Boots Chapter 12

All the ride home, Boots swayed with the movement of the wagon and watched the shadows with heavy eyes. He did not close them, whenever he did, he pictured a nikka crawling up the back of the wagon to reach out and grasp his foot and pull him down. He regretted not sitting up front with the driver and the horses for company. 

He thought of how different this ride was compared to other late-night rides home. Most recently, the one following the storm and flood, when he had happily dozed with a full belly. 

When they pulled up to the cottage Boots hopped out before Faya could even bring the wagon to a full stop. 

“You alright?” she asked. 

“Yeah,” he said with a nod. And forced himself to walk as steadily as he could towards the door and grasp the handle. He even turned around to attempt a smile before going in, but she was already making a wide turn to go back along the lane. 

Boots opened the door and stepped inside. The moment the door closed behind him he started to shiver all over. 

He decided he needed warmth. He stoked the fire and put on more wood than was necessary until it blazed away. The cottage was rarely barred against anything more than the weather or roaming animals, but he turned the wooden pegs on the doors and shutters. Then, after a moment’s thought, he dragged the heavy chest and table against each of the doors to keep them firmly shut. 

The cottage was as secure as he could make it, but he still felt uneasy. He continued to shiver with that strange chill and he crossed his arms tightly across his chest. He took some deep, shaky breaths and willed himself to be calm. He thought about the beer Colin said had been stashed in the woodshed but knew he would not dare step foot outside in the darkness alone. Instead, he rummaged around until he found some of his mother’s special brew, as she called it. He poured a generous measure into a cup and swallowed. The fiery liquid made his eyes water. He followed that with a heel of bread, barely tasting it as he chewed. 

The drink and the fire were blazing with heat, but somehow he was still cold. He poured some more to drink and sat staring at the fire under a heap of blankets, letting the bright, crackling flames burn away what he had seen and to dry the wet tracks down his cheeks that he was determined to ignore. 

Eventually, he stopped shivering and his eyes started to drift shut. But rest was elusive, as pale shapes glided menacingly just below the darkness of sleep. He dreamed of following Fauna down a sunny path, but when she turned, her face was that of a nikka, stretched and harsh. 

His eyes snapped open and he rubbed his wrist, there was a faint bruise showing. He got up and checked all the doors and windows again, then he stoked the fire and changed into clean clothes. The bag of teeth fell out of his shirt when he took it off and he blinked at it in confusion for a moment before he recalled what it was. Hard to imagine that a bag of stolen shark’s teeth was far from the wildest memory of the evening.  

He put the bag on the mantle beside the horse carving. He rested a hand on the toy’s back, as if drawing strength from it, from the memories it held, then settled in to try and find sleep again. 

He closed his eyes, and worries of another kind wormed their way into his mind. He imagined Colin being dragged underwater, wrists clamped tight and mouth open in a scream as water choked him. No way of knowing how far in he went, Bridda had said, what did that mean? Burig had said something about marks. Some creatures from tales could mark you as theirs – your body or your soul. 

Now he thought of his mother, her path through a dark forest stalked by creatures from childhood tales. His mind circled back to the nikka, imagined them creeping through the grasses of the house, prowling up to the window to stretch their long fingers against the frame and pull. 

He drifted in and out of sleep. Bridda, Burig, Colin, the tall and mysterious Chandra, and the biting teeth of the shark all tumbled through his mind. He thought he heard something outside, the cry of a nightbird, the distance sound of hooves. A voice he could not place said: “Boots, wake up!” 

He sat up straight in the chair, more alert than afraid, and came to a decision. He would not sit in here and hide like a child, he would go outside and see that it was fine. He lit a lantern, strode to the door and pulled the table out of the way. Then he turned the latch and threw the door open before he lost his nerve. 

He paused in the doorway. Up here on the hill it was dark; the clouds were covering the stars and the moon. The pines rose up on all sides smothering whatever light might be left with their heavy branches. The lantern and blazing fire did little to illuminate more than a few steps in front of him, casting his shadow into a square of orange light. All else was in shadow. 

