Hedge of Thorns: Breakfast
“God, I really don’t want to meet a bear or cougar with burns.”
Other than filling my canteens, there isn’t much more preparation to make. I climb down the ladder, and take the oil lamp into my room, where the bucket waits. Soaking a wadded rag, I remove as much blood from my hair as possible.
The scratches reflected in the hand mirror aren’t as deep as I believed, but the skin along them is warmer than normal, and the cool water refreshes.
There are still blood streaks on my face, and I rub them away. Since I’m going into different territory, I pick up mother’s scissors and lop off several inches of my hair. “Don’t forget to wear dad’s hat in the morning.”
Back in the kitchen again, I jot a note telling Tumble where I keep the cornmeal, and repeat my permission to use any vegetables in the garden. Then I scoop some dried haws into a bag to eat on the trail. Sitting on the small stool, I dry my wet hair at the hearth before banking the coals.
Rain spatters the kitchen window. If it’s more than a momentary shower, my blood will be washed off the trail. It might also track north far enough to extinguish the burn zone. Moving to the window, I peer into the night. The glow has gone out on the ridge, as far as I can tell, but the air coming in under the front door still carries plenty of smoke stench.
In grandpa’s room, Tumble coughs.
Morning will arrive too soon. I go to my room and blow out the oil lamp.
#
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I lift my head from the pillow, and frown as I smooth my rumpled shirt. Falling asleep dressed isn’t terribly comfortable, but it does make investigating odd noises a little easier. I shove my feet into my boots and crack open my room door.
A streamer of light glows on the hall floor.
I’d wanted to be on the trail already. More thumps, clanks, and coughs from the kitchen confirm that Tumble is up and moving. I lace my boots then grab dad’s camouflage hat from the peg.
The man’s noisy in the morning, but his cooking racket masks my movements as I search through dad’s tool chest for any wire. Setting aside the top tray, and the next, I find a small spool half full of fine gray wire. The cut end springs free and draws blood from my index finger. I lick the small wound, then replace the inner trays, and stuff the spool in my jeans pocket.
“Here’s what wire I could find,” I say as I stand the spool on the kitchen table. The end is quite sharp.”
“I’ll try it.” Tumble spoons cornmeal mush into a bowl. “Made too much of this. Want some?”
I chuckle. “Sure, but remember, you can always fry what’s left over later.”
He dishes out more and I eat quickly, scraping the bowl clean, then fill my canteens. While Tumble eats, distracted by the thorns and wire, I take the last five doses of willow bark from my first aid box and line them up on the table. “I hope to be back before these are gone, but hold off on using them, okay?”
“Thanks.”
Hedge of Thorns: Breakfast 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.
