is unfair. It is very unfair Boots -” Burig began. 

“I noticed. Siggu is my friend, but if I could trade places with him right now, I’d do it in a heartbeat. You don’t need all your fingers to be a merchant or a trader. But now here I am, this is all I have,” Boots lifted his hands to encompass the cottage, the gesture drawing attention to his bandaged arm which he lowered with a wince. 

He did not hate Siggu, but at that moment he fully cursed Siggu’s stupidity, his insecurity and jealousy. He stared hard at the ground trying to quell his angrier thoughts. 

What business was it of this stranger to ask these questions? What deigned him so important that he could invade Boots’ space, invade his pain, like this? Boots’ vision blurred, and he blinked to clear it. He was so thirsty, and tired. He wanted this captain to leave and his mother to return. 

He heard some movement, the sound of water trickled, and Burig placed a cup of water on the table beside Boots then returned to his stool. Boots took a drink as they sat in silence. 

When Burig finally spoke, his voice was measured. 

“There is something that you are going to need to understand, something very difficult and very unfair. But that will not make it less true. This noble, what he has done, was wrong in many ways, but not completely without provocation. And just as you believe he went too far, there are many types of men that will believe he did not go far enough.” 

“Siggu -” Boots began, it felt like a betrayal to even bring it up, but the disparity was galling. 

“Siggu was fortunate beyond measure, and deserved much worse than you received for crimes that were actually witnessed. And I understand his father will be paying a handsome price in goods and riches to Lord Narosh,” Burig said, saving Boots from voicing the thoughts he was having. 

Hearing someone say it – that Siggu deserved punishment too, and that he had been lucky enough to escape it – loosened something inside Boots. He leaned against the table edge, staring at the low fire, listening to Burig. 

“The world is not a fair place, Boots. Men and women are too often valued for circumstances of birth and what they have over who they are. There are many reasons for it, not all of them just even if they are reasonable, but it is the way of things. It can be difficult to understand that when your life here is seldom touched by the greater pains of the world, the injustices of the law, or the demands of power.” 

Boots felt a prickle of irritation. He was not really ashamed of what he had done, he was ashamed because he had been caught, because of how it reminded him of his place in the world. That someone like Narosh could grind Boots beneath his lordly foot because he had been born as a lord. It made Boots feel sick and afraid inside, belittling his life by showing him how easily it could be upended. Having it pointed out to him like he was too much of an idiot to understand did not help, and bitterness seeped into his reply. 

“You’re right, I don’t understand. I am a simple and stupid farm-boy who has no sense of the world. I’ll no doubt be murdered or put to death should I ever venture beyond Holding because of my rude ignorance. Never fear captain,” Boots said with a mocking, left-handed salute, “I shall remain on this plot until I am old and grey and my worthless, idiot bones rot to dust to be shat on by the horses of my betters.” 

He ended more sharply than he had intended, but he felt it deeply. Boots was conscious of his own shame, his embarrassment at getting caught and the underscoring of his own powerlessness to the whims of a passing noble – no matter how he had provoked the consequences. 

He was frustrated. But he no longer felt like crying. 

Instead of giving a retort, or reasoned argument, the captain was silent. When Boots ventured a look at Burig’s face it was drawn in a thoughtful frown. The longer Burig went without speaking the more Boots began to regret his outburst. None of what had happened was Burig’s fault, if anything he had prevented things from being worse. But Boots’ anger and frustration were throbbing along with the pain at the end of his right arm and he was in no mood to make apologies. He had given enough. 

Finally, Burig spoke, “all true, Boots. And because of that you will be suffering a second blow to your pride, one that may last longer than your injury ever will.” 

Boots finished his water, listening and staring at the fire. 

“What has happened is perhaps unfair, and the noble in question may have acted with undue violence; but all of these events and thoughts are things you may never repeat to anyone after this day. Think, for a moment, what has been taken from you on mere suspicion. Now imagine what may happen if you followed that by insulting the man and questioning his decisions outright?” 

 Boots’ anger was like the pain in his arm, constantly prodding him for attention, for a reaction, to stomp his feet and scream that he had been wronged. Along with that was the sad knowledge that all of that would not change anything, but would only make it worse. He felt powerless, and bitter, but that was not all. 