After the blazing heat of the cottage, the air was cool on his skin, and it prickled over with gooseflesh. Boots stood as still as he could, straining his ears and eyes to hear and see. It was with a jolt of fear that he heard a sound like a sigh, or a huff of breath. He sucked in air, not daring to breathe, and stared straight ahead where he thought the sound had come from. There, by the gate – was that a shadow or something moving? He willed his heart to be still so he could hear and tightened his grip on the lantern in case he needed to hurl it like a weapon. Dare he dash back in to grab a knife? 

He was about to take a step forward when the shadow moved, his heart climbed into his throat as a hand gripped the fence and a figure pulled itself upwards. Then he felt an immense wave of relief roll through him, washing away the fear, as he recognized the cloaked figure at the end of the path. 

“Mother!” He ran down the path to greet her.

She nodded absently and put a hand out, reaching for his arm. 

“Mother,” he said, again, once he was next to her. “Where have you been? Are you hurt? Here, take my arm, let me help you to the door.” 

She clutched at his arm and leaned heavily on his shoulder as they made slow progress down the pathway. Boots took her travel pack, juggling it onto his arm while holding the lantern. She whispered thank you but kept her focus on making it to the cottage. Boots resisted the urge to lift her and carry her through the door himself to hurry them inside. 

Once inside the warmth and brightness of the cottage he was able to look at her more closely. He could see that her skin was pale and lined more deeply than usual. She blinked slowly, as if her eyes protested each reopening.  

“Are you hurt?” he asked again. 

She shook her head. “Tired,” she said, in a whisper. “I need to sleep.” She started to shrug out of her heavy cloak, then stopped. 

“My pack-” she started. 

“It’s here mother. You need to rest.” 

Boots helped her out of the heavy garment and over to her bed. She kept stopping, as if she had something to say but could not remember. Each time Boots told her it would wait until morning and took her a few steps closer to the bed. Finally, she was tucked in. Her breathing was heavy and interrupted by coughing. 

It seemed to him that she had a fever, her forehead felt overly warm, and he made up a simple brew to help. The coughing sounded uncomfortable, so he started going through her bottles and stores to find something to help with that, leaving her ordered supplies in disarray as he considered and rejected bottles and containers in a half-panic. 

He almost dropped the clay jar in his hand when someone pounded on the door. 

“Boots, it’s Burig.” Came the commanding voice. More pounding. “Open up!” 

Boots fumbled the jar back onto the shelf and ran across the cottage to throw the latch and open the door before there was even more pounding. Burig strode in with his typical directness. 

“I don’t have long, but I thought it best to check on you before I leave. Wanted to make sure you were well, Bridda tells me your mother isn’t…here…” The captain trailed off as his eyes looked over her discarded boots, cloak and pack – still laying where they had been dropped – and rested on the figure in the bed. 

“She just arrived,” Boots said, picking up the cloak and hanging it on a peg by the door. 

“Of course she did,” the captain muttered, pinching the bridge of his long nose. 

“I think she’s sick,” Boots added, dragging her pack over to the foot of the bed where it would be out of the way. “She has a fever. I’m making a willow bark brew. She has a cough too. I…I’m not sure what to make for that, I’m working on it, though.” 

Boots was dipping the ladle into the willow bark brew when his mother started to cough again, the sound was thick with fluid. Her whole body shook and she gasped to breathe between coughs. Burig rushed over and held her up so she could catch her breath between spasms. Boots finished filling a small cup with a splash and went over anxiously to the bed. 

With a final hack, a lump of spittle flew from her mouth and landed on the blankets. His mother took a few shaking breaths then sagged tiredly against Burig who still had an arm around her. 

Boots and Burig stared horrified at the blackish phlegm she had just coughed up. Boots looked back at his mother; she was still pale, her breathing laboured, and her face drawn. She hadn’t noticed what she had coughed onto the blanket. 

“Jayna,” Boots said, swallowing against the dryness in his throat. “Jayna will know what to do. I think.” 

Burig’s eyes flicked to Boots, then to Meranin, then back to the phlegm. 

“The healer. Yes, I have met her,” Burig said. He put his free hand out for the cup. “Give me that, I’ll try to get her to drink. You find some pillow or blankets to prop her up and keep working on something for the cough.” 

