Hedge of Thorns: Dose

Fire flicker and lamp glow illuminate the sweat drops dotting his skull as he yanks zippers open and stacks items on the table. Jerky, needles, scissors, buttons, thread and a darning egg, wadded up socks, elastic bandages, a flannel shirt—none of them things I don’t have—and finally, from its depths, four tightly packed sausage-like one pound bags of salt.

To mask my instant greed, I turn aside for two glasses, and a bottle of the fermented haw cider. I bring the items and sit across the table from him, with the pistol in a position he can’t reach without falling from the stool he occupies.

“Tumble, dear Tumble, this thorn…” I hold up the pieces. “This thorn let me draw such fine lines. Some insect had hollowed it out, and the holes gave me excellent control of the flowing ink.”

The sweat on his face is a greasy film.

“I can try to make you another one. I’ve got needles…” He gropes for them in the pile.

“I saw them, and yes, you can try. Tumble, look at me.”

When he does, I show him a paper pouch. “For every dose of my willow bark tea, I want a level half-cup of salt. You can knock the excess flour out of the cup at your elbow and do the measuring yourself.”

He nods, and sweat drips from his chin to the table. His breathing is short again.

“Deep breaths, Tumble.”

The man fumbles open a salt sack. While he measures the steady trickle of precious crystals into the cup, passing the half mark, all the way to the rim, I fill a glass with the haw cider.

“Mercy… please?”

He’s staring at the doses in my hand with complete intensity.

“Drinking more than a glass at once has been known to have powerful side-effects. Are you certain you want two?”

“Yes.”

I lift the cast iron kettle I reserve for medicinal tea and add water. “If you taste blood, I must know about it.” When the boiling point is reached, I drop in a single pouch of willow bark, and stir. Slowly, too slowly to suit Tumble’s anticipation, the tea turns nearly blood red. I set the kettle aside in a cooler spot on the hearth, to steep. Tumble’s due for a twenty-minute wait, while the brewing tea reaches full strength.

Ten minutes later, I take the kettle to the table, as much for relief from the heat, as to frustrate Tumble. He drums his fingers as I strain the tea thoroughly before he can drink it.

When he notices the color of the liquid, his eyebrows rise.

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

He accepts the mug with a shaking hand and gulps. As the drug hits his tongue and tastebuds, Tumble’s face contorts and his eyes squeeze shut. He shudders.

I relent and hand him the glass of haw cider, almost the same color as the drug. “Chase the tea with this. It’ll kill the taste.”

Hedge of Thorns: Dose is a segment of a serialized short story that will post on Fridays.

Check the menu on this blog for other, previously posted serialized stories, here.