Chapter 3: Restored

Tybalt arrived at a weathered homestead. Over his journey on the rickety wagon, he learned the names of his companions. The father, Aldous, had journeyed with his son, Oswald, to a settlement further to the northwest. They had brought additional wedding gifts for Aldous's daughter, who had recently married the settlement’s leader. The marriage had been a great celebration and a promise of hope. Aldous hoped that the marriage of his surviving daughter would prove to be a happy turning point for the family. After celebrating for a few days with his entire family, they all returned to ensure certain routine matters on their homestead. Before too long, he and his son went back with additional gifts and tidings. His wife, Elowyn, had even stitched together a beautiful linen cloak for her daughter to ensure she held the fashionable dignity of a leader’s wife.

Aldous felt satisfied with his second reception. He had received promises of aid for the following year and billets of purchase for the farm’s surplus. Now, Aldous would need to talk to his family about their future. He would either move his family into the settlement and abandon their homestead, or plan to bring others onto their property and expand their own holdings into the surrounding wilderness and plains. As it was, they were on the outskirts of the New Federation of Borealia. They could not trust their protection to the distant federation, nor could they continue to suffer minor raids from the federation’s enemies. On paper, Carrion Hill sought to protect the farms and homesteads in the region, but, in reality, the city-state overextended their resources in the scramble for power.

Aldous, however, remained content with his simple existence as a flax farmer, having enough land to provide his family autonomy of food and drink.

When they arrived, Oswald helped Tybalt dismount from the wagon. The teenager brought the injured mercenary through the threshold of their house.

“Mother, we have returned! I bring company!”

From an adjacent room, a lanky woman emerged with a kitchen towel in her hands. She wiped her hands clean of grease and grime. She had been preparing sausages from the swine that her husband and son slaughtered before they left.

“Oswald!” she exclaimed, approaching to kiss her son on his cheek. Then, as she caught sight of Tybalt, she immediately changed her tune. “Oh, dear! Bring him in! Take him into the parlour. I shall get a few necessities.” The woman bustled out of sight.

“That’s my Elowyn,” Aldous said with a slight smile, “always thinking of others first.” The man slumped into one of the chairs in the parlour, looking at his son ease Tybalt into a sturdy wooden chair. Tybalt absorbed his surroundings. The whole house had been constructed of wood and other local building materials. The structure emanated an aura of the medieval, despite pre-cataclysm baubles that punctuated the home. The parlour, in particular, had a lovely homely feel to it, with its walls decorated with delicate needlework.

Elowyn emerged with a bottle of clear fluid, a glass, and a few pieces of fabric. She poured the liquid into the glass and offered it to the stranger without asking his name.

“Here, wheat whiskey. It should help the pain.”

Tybalt took the glass and drained its entire contents. He placed the glass back into Elowyn’s hands, who looked at him wide-eyed.

“That’s certainly one way to do it,” she laughed. “I hope you like it. It’s from our humble distillery.”

Tybalt savored the sweet afternotes of the liquor. “Very nice. Thank you,” he said, mustering all of his goodwill. He hated the feeling of being cared for. This fretting made him feel as though he was being lured into a trap. Since childhood, he didn’t have the comfort of a mother. Instead, he and his older brother had to figure out how to survive under the vicious thumb of their abusive father. They developed their routine for the survival of their youth. To them, kindness had only symbolized the lure of a wicked hook. If they took the bait, they would be ripped from the water like a surprised fish and skinned by the wickedness of their father.

Elowyn looked at the stranger. “You know what?” she said to herself. “This is no good. No good whatsoever.” She placed her finger upon her lips and chin, thinking to herself. “Ansel!” she called out.

Another one of her children emerged from an adjacent room. “Yes, Mama?”

“Get the kettle from the kitchen and pour it into the tub. This gentleman will have a warm bath. He shall scrub himself clean, then we can minister to his wounds.”

“Yes, Mama,” the youth said. Ansel seemed a few years younger than Oswald, the other son.

