Leslie Moore - Griffin's Shadow

“Aruk-cho will be ready. All he needs is a few hours’ warning,” Gran replied. “If you’re concerned about him getting into any trouble, don’t be. I promised to shield him and I can.”

“Are we really leaving here and going to Alasiri?” Tense with excitement, Seijon’s voice piped a little too loud in the afternoon stillness of the infirmary.

“Hush, child!” Gran scolded. “You can’t speak about any of this! All our lives depend on secrecy. If the mistress were to find out…”

“She won’t from me,” Seijon promised solemnly.

“Gran, I trust Seijon completely,” Ashinji said. He smiled at the hikui boy and received a grin in return.

“Two weeks, then,” Magnes repeated. “Now, let me check your wounds, Ashi.”

With Gran’s assistance, Ashinji rolled onto his side and lay as still as he could while Magnes unbound and examined his wounds. Even though Magnes probed as gently as he could, Ashinji found it impossible not to flinch. After Magnes had declared himself satisfied, he re-bound Ashinji’s torso with clean bandages.

“Are you hungry?” Gran asked. “I can send Seijon to the kitchen for some soup, that is, if you think you can handle it.”

Ashinji shook his head. The mere thought of food caused his stomach to roil in rebellion. “No, not just yet,” he whispered. “I think I need to sleep for awhile longer.”

“Have some tea, then, at least,” Gran insisted. “You need the moisture.” Ashinji nodded in assent and Seijon scampered off to fetch the tea.

The sounds of late afternoon drifted in through the open windows. Voices raised in animated conversation, the bleat of a goat, the dull clack, clack of wooden practice blades striking against each other-all served as a reminder to Ashinji that life in the de Guera yard went on essentially unchanged, and it mattered not a whit whether he lived or died.

He felt grateful to be alive.

Seijon returned shortly, carrying a tray laden with a teapot and four cups. Gran stood up, took the tray from his hands, and set it on a small table beside Ashinji’s bed.

“I’ll stay with you, Ashi, while you sleep. I’ll be right here the whole time,” Seijon declared, flopping down in the chair recently vacated by Gran.

“I feel much better, knowing that you’ll be watching over me, Little Brother.” Ashinji’s heart once again swelled with affection for the boy.

“The patient is in good hands, it seems,” Magnes said, winking at Gran, who tried her best to look disapproving, but failed dismally.

“Child, you’ve been sitting by Ashi’s bed for three days straight!” she exclaimed. “When was the last time you ate anything, eh? When was the last time I ate anything for that matter?” she muttered as she poured the tea.

“I’m not hungry,” Seijon responded, “an’ I’m not leaving.” His voice rang with youthful defiance.

“Huh! Suit yourself, monkey!” Gran’s eyes flashed, then softened. “I’ll go to the kitchen later and bring you a little something anyway. You can eat it or not; I don’t care.” Even in his bleary state, Ashinji could tell Gran cared very much.

With Gran’s assistance, Ashinji drank almost a full cup of the lightly sweetened herb tea, then lay his head back on the lumpy, moss-stuffed pillow. The room grew soft and fuzzy around its edges.

Just before he slipped into sleep, an image of Jelena appeared before his mind’s eye. She looked up sharply, as if startled, and her lips shaped his name.

He tried to answer, but he hadn’t the strength.

"Hee hee! It’s grand, Tilo, just grand!”

Brother Wambo made no attempt to contain his glee. He performed an impromptu jig, his skinny arms and legs flailing like a manic scarecrow come to sudden, comical life.

Laughing, Magnes exclaimed, “Brother Wambo, if I had known you could dance like that, I would have suggested the temple put on recitals as fund raisers!”

The new Eskleipan mobile infirmary had been delivered that morning from the wagon makers’ yard, and all the inhabitants of the temple had gathered in the rear courtyard to admire the order’s latest project for serving the poor.

“Brother Tilo, we have you to thank for this marvelous thing,” Father Ndoma wheezed, his rheumy eyes squinting against the midday sun. In the harsh light, the old man’s skin looked like ancient leather stretched taut over a frame of sticks. The head of the Eskleipan Order had been unwell for several months, and it had lately become obvious that he would not last out the summer.

“I appreciate your kind words, Father, but the person we ought to be thanking is Armina de Guera. It was her gold that paid for this wagon,” Magnes replied.

Father Ndoma nodded. “Yes, yes, of course. We shall send a formal letter to the good lady expressing our gratitude.” A fit of coughing wracked his frail body and sent him sagging into the arms of Jouma the chirugeon and Ayeesha the midwife. Wambo shot Magnes a worried look.

“Perhaps you’d better go inside out of the sun, Father,” Magnes suggested. The rainy season had not quite ended, but already the days waxed warmer as spring took firm hold of the land.

“Ayeesha and I will escort you, Father,” Jouma said, gently taking the old man’s elbow. Together, he and the midwife steered their leader back toward the cool interior of the temple.

After the three had disappeared inside, Magnes turned to Wambo and said, “He grows weaker by the day.”

“Ndoma and I came to Darguinia together,” Wambo replied, voice heavy with sorrow. “So many years have gone by since, so many people have passed through our doors… Some we could heal, others we could not. For those whom our skills were not enough, at the very least, we helped to ease their passage to the other side. Now, the time draws near when I will ease my old friend’s passage and take up his mantle of leadership.”

“Everyone here has complete faith in you, Brother,” Magnes responded with heartfelt sincerity. He recalled the day when he had first arrived at the temple of Eskleipas, his spirit withering beneath the crushing weight of depression born out of guilt. Wambo and his people had offered him a haven, a place where he could, in time, come to terms with what he’d done and perhaps find absolution through helping others. During his time as an Eskleipan Brother, Magnes had managed to ease his tormented soul, and if he did not feel entirely at peace, he felt as near to it as possible.

“I can have the infirmary stocked and ready to roll in two days, three at the most,” he said. “Fadili and I have had time to make plans, so we know exactly what we’ll need. I bought a map of the local area in a shop near the palace, so I think it’s fairly accurate…I’ve marked the outlying villages we’ll stop at. I estimate we’ll be able to stay out two to three weeks at a time.”

Wambo nodded as Magnes spoke, thoughtfully tapping his strong white teeth with the tip of a forefinger.

“Hmm, yes. Excellent. You and Fadili will both be missed, of course, but this is important work! Jouma will have to resume the contract work with the yards. Hmm, we’ll be spread a little thin… Perhaps it’s time for a recruitment drive!” He slapped Magnes on the shoulder and grinned.

Magnes sighed. He felt torn between his desire to admit to Wambo the other use to which he would put the infirmary and his instinct to protect everyone at the temple. He hated the fact that he had to deceive his friend, but in the end, it was far safer that no one else in the temple besides Fadili should know the truth.

He glanced up at the hazy sky. “Speaking of the yards, it’s time I was getting over to de Guera’s. They’ve got at least five matches today, so I’m expecting a lot of injuries.”