He was also conscious of a new feeling, something deep in his chest that forced the anger to part and flow around it. It was a complicated feeling, one that wanted to be understood and acknowledged. He had been wronged, he had even done wrong, but that did not make him bad or weak. He wanted to show that he was neither of those things, that he could be better – was better – and deserved better. Maybe he did not have power or wealth, but he still had worth, did he not? How did he show that if he could not strike back at the thing, the person, that had wounded him?  

He thought that, maybe, that was why Burig was here. To make sure Boots did not create more problems. Did not lash out at the lord or spread malicious gossip about the man. It did not make sense that the captain was visiting him otherwise. Or maybe it did? Maybe Burig followed this noble around apologizing for his arrogant behaviour. 

“And in terms of your punishment, I regret to tell you that it has not been fully meted out,” Burig said, he really did sound regretful. 

“What can you possibly -” Boots began, but his voice petered out as the blood drained from his face. His thoughts took a sharp turn in a different direction. 

Maybe that was why the captain was here, to complete the punishment. To fully end the threat and embarrassment the lord had suffered. Spots seemed to cloud around Boots’ vision and the pain in his arm throbbed with the beat of his heart. His breathing was loud in his ears. 

“Boots? Boots? For the sake of the fates boy,” Boots felt a hand prod his shoulder, “is it your arm, I’ll find your mother – Mera!” the captain called, rising from his seat. 

Burig ducked out the door and circled the cabin, calling out for Meranin. The spots cleared from Boots’ eyes and panic unseized his brain enough to think everything through again. That could not be right, his mother would not have just left him here with this man if he was a threat. Besides, the captain seemed to understand something of Boots’ pain, he seemed like he wanted to help. I’ve misunderstood something, Boots thought, fair, because I have no idea what’s going on. 

 By the time Burig returned Boots had regained some of his senses. Burig poured fresh water in the cup and Boots took a shaky drink. 

“You’re all right,” Burig said, sounding genuinely relieved. “I went to see if your mother was nearby, I half expected to find her listening under the window. You are well now?” 

Boots had another drink, glanced at the captain’s face, then looked away again to hide his distress. “When you, when you said I had more punishment, I thought- well I thought you meant…” Boots could not quite bring himself to say it. 

Had Boots been looking, he would have seen understanding dawn on the captain’s face, followed by a flickering of regret that left a trace in his voice. 

“No, Boots. That isn’t why I’m here. You thought that I was here to extract a more permanent punishment, didn’t you?” Somehow the captain interpreted Boots’ hunched silence correctly. 

“Considering your recent experience, I should not be surprised. You’ve neither cause nor care to learn the ways of the nobility and power. Why would you need to? Your entire life is just outside your door, you have freedom in your own world here,” the captain sat back down with a sigh, “until now, I suppose.” 

He sounded so thoughtful, it was as though he was musing to himself, not to Boots at all. But it still resonated with Boots because it was true. 

Kings, nobles, captains, even soldiers – what difference did they make to the turning of the seasons or the thawing of the ground? There was talk, more like gossip, about the old king’s crimes and the new king’s desire for change. Of war on distant shores and wizards with dark magic; but none of this changed the harvest of crops or the gathering of firewood. The king and all his castles and nobles may as well be Gefion’s spirit in a grove of mouldering fruit for all it had mattered to Boots. Before now, that is. 

Silence stretched between them and was filled with the incongruously happy chatter of birds in the trees outside. Boots glanced out the window hoping his mother would return soon. The pain in Boots arm was starting to grow, and his eyes were heavy. He wondered, again, what the purpose of this visit was. Why he would stay after that cold reception from his mother. Then something struck him, something of what had been said in that regretful voice. 

“Wait,” Boots said, “what did you mean I had freedom ‘until now’?” 

“Ah,” Burig said, “that is the correct question, to be sure.” 

But the expected explanation was not immediately forthcoming, and silence returned to the cottage, the birds and squirrels chattered in the trees outside. The sounds seemed to break and fall around the captain, as though acknowledging that the man was out of place. Boots felt a little out of place himself, he was aware his life had changed, aware that he did not know how deep the changes would go. 

