Chapter 7 - Patience

Abel’s eyes blinked open slowly. Struggling to pry his eye lids apart, Abel realized he was looking up at a row of neat, angular timbers. Small candles dotted the room. His room, he slowly realized. Glancing over the bridge of his nose, he spotted his father Caleb sitting rigidly in a chair at the foot of the bed. A warm smile grew on the older man’s face as he stood up, coming to Abel’s side.

“I’m sure you don’t need reminding… but injuries take time to heal son. Take it easy young man and be patient.” Caleb patted Abel gently on the arm. His father’s touch made Abel wince slightly. Looking down, he saw the bruises and scrapes now. Messy hues of purple, brown and green enveloped his body like a splattering of hideous artwork. He strained as he tried to sit upright, feeling the stiffness in his back.

“What happened father? Where are the others?” Abel whispered in a raspy voice.

“Well, many of them made it back safely. A few of them men were not so lucky.” Caleb frowned as he spoke. “The Sergeant managed to drag you out of the rubble as the tunnel collapsed. The other men heard the commotion from the distance and came back for you.”

Abel squinted through bleary eyes trying to recall the tunnel. He remembered the goblins rampaging toward him and Sergeant Hannibal. Then, a shattering sound followed by blackness.

“The Sergeant said you can take some time to recover before you report for duty. A gruff man that one. He lost two of his fingers on his left hand and had significant tissue damage along the forearm and wrist. He insisted that the others be treated first. I offered what help I could between myself, one of the midwives and Master Randley. None of us are surgeons, but we managed to sew up a few wounds and set some broken bones. That lad with the arrow in his leg is probably the worst off now. The rest of them just need some time recover.”

“Did you remove the arrow? I wasn’t sure what to do. Did he lose his leg?” Abel asked in a rush.

“Indeed, the arrow is gone. Master Randley is keeping a close eye on his leg, I think we might try and have him sent to Greenhall tonight. They have a proper surgeon and a physician there. You did the right thing. The arrow nicked his femoral artery. I have some experience with sutures and wounds. So, we fashioned some thread from a fresh lamb intestine. Poor little creature. We tried our best to close the artery. Delicate work. Master Randley had a salve he used for maimed sheep in his cupboard. Hopefully, it will keep the rot at bay in his leg.”

Caleb rubbed at his face, massaging the dark circles under his eyes. “Well then, are you hungry yet? We need to get your strength up so you can recover faster.”

Abel felt a growl, a rumbling in the cavernous pit of his stomache. “Absolutely.” He replied.

“Good, I hope you like lamb stew.” Caleb chuckled as he went to fetch some dinner.

Over three days, a teetering pile of books grew steadily taller on Abel’s bedside table. He set down a volume titled ‘Worldly Customs: From the Proper and Pleasant to the Preposterous and Proud’. Apparently, in the Middern Isles it was considered blasphemous to touch the dead. Only a Kanuhai, a spirit healer, was respected enough to guide the deceased to an honorable rest. Was Hoi a spirit healer? Was that a ritual or a prayer of some sort that he had whispered in front of the dead soldier? Abel would have to ask him later. His thoughts were interrupted as a surly figure entered the doorway. The man was dressed in worn, tan leathers. His outfit matched the ragged lines on his face. It was Talbot.

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“Hello lad. You’re looking a bit better. Got some color back in your face. You were looking mighty grim that night before Hannibal pulled you from the rubble. Most of the boys didn’t think you would make it, myself included. Glad we were wrong though.” Talbot looked around awkwardly and rubbed his palms together.

“Ahem.” Talbot made a gruff coughing noise. “So, I guess I’m here to thank you then.” He stroked his mustache, eyes looking down. “Those blasted goblins, caught us off guard. My men were exhausted, I shouldn’t have put them in that position. We were too far into the wilds to be messing about.” His voice trailed off.

Abel wasn’t sure how to respond. “I think its Sergeant Hannibal you should thank. He trained us. He rallied us when your patrol went missing. I didn’t even…” A wracking cough overcame Abel as he reached for a handkerchief.

“Careful lad. Rest easy aye? Just know that we owe you one. I think I even heard Corporal Darrid mutter a thank you, although it might have been a curse I’m not sure. Hah. Well, I’ll tell your father you need some water then.” Without a word, Talbot turned to leave.

Abel was still hacking, the motion of it causing him to tense up in pain. Between coughs, he could see Talbot in the next room, shaking hands with his father. Caleb was always a courteous man, and he had made friends with everybody in Lake Top. People were always grateful, or at least tolerant of Caleb’s… contributions. His father had made a habit of improving things around town, if not always by request. As an example, Master Randley’s squash field was doing poorly one year. Summer rains were sparse that year and the stalks were wilting.

Caleb had coerced Matt and Francis to gather all of Madam Randley’s flower pots. Caleb brought out a hand drill and put holes in all the pots. Him and the boys placed them in neat rows along the squash, filling them with water. The holes were small enough that they bled a few drops per hour, enough that pots needed refilling only once every few days.

Madam Randley had a fit when she found out the Matt and Francis took the pots. Within a few weeks though, the squash stalks were blooming with greens and yellows. Caleb ended up replacing the pots for Madam Randley, thought not without a light scolding first.

Another two days passed before Abel was up and moving around. His ribs still ached and bending over was no frolic in the square, but he managed. Caleb had given him another stack of books to read, but Abel longed to get outside and see the Sergeant and the other recruits. Every night, he slept fitfully, remembering the acrid smell of the goblin caves. Black fur and fangs haunted his dreams.

“I see you haven’t been sleeping well still. Perhaps a draught of milk-thistle would help. I think we have some lavender too. Your mother used to make…” Caleb cutoff mid-speech as he shuffled through the assortment of jars in the kitchen. “Well, she used to make something similar when you were a baby. There was no rhyme or reason to her mixtures, but they seemed to put you right to sleep.” A smile crept up Caleb’s face as he returned to his work.

Abel had not thought about his mother in a long time. She was a distant memory now and he could only recall flashes of her face. His mother had passed when he was only two years old. Soft melodies and a soothing voice were all that remained. Rarely did she come up in conversation between Abel and his father. Feeling a bit cautious, he addressed Caleb.

“Father. What do you think mother would have said about me joining the guard?”

Caleb finished stirring the bits of fleshy herbs together and looked to Abel. “Here, drink this.” His father looked sideways before continuing. “I think she would have been horrified. And maybe a little proud I suspect.” The two sat in silence for some time, burying themselves in their respective texts. Abel was wrapping up another volume on foreign wars as his eyes grew heavy. He nodded off in the lounge chair as visions of dancing sparks filled his dreams.