Boots handed over the cup and grabbed some blankets and pillows from the large chair by the window while Burig coaxed her to drink. Once she was propped up, Burig carefully slipped his arm out from behind her. He managed to trickle some more fluid between her lips as Boots fumbled together a recipe for coughing sickness. 

Once Burig had settled Meranin as comfortably as he could, he crossed over to the table to speak with Boots. “Do you have any idea where your mother has been off to?” he asked in a quiet voice. “Anything you know that could help identify what’s happened to her?” 

“No, she’s been gone for four days but that’s all I know.” 

Burig made a face at this, but he did not seem entirely surprised. 

“I’ll send the healer to you. I can’t stay any longer – do you need anything?” he asked. His long face was creased with concern. 

Boots’ mind was a whirl of panic that he sought to set to order. 

“I’ve already made something for the fever. For the cough I have this.” He pointed at a jar of salve his mother always had made up. “And I can make something more, with fennel and marjoram I think, and steam – I’ll heat some rocks in the fire -” Boots noticed the man did not seem to be listening. “Captain Burig?” 

The captain had gone very still, the concern on his face had lengthened and now a frown was etched into his features. He was staring at the floor, but in way that showed he wasn’t really seeing it. 

“Captain Burig?” Boots said, again. “If you are going to Jayna, you should bring her what my mother coughed up.” He indicated the bed where the dark spittle still sat on the comforter. “She will likely want to see it.” 

This seemed to bring Burig back to himself, and he sighed softly before looking over at Boots. 

“You can get a red-root leaf from the garden to wrap it in,” Boots offered. 

Burig nodded and went out the back door. Boots carefully measured small piles of herbs; brow creased as he muttered instructions his mother would be giving him. He glanced over at her, looking small and crumpled in the bed, imagining that she might open her eyes and correct him. 

His hands shook a little as he thought about the phlegm she had coughed up. Surely, if there was cause for concern, Jayna would come immediately after seeing Burig. 

The captain came back in, a large leaf in his hand. Boots handed him a wooden spoon to help scrape it up. Probably, Boots thought, I should change the blanket and wash that in boiling water. 

Burig tucked the folded leaf into a pouch on his belt, he was still silent, but something about the quality of it had changed causing Boots to look up from his work. Burig had been staring at the fire, but now his attention was taken by something on the mantle. He reached out towards where the bag of shark’s teeth was sitting. 

Oh please, not this too. Boots thought with a lurch in his heart, if it’s a problem he can just take them, or give them to Balert, or burn them, I don’t care. I want no more conflict tonight. But instead Burig picked up the horse carving and cradled it across his palms as if to better study the whole of it. 

“It was mine when I was little,” Boots said. “I played with it all the time. You can still see in some places how it was a dark, shiny, black before I wore it all away.” 

“Yes, indeed you can,” Burig said. His voice sounded far away. He ran a thumb over the worn wood then carefully placed the carving back on the mantle. 

He studied the toy. “It’s a very handsome piece. Did it have a rider?” 

“It did, but I don’t know where it got too. The horse just turned up a few days ago when mother was digging through some stuff. I keep meaning to look for the rider. Maybe she knows,” Boots said, looking over at his mother. 

“Maybe she does,” Burig agreed, also looking over at the small woman on the bed. Then he scrubbed a hand over his face, as if hiding or washing some emotion away. When he turned to look at Boots the lines of his face were set in their usual frame of command and purpose. 

“You have had quite the series of surprises this evening. Are you well enough to be alone to take care of your mother?” he asked, moving to solve the next problem. 

And when he asked it Boots realized that he was. He was by no means fine, but the sudden appearance of his mother, and her need for help, had eclipsed all his other worries and fears. “Yes, I am,” Boots responded, tired but steady. 

Burig nodded, a sliver of a smile as he did so. “Then I will do my part and take this to your healer. And I sincerely hope, that when we next meet, it might be under less perilous circumstances.” 

“That would be nice,” Boots said, a crooked grin on his face. 

“Good night, Boots.” 