“Boots, there is something that we need to discuss,” Burig began, his voice serious. 

Boots looked up, listening carefully. He stifled a yawn and shifted his arm to try and relieve the pain. Burig did not miss the motion. 

“Your arm is starting to hurt again; do you need to rest?” he asked. 

“It will keep for a few more moments,” Boots said. 

“Well then. I suppose I’d best be out with it,” Burig said, his pensiveness gone. “I don’t know if you gathered that there had been more than one charge levied against you? That ‘theft’ was just the first, and as a result the first to be punished. Given what I know of Narosh’s character, he intended to continue with his sentencing. And it would likely have ended with your death.” 

Boots let out a huff of air at the word. 

Death. 

It was one thing to have that as an unnamed threat, the product of an overactive imagination. But to have this serious man state it so baldly reminded Boots at how possible it had been. Boots glanced at his bandaged hand, not willing to consider himself lucky just yet, but knowing that it could have been so much worse. 

“There are instances of men and women being imprisoned, but I find that rather a waste in some cases. There are so many people with useful skills that are not malicious or hateful in nature, only misguided or bored. Do you think you are malicious and hateful, Boots?” Burig asked, looking questioningly across the table. 

“I can’t say I’m happy at the moment,” Boots said, “but I don’t think I’m any of those things.” 

“Neither do I,” Burig agreed. Then he was quiet again for a thoughtful moment before continuing. “So, what is going to happen, in the coming turn of the seasons, is that you will be working for the Crown in some fashion to repay your debt. Think of it as a way of showing that you can be trusted, that you are loyal.” 

“What could I possibly do here to…wait, you mean leave Holding?” Boots said, making the connection. Burig nodded, just one dip of his chin. 

“But I could never – what about my fields, my work here. What about my mother?” 

“As to the first concerns, it would be arranged that you not lose your livelihood while in service. As to the last,” and here Burig raised an eyebrow and said mildly, “I believe a woman who came to this place with child, or perhaps with an infant, and survived could continue to do so without him, for a spell. But her safety can also be arranged, if it really concerns you.” 

Boots did not know what to say. The pain of his arm was starting to throb in his head, making a hot band around his forehead, squeezing his thoughts. The idea of having to leave everything he had worked so hard for just as he felt he was getting ahead seemed too large to ponder. And as for his mother, what Burig said was probably true, but that didn’t mean it felt right to leave her here alone. 

As if the thought summoned her, the birdsong drifting through the window was soon punctuated with Meranin’s steps as she came up the path and through the door. She looked from one to the other, searching their faces, then her gaze landed expectantly on Burig. 

“Well?” She said, her voice heavy with some meaning Boots did not grasp. 

“We were just going over a few things,” Burig said, looking her way, “I don’t suppose you would give me time to fully explain. 

“Ha!” Meranin threw her head back with a sharp laugh, the tone was mocking but her smile was pleased as she addressed the captain, “not as easy as you thought, is it. Have you even brought it up yet?” 

Burig opened his mouth to answer but she continued on, putting her basket of leaves and flowers on the chair by the door and planting her hands on her hips. 

“Never mind, it’s clear you have not. Well. Time to go,” she said. 

Burig curled his lips over his teeth, his mouth thinning to a line as though counting to ten before speaking again. “I have only just brought it up. Only a little while longer, if you please,” he said in a tight voice. 

“Absolutely not,” Meranin replied. 

Boots’ eyes shifted from Burig to his mother and back again, his curiosity picked. 

“I -” Boots began in a hazarding way. 

“No.” His mother hurled the word like a rock and Boots’ teeth clicked shut. Burig stiffened, as if against a chill or swift wind. 

“Meranin, this is irresponsible in the extreme,” Burig said bolting to his feet, his ease and calm finally replaced by anger and frustration. 

“We have an agreement,” she said, crossing her arms and giving a look Boots knew would not be swayed by any argument he had ever conjured. It was the same look that refused him entry in any large shooting competitions. 

