Hedge of Thorns: Improvising
Tumble empties the cider glass in two gulps.
No sense in revealing I have a large stash of hard cider, because my supply of bark is limited. “With the broken ribs I suspect you have, lying down would be both miserable and foolish. It’s the wrong season for ice, so you’re stuck trying to reduce that swollen knee with compression, rest, and elevation.”
Our spring water is unusually cool, but changing cold compresses is going to take extra preparation. All the tarps are upstairs, in Bobby’s old loft.
“If I doze off, I’ll hit the floor.”
“Load your pack while I figure something out. If you finish before I’m back, wrap your knee.” Pistol in hand, I go into grandpa’s room and pad the rocker with several quilts. Through the window, the northern view is obscured in smoke. It won’t help a man with breathing problems.
When I return to the kitchen, Tumble is zipping the last compartment on his pack. His bandages, and all four salt bags sit in neat rows on the table.
He’s eased his leg off the long bench, so I drag that into grandpa’s room, and rearrange the furniture a little.
He groans. “Hurry, please. I had no idea that bench was so helpful until you took it away.”
I pull the rocker off the rug, toss the rug across the bench, and carry the rocker close to the table.
“I’m going upstairs. Get into the rocker.”
While I choose the smallest tarp, I hear Tumble’s grunts and sighs.
Tumble’s heaved himself upright, and with an arm draped over my shoulder, makes awkward three-legged progress toward the rocker. He settles into it. Pushing with his good leg, he slides deeper into Grandpa’s room.
I slip in, spread several folded quilts over the rug on the long bench, and cover it all with the tarp. Together, we get his injured leg situated. It’s too warm.
“Could I have some more willow tea?”
No one willingly says that. “Later, and only if you eat. The biscuits are cold by now. First we’ve got to cool down your knee.”
Leaving him there, I go to the kitchen for three buckets and rags. One pail I set under the long bench, tucking the tarp edges inside. “I’m going out to the spring. I suggest you take a very deep breath, and hold it.” With that advice, I duck out the front door and slam it shut. Breathing through my shirt, I drop the bucket into the pool. Filled brim-full, the effort takes two hands, and my shirt slips down. Even upwind, the smoky air tastes foul.
Tumble isn’t the only one who’s hungry, and I jog with the second bucket.
I reach the garden, where a complaining sound rises out of the raised kale bed. Setting down the bucket and sweeping aside the drenched growth soaks my sleeves through and shows me muddy earth. Two steps to my left, a second sweep, and the complaint becomes an angry hiss.
Hedge of Thorns: Improvising 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.
Ruth
Heidi Kortman
Krystine Kercher
Heidi Kortman