And with a final, long look at Meranin lying on the bed, Burig was gone. Boots took the new mixture over to his mother and eased some into her mouth. She sputtered a little, but her reflexes took over and she swallowed a small amount, then a little more. Boots also made a warm compress with the salve from the jar and tucked it just under her neck where it would help clear her lungs. She still coughed, but no more black phlegm came up. 

Boots dragged a chair over to her bedside and dozed fitfully. He realized that he had forgotten to ask after Colin when Burig was here, but he found he felt strangely numb about the slip, he could not even bring himself to speculate. His brain, he reasoned, had had too many shocks to properly know what to even be afraid of anymore. Besides, the black of night was giving way to the wee morning hours, and the threat of pale figures in the tall grass was fading away. His mother coughed again, and he had her drink some more of the concoction, topping it off with a little from the pot to keep it warm. Then he poured some of the willow brew into a cup for himself; his own head was aching. 

He settled back into the chair. He hoped Jayna would come, not because the condition was serious, but just to check on her friend and tell him that it was not serious. Because that, he realized as his eyes drifted shut in the pink light of dawn, was a shock he really would not be able to take. 

The knock had come early in the morning, not long after Boots had finally managed to doze off. He untangled himself from his hammock, trying to tell his arms and legs to coordinate enough to get his body upright and to the door. He opened it, eyes squinting against the daylight that seemed entirely too bright. 

“Right, back to bed with you,” Jayna instructed in a no-nonsense tone. 

He tried to make some explanation of what had happened and she cut him off. 

“I’ve heard what I need to know from Burig, so unless something has changed since he left here, there is nothing else I need from you.” 

Across the cottage his mother coughed in her sleep, Boots turned to look, waiting to see if he would need to go over and try to get her to drink some water. Jayna’s reasonable tone cut into his thoughts. “There will likely be quite a few sleepless nights following this one. Take your rest while you can. You’re going to need it. I can take things from here.” 

“Colin?” He asked. 

“Ah, Burig said you may want to know. I am to tell you he is well and being cared for at home. No need to worry,” she said. Her smile was curious, but kind. Boots nodded and walked himself to his hammock where he fell promptly asleep. 

When Boots awoke and blinked blearily around the cottage, he was still tired, but he had lost the confused panic that had been weighing him down since last night. Jayna was putting a filled bowl and spoon on the table. The curtain was drawn hiding his mother’s bed from view. Jayna followed his gaze and reassured him. “Your mother is resting comfortably. Here, have something to eat. I helped myself to some ingredients.” 

“Thank you,” Boots said. And as he lifted the first spoonful, his mouth started to water. He had no idea how long he’d slept, the light through the windows told him it was almost midday. He did not think he had eaten since the dinner he and Colin had shared last night. Had it only been last night? It felt so much further away than that. He spooned mouthfuls in as quickly as was polite, but soon he was shoveling it in, not being able to chew fast enough for the next bite. 

“You did quite well last night, I must say,” Jayna said, as he ate. “I see what ingredients you used, the compress you made. Your mother will be impressed.” 

Boots swallowed. “Thank you, I probably made a mess of things searching for the right stuff.” 

She went over and put a few remaining ingredients back on the shelf. “No worry, I’ve put most things to right.” 

Boots rushed another ‘thank you’ out between mouthfuls while she finished up organizing. He picked up the bowl and scraped the last bits into his mouth then looked over at the large pot, clearly considering more. Seeing his bowl empty Jayna refilled it, but only to half the amount of before. 

“Maybe save some for later,” Jayna suggested. “And there’s something hot to drink in the other pot. Have some while we talk.” 

While we talk. The words sent a chill down Boots’ spine. 

“Is it bad? Is she very sick?” Boots asked, suddenly worried that Jayna might have been delaying bad news until after he had eaten. 

“It is not the worst news,” she said, putting her hands out to encourage calm. “Though she is quite sick. What she has is rare but not incurable.” 

Rare but not incurable, the words replayed in his mind, and he felt hopeful. He ladled himself some of the hot brew from the other pot into a cup and set himself to eat, drink and listen. 

Jayna started with a question of her own. “I am aware your mother has been away for a few days. She didn’t tell me where she was going. I am not asking if you know where she went, but maybe when I explain you can decide if -” 

“She didn’t tell me either,” Boots said, in answer to where the question was going. “Is that going to make it difficult to cure?” 