Burig took a steadying breath and scrubbed a hand through his short hair and muttered something under his breath. Then he sighed and seemed to gather himself together. He straightened his coat, once more a poised captain, and fished something from his pocket and held it up for Meranin to see. 

“Is this allowed?” he asked, the barest edge of sarcasm in his voice and raised eyebrow. 

Meranin nodded and made her own muttered response. Burig turned back to Boots. 

“Here, I will leave you with this. It is a token of mine that may serve you well until I see you next.” 

Boots twitched his shoulder to lift his right arm, then remembered he could not and put out his left hand instead to accept the offering. 

“See, learning already,” Burig said with a glimmer of a smile. 

Boots said an awkward thank you as he took the token. He was confused as to how he should treat to the man given his mother’s actions. Burig gave him a wry smile, as if in understanding, and sketched a casual salute before turning to leave. 

“Meranin,” Burig said, his voice layered with meaning as he gave a stiff bow. 

For a second Boots thought she might relent and smile, but her mouth twisted and all she managed was an ungracious, “Good-bye.” 

But once Burig had left she did lean to watch him through the window, and Boots thought she maybe seemed a little regretful, but he dared not ask. Instead, he looked at what Burig had handed him, it was a copper disc, a rough oval stamped with a fish, a salmon Boots thought. His thoughts led to wander again and he was curious. 

“What -” he swallowed and tried again, “what else was Burig going to tell me?” 

“What has he told you so far?” 

“That my crimes can further be repaid in service to the king. He didn’t say what kind of service though.” 

Meranin hmphed and picked up her basket to bring it over to the table for sorting. 

“Do you know what he meant? He never got to tell me?” Boots asked. 

She ignored him, picking up a knife and slicing through a roll of leaves. Chop, chop, chop. 

“Mother?” Boots pressed. 

Chop, chop, chop, chop. 

“Mother?” 

“How should I know,” she said testily. “I am sure he gave the glorified life you could live in the kingdom, in a life as one of his soldiers or some such idiocy.” 

“Well, he didn’t say any of that,” Boots said. “He just talked about, I don’t know, how I was feeling and how things aren’t really always fair. He was – he was being nice.” 

“Of course he was being nice!” Meranin exclaimed, gesturing dangerously with her knife. “He has to be nice to you, what use are you if you despise him?” 

She looked like she wanted to say more but she held it in. She set the knife down and leaned on the table, regarding Boots seriously. 

“Boots, you need to understand that you are dealing with men and women that see the world as a game, and we are all but pieces and tools. They have no more care for us than a fisherman cares for the worm on a hook.” 

“Why does everyone think I am too stupid to understand anything?” Boots asked, voice raised. 

“Because it took that to make you understand,” she responded, pointing at his bandaged arm. Boots felt the blood drain from his face as she continued on, he was not ready for this argument yet. 

“That was a dangerous man you ran afoul of,” she said. “Think for a moment, won’t you? Think of how far he was prepared to go to ‘restore’ his precious honour, think of how much worse this could have gone! And all because of what? Your pride?” 

Her anger traveled at him like a force, “You had to do it, didn’t you? Take part in that archery competition – and don’t try to deny that that isn’t exactly what you did in your own way – with no regard for anyone or anything else. After I warned you and warned you time and again not to do so.” 

There it was, the thing that had not yet been said. He had been angry, and ashamed at getting caught, but now he was ashamed for what he had done, and that was different. 

“And you think this,” he lifted his arm, “was what I had to fear? All of those warnings, and arguments and vague dangers of archery competitions. Maybe if you had said to me ‘Boots, don’t enter an archery competition or else someone will cut your damned fingers off’ I would have listened. Maybe if you had bothered to explain it to me, I would have made different choices.” 

There was a ringing silence in the cottage. He hunched up his shoulders and stared hard at the floor. 

Meranin’s voice was quiet with anger when she spoke. “Are you laying the blame for this at my feet?” 

He badly wanted to. He wanted to shift the fault to someone else and deny that he had made a foolish choice and ignored years of warnings. His shoulders slumped. 

“You know I don’t,” he said, sullenly. 

