Читать книгу The Raven's Warrior - Vincent Pratchett - Страница 8

Rebirth

The wagon that I fell into was lined with pillows and overlaid with a beautifully patterned carpet. I lay on my side, unmoving, like an egg in its nest, or an unborn baby in a wondrously colored womb. I heard the one who had claimed ownership of me say, “the road home is long and arduous; whether my daughter tends or buries, is not for me to say.” I felt the wagon begin to move, and I felt the one who I thought a servant climb in beside me. Clouds above and road below, my eyes closed, and I hovered between two worlds.

The first leg of the journey was difficult. She began her work immediately. I felt the skill of healer in her hands. She massaged me firmly but gently, leaving no damaged areas neglected. Her fingers dug deep enough to draw moans from my broken frame, and then her palms smoothly reassured its bone and tissue. I could feel both strength and confidence in her attention, and I marveled at her dexterity.

This went on day after day, but at week’s end I felt I could take no more, and I fell into the fearless sleep of the nearly dead. Through the depths of my slumber I smelled the fire, and as night descended she brought me a soup of bitter herb and beast unknown. After the meal I remember nothing until morning came, and I awoke to the sound and motion of wheel on road once again.

The next week’s travel brought more of the same, but was less strenuous. Now I grew used to the pungent aroma of plant and potion. I could feel the infused oils rubbed into my skin surface and beyond. I didn’t know if this was to cover my smell or to heal my wounds, and I didn’t care. We pulled on, and slowly I began to come back to myself.

My limbs were drawn and stretched, and joints almost immobile began to loosen. Some treatments brought heat, some cold, others I could taste when applied. My body drank this attention like a sponge, and paused occasionally to sip strange teas from the cup she held for me. With each new nightfall I was happy to hear the fire built again, and ate ravenously the stew she served.

Our last full week upon the grinding road began routinely with the rising sun, and her work continued. I watched her slip needles from a pouch and insert them deeply into my arm, chest, and shoulder. I braced for pain, but I felt none, even as she rotated them one after another. The feeling of having nothing and being nothing was beginning to lift, I was no longer burdened by this emptiness, but liberated by it. The insipid smell of desert sand had been replaced by the lush aroma of plant and blossom. My world was turning green, as if spring had come to me at last.

I ate well that evening, and I left the confines of my traveling nest. By firelight I saw their faces, and for the first time I saw how beautiful she really was. I was a man well starved, but I did not hunger openly. I watched her from the cool darkness and was nourished by her presence. The moonlight played on her thick black hair. Its rich luster was like the coat of a wild fresh-run stallion. Her skin was soft even to the touch of my eyes. It had the color of amber spring honey, and the echoed fragrance of jasmine. Honey and jasmine, like the mead of my homeland, I felt strangely light headed as I drank her in.

Their eyes were different than any I had ever seen, black like the richest and darkest wood and shaped like the knots that give it character. Hers picked up the reflection of the bright flames, and banished any trace of the night’s chill from my bones. I listened without understanding as they spoke in the language of their world. As I lay down, it washed over me like a wandering brook, and for the first time in a long time I began to dream again. There were the sounds of sword biting metal, the lightness of my arms, the flashing of silver edge, and the feeling of flight. I was both weapon and wielder in an ethereal battle that raged far beyond my waking senses.

By mid-morning well into the fourth week, I was sitting in the wagon. Light still played on the clothing of the rider, and his darkly clad daughter rode with him on the back of his powerful mount. There was life all around us; songbirds were in full form, small creatures scrambled from our approach. Tall trees waved young leaves that caught the soft winds. A movement of his arm spoke that this land was his. We climbed higher and could soon see all around us. Almost hidden in the center of this view, I saw a dwelling.

As we came closer, the grazing animals stopped and looked up at us. Birds swooped closer as if to spy, a raven cried from a branch overhead, and wild deer and game stepped out from foliage just to show themselves to him. We entered the walled courtyard protected by a huge wooden door that closed behind us. We stopped first at the barns, and I was shocked by how well I felt as I stepped onto the ground.

The horses were fed and tended, and the young girl took the sword from her father as if he were himself a horse being stripped of brass, blanket, and bridle. As we walked towards the large house, we passed a deep pond of lilies. I could see fish thrash and surge to hold orange heads above the surface. Their wagging tails reminded me of my wolfhounds, which once jostled happily to greet their returning master.

We entered the house through a great hall. Weapons and armor from all over the world lay scattered from far wall to near. I recognized some, but most looked foreign, from a different place or a different time perhaps. Many pieces were just strewn and dust covered, others seemed waiting to be picked up and handled again. There were spears, clubs, short swords, scimitars, slings, projectiles, helmets, shields, and breastplates.

It brought from my memories tales about the dragon’s lair, dark and cavernous, littered with the weapons, armor, and bones of brave souls previously dispatched.

I thought once more of the mythical serpent, childhood dreams and adult nightmares, of journeys ended and journeys begun.