He looked over again at the curtained bed. Surely his mother would share her destination with Jayna if it meant making her well again? Jayna’s frown at the same bed told Boots otherwise. 

“While the exact location would certainly help,” a touch of irritation in her voice here, “I know enough from the phlegm and what I found on her cloak and boots to have a very good idea. 

“From what I can see, your mother has ashlung. She has all the symptoms: coughing, signs of infection in her chest, slight delirium brought on by high fevers and, most notably, the black phlegm. It should be treatable with the roots and herbs I have here, although I will have to go home and gather more and teach you how to properly prepare and brew them. So far, you have done well to treat the symptoms, but there will be more specific instructions for the actual infection.” 

“Ashlung,” Boots repeated the ailment to himself. “I’ve never heard of that before. You said it was rare.” 

In response she flipped open a book that had been sitting on the table to a page marked by a piece of string. She pushed it towards Boots as she spoke. 

“In these parts, it is very rare. In fact, I have never actually had to treat it. Ashlung is more common in the regions nearer to the sea. There are rocks and caves along the shores that grow a particular type of seaweed along the water line, where the tide comes in. Usually, ashlung comes from these seaweeds. It actually has nothing to do with ashes at all, the name is for the black phlegm. It’s only when you breathe in the spores from the seaweed when they are above the tide long enough to dry out that you are at risk. Rather specific circumstances from what I gather.” 

As she explained Boots was looking over the book Jayna had pushed in front of him, flipping through the relevant pages. The book was from his mother’s collection, he could tell by the handwriting. He was not proficient enough at reading to decipher the dense text quickly, but there were some images and a few phrases he picked out. Some herbs and the different uses, what looked like descriptions of different types of phlegm and what they could mean, and a list of symptoms. 

“So, you think that my mother went all the way to the seaside and back? It seems like she must have journeyed very quickly. It doesn’t seem possible,” he said, as he looked over the book. 

“True, although there are other possibilities. Perhaps she encountered the plant on her travels, dried or picked, and spores from it could have been on something she inhaled.” 

“Maybe something from the flood?” Boots wondered. “Some of those fish were from the ocean, and the water was salty for a few days until it started running in the proper direction.” 

“That is another possibility I considered,” Jayna said. “But no other villagers have symptoms, not at this point. And that means she would have developed symptoms while traveling. If that is the case it must have been a difficult journey indeed.” 

And now they both looked over at the drawn curtain with frowns of concern. 

Jayna sighed. “In any case. I am quite certain that it is ashlung, and that she picked it up on her travels. I can locate the rest of the herbs you will need for treatment and drop them off later today. I can sit with your mother then, too, if you wanted to go out. Actually, you could venture out now if you really needed,” Jayna said, as she packed up her things. She shot Boots a slightly guilty look. “I’ll admit that I gave her a tonic to help her sleep soundly for the next little bit. Not strictly necessary, but with Meranin, I thought it prudent to make sure she stays in bed.” 

“Thank you,” Boots said, finding himself smiling ruefully in agreement. Meranin was not someone who took well to being told what to do, even when it was clearly in her best interests. 

“Oh, I’ve almost forgot. I’ve changed your mother’s clothes, and the linens, and put them outside and set some water to heat over the fire. Best to give everything a good scrub later, just to be safe.” 

“Thank you,” Boots said, again. “I’ll probably stay here and finish that up for now. But if you don’t mind staying a bit when you come by later, I’d like to check on something in the village. And maybe you could help tend my mother, for…er, washing.” He finished awkwardly. 

Once Jayna had mentioned changing his mother, he realized that was something he would like to avoid, if at all possible. Jayna smiled her understanding at him and agreed to come back in the afternoon, and once a day for the next little while, until his mother was feeling better. 

After she left, Boots tiptoed over to the curtain to peer behind it. Meranin was sleeping soundly enough, her breath still marred by an underlying wheeze. Here, in the little enclosure of curtains, the brisk smells of herbs to clear phlegm and ease breathing were strong and he blinked as he felt his own head clear a little. But as he blinked, he was aware his eyes were a little misty with emotion as well. How was it possible for someone so strong and intimidating to also look so frail and small? Where had she gone on her secret mission? And had she known the risks before she left? 