He knew where the blame lay. But that did not make it any easier to shoulder. Besides, he did not want to admit that he had been wrong. Doing so would erase the small triumph he had achieved. And right now, having landed both arrows was the barest thread of victory he could cling to in this snarled mess he had made. 

Meranin continued, her voice somewhat gentled, her speech halting, 

“I know that my choices have affected you in our lives, Boots. I am aware that you want something more in your life, things I have not provided for you.” 

“Mother I don’t -” he began, but she held up a hand to stop him and continued on. 

“Things you have a right to want, and to strive for. It would be wrong of me to keep you from that without explanation.” 

He waited as she gathered her thoughts. 

“Before this, I spent more time around those types of men and women, the nobles and captains. I watched their petty quarrels and bloody scrambles unfold as they vied for scraps of power. I watched it ruin so many lives in the process. It was messy and horrible. And I knew I had to leave.” 

“Because of me?” he asked. 

“Not entirely,” she said, seeming to choose her words, “though, it is certainly one of the reasons I stayed away. I came to Holding, this little cottage on this hill, and it seemed like it had everything we could ever need. Freedom and safety, what more could I want? But I see now it has everything that I need, but perhaps not everything you want.” 

Boots’ throat was dry and the pain from his hand seemed to be traveling up his arm and straight into his temple with a steady burn, but he could not make himself move to take a drink or adjust how he was sitting. This was perhaps the most his mother had ever divulged about her life before Holding, before him. 

“Where, where did you know them, these people?” he asked. 

“I’m not going to answer that,” she said, without apology. 

Boots nodded, expecting as much, but he had so many questions. 

“And what about him, my father. Does he have anything to do with why you moved, or anything at all?” 

“No,” she said. “I already told you. He died before you were born. And I am sorry for it.” 

Boots let out a huff of breath, one that was filled with frustration and complicated emotions. He did not have the strength for a yelling argument, though he desperately wanted to. 

“So, this is it, then,” he said, nodding at his bandaged hand, “this is what you were afraid of?” 

He looked at his mother, watching the emotions move across her face. He could see the regret in her eyes, at the pain he was going through, or at the truth she was keeping from him – maybe it was both. She sighed, 

“Remember what I told you, about fate and life? About it being rivers and currents and offshoots? These things have no real end and no real beginning, they are just endless paths. I don’t…” she faltered for a moment, a rare thing for her. She looked off into the distance. Even though they were just in the cottage, it seemed she was seeing straight through the walls and into some future place, some place with answers she may be able to read. She pursed her lips, a sign she was ready to say something that the listener may not like to hear. 

“Enough with these metaphors. I will tell you plainly, that if you had not shot that arrow, you would never be in a position where you are beholden to a man of the king’s army. Think Boots, the change has been made. The loss of your fingers is not going to be the end of something, it is just the beginning.” 

Boots bit the insides of his cheeks, trying to keep from crying, or yelling or saying the wrong thing. The insides of his stomach seemed to burn and churn, unwilling to digest what he had just been told. His mother’s talk of currents and paths gave the impression of choice and adventure; but what she had just told him seemed like the craft had been completely upended. He was spinning up the river without a boat or a raft; and all around him his plans for the future – the farm, the oxen, archery contests and a pink-cheeked wife – were being pulled away and drowned under the waves as he careened towards the unknown. 

What had he done. 

The spots were swimming in front of his eyes again, just as they had when Burig was talking to him. 

“Oh, Boots,” He heard his mother’s voice, her tone suddenly soft, “I did not mean to alarm you just now – or even to argue with you earlier. I have let my own fears drive my anger.” 

She reached out for his shoulder but he jerked away. 

“I’m going outside,” he muttered with numb lips, and he stalked out of the cottage. 

Once outside his head cleared a bit, but he was still in pain, and feeling so tired. He held his arm up against his chest. He stopped at the well and awkwardly drew some water. The bucket bumped the side and sloshed over his arm and tipped away. In trying to grab the bucket handle he knocked a wooden ladle that had rested on the edge. He instinctively reached for it with his right hand, pulling at the bandages and sending a stab of pain through his arm. He fell against the wall of the well and watched the ladle tumble down to land with a splash. 

