Hedge of Thorns: Assessments
Tumble’s sluggish response is sufficient for me to know the back of his knee has no wound.
The thermometer droops, and standing, I take it. 100 degrees. Not ideal, but not an unredeemable disaster, if he’s dosed generously with willow tea. In the meantime, I bind Tumble’s knee with the wet rags. He flinches and sighs. A lengthy snore becomes a cough.
Off to the north, smoke rises. My land is upwind, and may it stay so until the fire burns itself out. There’s more than enough on my plate, and at the thought, my stomach growls. Time to do something about that.
I set to work. First adding Tumble’s salt to my jar, then splitting the cold biscuits before frying some eggs I’d bartered carrots for. While the eggs cook, I unload my pack.
Two reams of drawing paper, half a dozen sharpeners, as many erasers as I could stuff into the bottom pocket, and pencils, some of the last in the former art store in Glenoma…it all gets locked into the chest dad made me. Bringing that down from the loft was the last task Bobby did for me before he vanished.
I pull one sheet from a large pad, a sacrifice to list making. The longer Tumble stays, he reduces my stored food and medicine.
This time of year I try to kill a bear for its fat, and roasts, and a yearling elk for jerky. Ordinarily, I don’t use much white willow bark in a year, but Tumble needs multiple doses each day, if the inflammation in his knee is to subside. Harvesting more from nearby, recently chosen trees is out of the question.
My eggs are ready, and sandwiching them in the biscuits satisfies my hunger. Do I treat myself to a cup of real tea? Bartering for it left me broke in Glenoma. No, it’s probably wiser to ration it while I’m away, dealing with these extra needs.
The sooner I start my expedition, the better, maybe the day after tomorrow. Can Tumble cook for himself? Not if he’s stuck in the rocker. He needs mobility in the house and yard.
The view through the window hasn’t changed. The lightning-struck tree, a smoldering ruin, is still backed by a wide, rising smoke curtain. Eyes-on reconnaissance beyond it must also happen soon.
Tumble’s pledging he’ll attempt to replace my drawing thorn. He’ll need a supply to begin with in the morning. I push my chair away from the table and go knock on grandpa’s bedroom door.
“Nnnn, huh? What, whozzat?”
I open the door and step in. “Tumble, I want you to stand up.”
“Wha…what for?”
It’s good the man’s had a little sleep, but he can go back to it after he cooperates. “Stand up, please, with your hands down at your sides.”
He shifts slowly, eases the injured foot off the bench. Groaning, he heaves himself upright. When he releases his grip on the rocker arms, his hands tremble, and he fists them.
Hedge of Thorns: Assessments is an episode of a serialized short story that posts on Friday.
Check the menu on this blog for other, previously posted serialized stories, here.