He was finding that it was easier to ignore the mysteries of his mother’s past than those of her present.  

He imagined her, sick and tired, making her way along some unknown path. He tried to picture it, was it through a forest? Along a river? Over the cliffs that swept away to the vast sea beyond? 

Something Jayna said earlier stuck in his head: what I found on her cloak and boots. He backed away from the curtain and pulled it shut.  

Jayna had given Meranin a draught to help her sleep; she would not be waking up anytime soon. He had an opportunity. 

He started with the boots. He examined the soles. There was nothing unusual to his eye as he picked out some small rocks and dirt that could have come from anywhere. It was when he turned them to set them down that he noticed what Jayna had likely seen. A thin, white wavy line with some chalky residue below. It was very likely, he realized after some thought, a salt stain on the leather from dried saltwater. 

Saltwater from the sea, he supposed. Although, given what had happened recently, the river flowing with a salty tang, she could have easily gathered the stains along any nearby waterway. Not a definite answer, but it was a start. 

Next, he took her cloak outside to add to the pile of laundry Jayna had brought out. He checked the hem and found evidence of the same white line along the bottom. The dried fabric was a little stiff to the touch, too. He realized after crunching it with his hand that it may not have been wise to do so. Keeping his mouth closed he rushed back into the cottage and rinsed his hand in the water warming over the fire. 

He dried his hand on his pants and then found a kerchief to tie around the lower half of his face to keep from inhaling anything that might be lingering from the journey while he went through her travel pack. Her pack was still leaning against the end of the bed, and he quietly lifted it up and crept backwards through the curtains. Bringing it outside he looked through the contents one by one. 

On top was a blanket, neatly rolled by his mother’s hand. He put that aside for washing and reached in for the next item. To his surprise it was a long, slender dagger in a light scabbard. He pulled it from the sheath and marveled at the smooth and dangerous edge. He could not remember ever seeing it before and wondered if it was a new acquisition or another hidden secret. With a morbid thought he examined the blade carefully, particularly near the hilt, looking for anything that might resemble dried blood. But the finish was smooth and clean. 

Next, he found some candles. As he pulled the candles out and lined them up on the grass, he realized that there was no sign of the lantern his mother had taken. In the bottom of the pack, he found two small, leather pouches. 

One he recognized instantly, and a check inside showed him the flint that his mother used to light fires. The other pouch rattled when he opened it. He poured the contents into his hand and he was looking at several small, copper nuggets. They were smooth and irregularly shaped, as though melted like candle wax and cooled in formations of droplets and drips. Some were shinier than others or had a rainbow patina along the curves or evidence of another metal melted through it. He thought about the copper sigils his mother had recently affixed in the cottage above the doors and windows. He wondered if the copper nuggets in his hand were from the same batch of metal. 

He looked over the contents spread out on the ground around him with disappointment. It seemed she was carrying the same practical items any travel pack would, with no hint of where she had been or why she had gone. At the bottom of the bag were a few changes of clothes. He unfolded them and checked the pockets before tossing on to the pile of laundry. Then he felt along the seams of the bag and peered inside just to be sure. 

He set it back down with a sigh and went inside to check on his mother and fetch the washing water. He was lugging the heavy pot of water outside when his gaze fell on the rolled blanket. His first thought was not that it should be washed, but that it was rolled so neatly, with the ends tucked under, in a way that meant it would not come unraveled every time you moved it around. 

Thoughts of the laundry abandoned, he reached for the blanket and began to unwrap it. Sure enough, there was something hard near the centre. He had to fully open the blanket before he found what had been hidden within the folds.  

It was a piece of some peculiar material; it could have been metal but it also could have been some sort of stone or pottery. The hard material seemed like it could have been forged in some way, but the edges were uneven and jagged, the way a piece of broken pottery would be. The colour was a dull, black that did nothing to clarify the material. It was roughly triangular in shape and about the length of his hand. It reminded him of a splinter or shard from a larger object that had been shattered by a heavy blow or a long fall. But was it stone or metal? For it was more likely, in Boots’ experience, that you would shatter stone than metal, but there was something cold and resonant about piece. It was curious and had clearly been wrapped for protection or secrecy or both, but it was nothing that struck him as worth the journey or the effort. 

