The Scourge (A.G. Henley) - By A.G. Henley Page 0,42
he’s about to faint, and I wedge him between my body and the wall, trying to keep him upright.
When I run out of songs I talk to him. I tell him things I’ve never told anyone, like how frightening Sightlessness can be sometimes, and how exhausting it is to try to be brave, to do for myself, to not ask for help, to be more like Aloe. I tell him how I sometimes envy the sighted so much it hurts. And other times I’m so fiercely proud of my self-sufficiency, I wouldn’t be sighted if I had the choice. I tell him how much it meant to have him as my Keeper, to know he was there in the trees, watching over me. He doesn’t respond. I’m not sure he can hear me anymore, but I sing and I talk until I’m hoarse, and still we walk toward the water.
I lose track of time and distance again, thanks to the fatigue from carrying my pack and much of Peree’s weight, and the constant fear that he’ll pass out. I try to remember how many caverns we’ve passed through, but all the caves and passages we traversed in the last two and a half days blend in my memory. The days since I became the Water Bearer feel like one long, dark passage, with no end. In the blackest moments, my entire life feels that way.
The sound of rushing water brings me to my senses again. Fighting to hold Peree up, I focus the rest of my energy on reaching it. When I can feel the spray of water on my legs, I lower him to the rock floor.
I fill a water sack and hold his head up so he can drink. Most of the water slides down his face, but he swallows a little, and coughs. I cushion his head with a balled-up extra dress, and inch the dry, blood-crusted bandages off his leg. The swelling and heat beneath is appalling. I clean the wound with water until I can feel no more dirt or dried blood, then I squeeze more agrimony and yarrow paste from my medicine pouch and rewrap it. He doesn’t stir; I think he’s unconscious. When I finish, I wait. Wait for him to wake up, or to die.
I listen to the water rush by. It sounds like it emerges from the rock itself, and disappears back into it, dampening my hope that we might find a way out. Exhausted and dispirited, I curl up beside Peree, my hand on his chest to reassure myself that he’s breathing. Lulled by the constant stream of water, I sleep.
When I wake, the first thing I’m aware of is relief. Peree’s hand is on top of mine now, and it’s still warm, which means he’s still alive. I lean closer to listen to him breathe. He croaks, making me jump. I fill the sack, and hold his head again while he drinks.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
I lay my hand against his cheek. “How do you feel?”
He shakes his head slightly. “Where are we?”
“The Hidden Waters. We walked here, do you remember?”
“I thought I was dead . . . dreamed I was a flesh-eater.”
“You’re alive.”
“I was only sure when I felt you next to me.” He presses his cheek into my palm. “Where's the torch? I . . . want to see what we came all this way for.”
It’s hard to find in my pack, there’s so little of it left. He struggles up, then helps me light it with shaking hands. The torch crackles to life, and the darkness fades a bit. Peree says nothing.
“What does it look like?” I ask.
“Like a cave. With water.”
“Where does the water go? Can you tell?”
“Through an opening in the rock on the far wall.”
“Do you see any light beyond, like the stream might go outside from here, or another way out?”
He doesn’t answer. The torch almost singes my hand before sputtering out, and the last of my hope goes with it. I have no idea what to do now. I can’t get Peree back home in his condition. There’s maybe enough food to last one more day. The water might keep him alive for a few days while I go back for help . . . unless the infection from his wound kills him first. Despair caresses me with frost-tipped fingers.
“Fennel?”
“I’m here.” I take his hands.
“Have you ever heard the story of how the first fish were created?” He sounds different. Resigned.