That small sound, that splash, was the last of his resolve falling into the well of his despair and he felt tears burning his eyes. How many ladles would he drop into wells? How often would his injury result in clumsy failures? His great fear was that the answer would be always, from now and forever, he had ruined everything. 

The pain and frustration pressed against his eyes, until the pressure was too much to bear; he sat on the ground and tears leaked out. He scrubbed them away, but he also felt like giving in to the despair. 

When he felt wrung out, he stood up and made another attempt at the well. Taking his time, he manoeuvred the bucket and drew up some water. He splashed it on his face and had a deep drink. Then he eased himself onto the ground, leaning his back against the well in a patch of sunlight, and closed his eyes. The sun was warm and soothing, painting the inside of his lids with orange and red, allowing a moment of stillness in his mind. He drifted aimlessly in and out of sleep as the sun sank in the west. 

And though he had some reprieve from his painful thoughts, the sunlight and the quiet noises of the forest could not keep the aches and pains of his body. He sat up with a gasp, his arm felt on fire. 

He staggered back to the cottage. His mother took one look at him and rushed over. 

“Oh, Boots. I’m so sorry,” she said, taking him a warm hug. 

“I’m sorry too,” he croaked. 

She patted his arm, as if to say it was no bother, and helped settle him on the bed. 

He drank a concoction and a steaming compress was put on the end of his arm. He was vaguely aware of his arm being rebandaged and was grateful that the drink made him too sleepy to look. The pain had mercifully lessened, stray thoughts went through his sleepy head. 

“I dropped the ladle down the well,” he said to his mother, in his muddled state he thought it was important for her to know that. 

“It’s no bother, Boots. We can fish it out later. Or just make a new one,” she said. 

Something about that idea seemed very important to him, but he could not quite fix on why. It made him smile. 

“We can, can’t we,” he said, sleepily. 

He dozed a little after that, then woke feeling groggy but better. 

The smells of dinner cooking actually brought a rumble to his stomach. He crossed unsteadily to the table and sat, he saw that his mother had driven a hole in the copper token and hung it on a leather thong for him, it sat on the tabletop like a peace offering. 

“It’s a salmon,” his mother said without emotion. “You should wear it. If keeping it with you proves to be of use one day, at least something of worth may have come from this disaster.” 

They ate in silence, a slight breeze bringing the sound of the evening insects stirring in the approaching darkness. Boots managed the spoon awkwardly, having refused the gentle offer for help. Exhausted from the effort, he put the bowl down and sighed at the spilt soup on the front of his shirt. 

“It will get better Boots,” his mother said, her eyes winking in the firelight. 

Boots was suddenly aware that he had been occupying her bed. That she had been sleeping in the large chair, or in his hammock and probably strung it from the rafters herself. He was going to be useless, tears dotted his eyes, he had destroyed everything. 

“I’m sorry mother. I’ve ruined everything. I’ve ruined how we live and what we can achieve,” he said, his voice broke. “I let you down,” he whispered. 

“I am disappointed, it’s true. But you are still far from letting me down,” she said, her voice gentle but stern. “You will heal, everyone will heal, with time.” 

“My hand. I can’t tell -” He forced the question out, “What’s happened to it?” 

The firelight crackled in the silence before she answered. 

“You have lost a few fingers. The last two and maybe the third. We will have to make sure that they heal cleanly, or risk losing more.” 

The first living thing Boots had killed with an arrow was a fox that had been plaguing the garden. He was eight. He had waited in the doorway to the cottage, and when the fox’s lithe form stole into the garden to dig its holes Boots loosed an arrow. The poor thing had cried pitifully in pain and fear, Boots ran from the cottage to escape them. He had stayed away until he felt certain the fox would be dead upon his return, the suffering over. When Boots did return, the still form of the fox lay twisted with the pain it had voiced, the tongue protruding from the small mouth, mud and blood sullying the sleek fur that was otherwise beautiful. 

Boots had felt the deep despair that comes with the loss of destruction, the loss of something that cannot be returned and the empty void that is regret. He had cried heartily as he dug a hole in the ground to bury the animal’s body in. He cried again that night while his mother sat patiently by the fire waiting to dry his tears.