After turning the object over in his hand a few more times, Boots could not see anything more to learn from the item. He looked up at the sun and reasoned if he washed the blanket first it would be dry quickly and he could rewrap the strange shard and put it back in the pack as though he had never found it to begin with. He placed the object in the bottom of the pack and left it against the cottage while he worked. 

Everything was airing out to dry and the mysterious object still in the pack when Jayna returned. She had a basket on her arm that was heavy with more than herbs. She came with food and laughed to see Boots’ face light up at the warm loaf of bread. He broke off a piece and began eating it immediately.  

“I saw the state of things when I was here earlier. With your mother away for a few days I imagine there was not much left to eat. Colin’s family also sent a few things.” 

Boots happily looked through the food. He was truly terrible at cooking, and a greater disaster at baking. This would save him having to make a trip to town for supplies and the ensuing failed attempts at cooking and give him more time to balance working in the fields and caring for his mother. 

He complimented the bread and gave Jayna another heartfelt thank you. She told him she was going to take a look at the hives and check on a few things she and Meranin had been working on. Boots promised to hurry so Jayna could make her way home before nightfall. He tucked the bag of shark’s teeth in his shirt and went on his way. 

Boots made his way to the village, breaking into a jog at times, prodded on by some strange sense of urgency. His pace slowed as he entered the village and looked around. He had last been in Holding proper two days after the storm. The streets had been dirty with runnels of mud that had washed through, and waste and debris had collected in the turns and up against the sides of buildings. Climbing plants, shutters and shingles were hanging astray or completely torn off. A few houses had toppled chimneys and holes in the roof. Branches and trees of all shapes and sizes were strewn about. The storm had given Holding a beating. 

Now, a few days later, Boots saw slow repairs taking place. Vines and other climbing plants had mostly been pruned or completely cut down and were gathered in piles or neat bundles. There were jagged stacks of wood that ranged from broken branches to entire trees waiting to be cut up for various uses. Temporary oilcloths or slats of wood were covering bare windows or holes in roofs and chimneys. Dotting the village were trestle tables set up beside growing piles of stone, shingles or materials for thatching or making wattle and daub. Mismatched shutters on a few houses showed that lost ones were being replaced. And there were stretches of cobbled road and pathways that had been swept clear of most of the dirt and mud by an industrious besom-wielder or by the regular passage of people. 

Boots counted off the days to the Moonwhistle festival and wondered if the village would be ready for it. The field it was held in would, of course, still be a field and therefore always ready for games and dancing. But what about all the other preparations? The food, the decorations, the games – how many of these trestles were usually tables laden with food rather than workspaces heavy with shaped stones and tools? A rough count to the next full moon made it made it a little over fourteen days, he thought, close to sixteen. Funny, under other circumstances Moonwhistle would be the most discussed thing in the village, the exact date and details would be at the forefront of every conversation. But this season it was an afterthought, at risk of being an “if” and not a “when”. 

Usually, Boots would go right through the centre of the village, catching up on gossip and lending a hand when needed. That would certainly allow him to gather any news about midharvest and festival plans. But today he skirted along back paths and shortcuts, avoiding people. 

For a portion of the walk towards the village, he had completely forgotten about the nikka and his mother’s strange illness. But the closer he got to the village, the more he thought about both things, and his promise to Bridda. He thought about how he would be lying to everyone he met by not immediately blurting out what had happened. By the time he was steps from the village, he already felt so guilty about the possibility of having to lie that he decided to avoid as many people as possible. So, he waved from a distance and contrived to look like he was in a hurry, which was not difficult because he sort of was. 

He made it to Colin’s house without having to talk to anyone and knocked on the door. There was general yelling from the other side as each family member insisted someone else should open it. Boots smiled and opened the door himself, calling out, “it’s just me,” as he entered. 

Shase and another brother galloped towards him and lunged, as if to tackle. Boots caught them both and gave them a bit of a bear hug before tossing them aside. Colin’s sisters were playing dolls in a corner – within easy opening distance of the door – and looked over at Boots before returning to their game. 