“How many children do you have?” Tybalt asked sarcastically. “Is there another one with a butcher’s knife round back?”

Elowyn huffed and left the room.

“Ah, there goes her good graces, son,” Aldous said. “For the record, we have four sons and two daughters. Well, had. Our youngest daughter died from tuberculosis. The eldest son, well, we don’t speak of him. The second-oldest works in Carrion Hill. All there is here is myself, Ansel, and Oswald. And Elowyn, as you have so met.”

Tybalt kept quiet, eyeing the bottle of wheat whiskey left on the short table in front of him.

“Go on, I don’t mind,” Aldous said. He squinted at his guest, since his eyesight no longer held the same keenness it once had.

Tybalt stretched out his aching arms to grab the bottle. He uncorked it and took a deep slug of liquor. The spirit burned his throat, but he wanted to numb the pain and forget the past. He looked at the bottle again. Shamelessly, he drank again. Thereafter, he recorked it and placed it onto the table in the middle of the room. He looked at its contents and felt a little guilty for taking as much as he did. He then heard the sound of pouring water.

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

“Ah, Ansel seems to have fetched the water. Come!”

Aldous helped the mercenary onto his feet and supported him into the next room. While it looked nothing like a bathroom, a large tub furnished the middle of the lavatory. The tub appeared to be a shorn half of a giant wine barrel. The young boy had returned to the tub with more hot water. He poured the boiling contents of the kettle into the tub. Steam rose quickly.

“We just finished laundry, so excuse the suds and any dirt. But, by the time you’re done bathing, that water will look like the bottom of a muddy boot,” the patriarch laughed to himself. “I’ll leave you be unless you need help getting in.”

“I’m fine,” Tybalt snapped.

“As you wish.” The old man smiled with hospitable warmth and promptly left the room.

Tybalt removed every article of clothing, peeling it from his skin. The fabric pulled at his bloody wounds and reopened a few of them. The bruising around his midsection made these movements even more inconvenient. He gripped the sides of the vat and threw his naked body into the water. Tybalt nearly yelped at the sensation of the cold water. Despite the youngest boy pouring two kettlefuls of boiling water, the heat barely warmed the laundry water.

Tybalt toughed through the cold. He’d been through much worse. He was merely surprised at the temperature. As he cleaned himself, he noticed the murkiness of the water grow. He had not noticed how dirty he had been. His entire body had been caked with a mixture of sweat, blood, and dirt. His journey on the wagon made matters worse.

He took the bar of lye soap that rested on the side of the tub. He took it and scrubbed his body. The sting of the soap made every single wound erupt with new agitation. Once again, he toughed through the pain.

Once clean, Tybalt realized that he had nothing to dry himself with. He thought about jumping into his old clothes, but that’d be inconvenient to do so soaking wet. As he stood up from the bath, Elowyn walked into the room.

Tybalt shrieked with surprise, plunging himself back into the water.

“It ain’t nothing a wife and a mother of four sons never seen,” she said laughing to herself. “For someone as rude and boorish as yourself, I am surprised at your sense of modesty. Nevertheless,” she said, lifting a towel and fresh garments in her hands, “I thought that you would like some fresh garments.”

She laid the towel and clothing on a nearby stool and exited the room.

Tybalt struggled out of the tub, dried himself, and changed. He enjoyed the sensation of fresh dry clothing. He had been given an outfit of loose-fitting linen. He put on the linen tunic, which descended halfway down his thighs. It retained the natural grey of linen. He buttoned the slit by his throat before stepping into his pants, a similar grey. He tucked the tunic into his pants and bound his waist with a strip of dark fabric.

He rolled the sleeves of the shirt up to his biceps and the pants to his knees so that his wounds would not stain the fabric. He limped back out into the parlour without assistance. His body felt at ease after the bath.

“Ah, there is our guest. Rejuvenating, isn’t it?” Aldous said, relaxing in his chair. He placed the book he was reading face down on the table. The book was made of thick paper and had survived many years of readings and re-readings.

