The Scourge (A.G. Henley) - By A.G. Henley Page 0,91
like the ones I’d heard speak. No such luck. At least my hands are free, and I have a weapon to defend myself with. Not that it will help if the creature really decides to take me. It sounds big, and sick one or not, it’s probably the stronger of the two of us.
I crouch against my side of the pit, knife in hand. My ankle aches; I have to shift my weight often. The sick one goes back to pacing. Maybe it could understand me. I wait, wary and watchful.
As the sun follows its agonizingly slow path in the sky, my thirst becomes unbearable. Water is all I can think of. As my tongue slowly swells from dehydration, I start to imagine things again. The sick one speaks to me, only it sounds like people I know—my family and friends, even some from Koolkuna. One groan morphs into Nerang’s quiet chuckle. I slap my hands over my ears, almost dropping the knife. It takes all my energy to fight the despair that fills me, drop by drop, like a slow but inevitable trickle of water. As night falls again, I don’t know how much more I can endure.
I drift, half-asleep, through memories of happier days: playing tag in the forest with Calli and Bear, sitting around the fire listening to the elders tell their stories, taking walks in the garden with Aloe as she teaches me to identify plants from their feel and smell.
One memory has remarkable clarity: Aloe and I alone by the water hole. She rarely relaxed when I was a child, always busy with her responsibilities, or helping someone else with theirs. But this day was different. No washing to do or water to gather. Just her and me on the shore. I snuggled against her, the scent of rosemary filling my nose as the sun warmed her skin.
Aloe asked if I was happy. That was unusual, too. She usually didn’t waste time wondering about things that made no difference. Happy or not, life went on and duties had to be done. I said I was, and she asked what made me happy. I don’t remember exactly what I said. I probably chattered about the small things that pleased me at the time—the squirrel Bear captured and caged as a pet for us to share, an evening swim the Three allowed, wildberries we gathered for dessert. Aloe listened, stroking my hair as I spoke.
“Ask me what makes me happy,” she said, and I did. “You and Eland. Without you, there would be no happiness or joy for me. Not even a possibility of it.”
I don’t know why this particular memory comes up, except that there’s water in it. But there’s some comfort in knowing there was a time, however long ago, when I made Aloe happy.
The night wears on, terrible and interminable, and my world shrinks to two needs: water and sleep. I’d give anything for a few dribbles of water on my tongue, poisoned or not. I can feel it now, pooling in my mouth, coating my tongue, sliding down my dry throat . . .
I jerk awake as the sick one moans. Is it closer than it was a few seconds ago? Fear pumps through my body, buying me a few more minutes of wakefulness. I clutch the knife.
A thought comes to me. I could kill the creature.
It would be dangerous—I might fail, and end up enraging it. But if I kill it, I could sleep. And anything is better than this waiting game. Waiting to succumb to sleep or thirst. Waiting to die. I’m sick, starving, frightened, wretched. I’m ready to die or to kill.
Slowly, I exhale through parched lips. This is a human in the pit with me. The word echos in my mind. Human. And I can't do it. With a trembling hand, I place the knife in my lap, lean my head against the wall, and go back to waiting.
Morning light squints into the hole. As the chill dissipates in deference to the sun, the sick ones above mutter in low voices of relief. At least that’s what it sounds like in my delirium. I haven't slept. At least I don't think I have. I can't tell reality from my encroaching nightmares anymore. Nerang speaks to me.
Up, young one. It’s time for you to go.
“Can’t. Too weak.” My tongue’s so swollen, I sound like Moray. I turn my face to the wall.