Shase had wrestled himself free of his brother and Boots grabbed hold of his shirtsleeve before he could run off again. 

“Where’s Colin?” Boots asked. 

“Dunno,” Shase said. Then he was off running again, soon followed by two more brothers. 

Boots asked the sisters the same question. 

“He went for a nap I think,” one answered. 

“He’s so grumpy,” the other added. 

“He won’t fix my dolly!” 

“No, he left, I sawed him sneak out the back.” 

Then Colin’s mother came in and Boots moved to make room for her to enter, holding the door open as she came through with a large basket. 

“Oh, hello Boots. Are you looking for Colin?” 

“Yes, but it seems I’ve missed him.” 

“Did he leave?” she asked, incredulous. She was met with emphatic nods from all the children who were present. 

“Lazy sod,” she said, with an affectionate snort. “A storm blows through, he rescues one brother, and he thinks that gives him leave to nap half the day and then disappear for the rest of it. Just what kind of mischief did you two get into again anyway? Don’t think I didn’t notice that jug of beer he had when he left.” 

“I…we…” Boots began, his thoughts frantically trying to come up with a believable, but vague answer. But he had no need to worry, the questions was more out of a natural habit of keeping children on their toes than actual suspicion. 

“Anyway,” she continued, “he mentioned he was off to do something today. To help by the mill, perhaps? Honestly, I thought he would be with you.” 

“Maybe I’ll check out that way next,” Boots said. 

“Just wait a moment,” she said, disappearing into the back where the kitchen was. 

And Boots waited, while the sisters started at him like he was some sort of strange animal, until Enid returned without the large basket but with a cloth-wrapped packet. 

“Just a snack, for the road, and for Colin if you find him. I’m not sure he ate breakfast or lunch today.” 

Boots thanked her and left. 

He paused at the end of the path, looking up and down the street and thinking. He was fairly tired himself. And he really had no desire to go to the mill, nor did he have the time. He did not want to be walking home in the dark after last night. So, he set his steps towards home, taking the same back paths through the village, keeping an eye out for Colin in case he was nearby. But he made it to the edge of town without spotting his friend, so he hurried home to relieve Jayna so she could be on her way. He did not really want to think about her going home in the dark either. 

Boots sat by his mother’s bedside while he ate. Except for a few weak smiles and vague murmurs, she was either sleeping or resting her eyes, but he stayed anyway. He told her about the damage and repairs going on in the village, about her garden and her bees. He asked if she needed anything – even though she did not answer – and helped her have a drink after each coughing fit. She coughed up some blackish phlegm again, and even though Jayna had told him it would happen for a few days, he still felt a small jolt of panic. But he followed the directions he had been given, burning the scrap of fabric with the phlegm and administering the medicine Jayna had set aside. 

Then he went out back to practice with the bow before the light fully faded. As he pulled the target out, he had a sort of rushing in his ears. He was suddenly dizzy and leaned his forehead against the target taking deep breaths and waiting for his vision to clear. A cold sweat had broken out all over his body. The rushing in his ears sounded like the raging river as it tumbled him along in its stormy current and gave way to the encroaching song of the nikka. He yelped and jumped back as he felt a hand close around his wrist. 

He looked and there was no one. He spun around and his eyes searched the rows of the garden and the edge of the forest. No one was there. 

He looked at his wrist. He could almost still feel the pressure of long thin fingers closing around it. 

He had heard his mother talk about shock, about how it could happen right after an event or days later. About how it could cause someone to see and feel things that were not there. How it was like a waking dream sometimes – or rather a nightmare. He had been through it himself so recently. And here it was again. 

He took a breath and tried to steady himself. But suddenly, even the comfortable routine of shooting a bow held no appeal for him. He did not want to be outside. He looked at the cottage, he did not know that he wanted to be inside either. He did not want to be anywhere. 

He wondered if Colin felt the same way; and where his friend had gone off to that afternoon. Hopefully to find a welcome distraction. Maybe having all that family around would help. At this moment, Boots would be happy sleeping in a room full of brothers if he had any. 

Boots left the target where it was, there would be time to put it away in the morning, and went back inside.