Tybalt took a chair in the parlour and engaged in inconsequential small talk with the man. As they spoke, Elowyn returned to the room with small bandages. She wrapped the bandage around Tybalt’s left shin and calf as the men continued their chatter. Finishing the binding, she focused on Tybalt’s right arm. The bandages wrapped around his injured elbow, forearm, and wrist. She gazed at him with friendly eyes as she performed the role of nurse.

All the while, Tybalt kept his ears open to the words of the patriarch. Aldous knew much about the region and willingly shared this knowledge with him. Tybalt needed as much information as he could to better orient himself on the road of revenge. In conversation, he learned a little about the geography of the region, some notes on local politics, and the distance and direction of Carrion Hill.

Elowyn finished tending to Tybalt’s wounds.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely.

She gave a small curtsey and left the men to the rest of their discussion.

Eventually, Aldous turned to practical matters. “We shall eat in an hour or two,” he said. “But, if you would rather, you may take the opportunity to rest and sleep until a later meal.”

Tybalt felt grateful for this hospitality, but perhaps those feelings were only the easiness that came with slight drunkenness and a fresh bath. Still, in his mind, there lingered a suspicion that something dark had been brewing behind the scenes.

Why would these people take so much care for a stranger?

He could not trust himself to sleep during daylight hours when everyone was awake.

What would they do to him? Would they poison his food?

He had no money or anything of value on his person. All of that had been left in his locker at headquarters. His weaponry had been plundered by Mercury Transport and his armor remained abandoned in the field.

Would they take him hostage? They might bind and tie him and seek ransom. Little did they know that no one cared about him. No one would be willing to pay the fee to get him back. Everyone he loved and who loved him lay dead and rotting at the other end of this road.

Or, maybe, this family worked with Mercury Transport. The company needed to check for survivors. They would be paid well if they ensured the death of someone who opposed the expansion of their operations.

These tipsy thoughts swirled within Tybalt’s mind. He decided firmly that he could not trust this family. He could not trust them. Now, he had to figure out how to escape from the homestead, taking as much with him as he could.

“Aldous, I am thankful for your generosity and that of your family,” Tybalt said in his most polite voice possible. He tried to hide the suspicion that undergirded his intentions. “If you do not mind, a good night’s rest, or day’s rest, as it were, sounds good. No need to fuss over me, I can fall asleep anywhere on the ground.”

“Nonsense, good sir!” Aldous said with a huff. “How would it sound to others if our hospitality extended only so far? No, a wounded dog would receive better treatment in our little home. Please, let me help you to your feet. You may sleep in our second-best bed, the best, of course, being the marital bed, and I cannot have you sleep there!” The patriarch gave a full-bellied chuckle. He clearly relished his own joke.

Tybalt took the supporting arm of the man, who also brought with him the twisted piece of metal that Tybalt used as a cane.

“I shall not wake you, unless you wish to be awakened. Lunch? Dinner?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Tybalt said. “I shall sleep until I awake.”

“That is the way to do it! And when you do, do not worry about us. We shall leave some food on the kitchen table ready for you. Eat when you are able. If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask. Wake us, if necessary.”

Aldous led Tybalt to a little hutch that leaned against the main building. Inside the hutch was a simple bed, a small table, and a bucket in the corner. Tybalt thought it looked comfortable although sparse. He had spent several nights of his youth curled up on the side of the road with nothing for warmth other than the comfort of his brother.

“It is not the luxury of the city, but I built this whole house myself. First with my father, and then with my sons. I hope it is sufficient.”

“It is more than sufficient,” Tybalt said with a false smile. “Thank you.”

Aldous left Tybalt alone.

As Tybalt stretched himself onto the bed, a raised straw pallet, he formulated a plan. When he awoke, he would eat the food the family left for him, take what he could from the household, and leave. If he had to limp to Carrion Hill all by himself, he would do so. Anything to escape the secret horrors of this house. He knew something wicked lurked behind such innocence.