Mitchell Smith - Moonrise

"Oh, it's lies that trouble me," the fat woman said, "- not truths." She held the broth-bowl for Patience's last swallow, then set it down… and with great effort, burdened by massive breasts, a huge sagging belly – slowly got to her feet and waddled away to a curtained entrance, her thick, white, dimpled thighs trembling beneath the hem of her red-feathered kilt.

"The shoulder," Patience called after her – amused by the distancing of the question as she called it, "the" shoulder, not "my" shoulder. "When will I know how it does?"

The woman turned ponderously back to face her. "Within one WT week, unbandage and sling it, exercise it gently. If you leave it longer, it may grow to the joint, to move never. – Then, after two weeks slung and lightly exercised, you will know what that arm will be forever."

"… Thank you, Doctor."

The woman left, billowing the entrance sheepskin so sunlight flashed in for a moment.

Sliced, while she shouted. Patience lay thanking whatever Jesus or Weather Great for a so-far rescue. Content with lucky minutes, she drifted to sleep… and dreamed her Maxwell become a man grown, marvelous and fierce – though lacking humor – the son, truly, of six-hundred years of ice and sacrifice.

… When she woke, Patience knew it was night – the small hut now quite dark – and found she needed to shit. But find a possible pot how? She tried to sit up… and did, though that made her dizzy. She sat in cool darkness, taking deep breaths. A poop-pot – and her sword. What else could a lady require? These savages would keep her Merriment … let its wonderful blade rust in their trophy hut.

Really… really have to have that pot. Prompted, Patience rolled carefully off her pile of sheepskins, favoring the bound left shoulder absolutely, and began – not crawling – but hitching along naked over a rammed-dirt floor. Would have grimy buttocks and no choice about it. She scooted slowly along, then reached out with her right arm, feeling at the near corner for the thing – there must be one, though clean since there was no smell of it. She found that corner empty, then went along a wattled wall for the next… Soon, would be just in time.

Then, as if in a staged comedy, the hut's entrance hide was paged aside, and rich yellow lamplight came pouring in, with the silhouettes of two big men behind it.

Patience saw herself as those warriors must see her – naked, pale, white-haired and scrawny… droop-breasted, bandaged, and crouched in the dirt like a caught cat. In that moment, came to her – not the immediately sensible thing of startled embarrassment and fear – but overwhelming bitterness at age and its changes, unfair to a degree that guaranteed cruel gods… It was rage enough to leave her frozen where she was, instead of scuttling back to the sheepskins to try to draw one over.

"Don't be uncomfortable. We'll close our eyes." A very pleasant voice, speaking quite good book-English – almost a Boston gentleman's voice for tone, though not for accent. Sounding from a shadow shape behind the golden glare of light, it seemed to Patience the careful speech of a man who'd taught himself improvement. "I am Paul French-Robin."

"Our eyes are closed." Second voice – from the other shadow-man – not pleasant, sounding like a breaking branch, and speaking very poor book-English.

"Can you get back to your bed?" First voice. "Shall I carry you?"

"Our eyes still closed." Second voice.

A situation gone from enraging back to comic. What on cold earth did not go that way? "… I appreciate 'eyes closed.' But I find I need a piss-pot."

Silence. Warrior Paul French-Robin apparently confounded. Then Breaking-branch said, "Over there," and one of them – the lamp-bearer – stepped out into his lamp's light (glance averted from Patience), picked a fat clay pot from a corner by the entrance, sidled over and handed it to her.

Then both men, kilted and feather cloaked, turned their backs – sight apparently the important modesty – and stood while Patience, shoulder aching, awkwardly perched, emptied herself fairly noisily while desperate not to laugh. That once started, there'd be no stopping it.

Done, though with no wipe-leaf available, she scooted slowly back to her sheepskins – her ungainly shadow following along – and wrestled to pull the top fleece over her.

The incident apparently dismissed, both men turned, came to her pallet and sat side by side, cross-legged, lamplight shadowing their faces and the raised feather-scarring decorating their bare chests and bellies.

"Comfortable?" Paul French-Robin (the pleasant voice) smiled. This was a handsome man who knew it, tall, muscled, with a neat beard and long brown hair, glossy as oiled wood, lightly brushed with gray above his ears. Fine eyes, as deep a blue as blue could be. – And, as he'd spoken, every filed tooth still in place, a rarity among tribespeople.

"I'm Patience Nearly-Lodge," Patience said. "- And grateful for your hospitality."

"Yes," the handsome man still smiled, "- and cleverly put, from stupid young Pete Aiken to now. But I'm not yet convinced. I might still prefer you dead, Boston. And since it's a politic question, not a war one, it is under my hand."

"Not so. A matter of war as much as anything." The second man, whose voice sounded splintered – ruined apparently by a blow across his throat – looked very nearly a Person of Boston's Guard, though Patience had smelled nothing but Sunriser-human from them both, with perhaps a faint scent of flowers from Paul French-Robin… This second man might have been a dwarf, with a huge shaggy head, massive arms and legs so short in proportion – but a dwarf more than six WT-feet tall, with eyes an unpleasant light green, and a face, front, and forearms carved white by healed battle slashes. He wore two heavy hatchets, their long handles thrust through his kilt's wide belt.

"Chad Budnarik?" It seemed a good guess, though the dwarf-giant didn't respond. Both Robins sat silent, staring at her.

Patience scented from them all the complexities of men. The held juice of perhaps-soon-fucking, the sweat of mild effort, the harsh breath of meat eaters… and the far more delicate and difficult-to-be-sure-of odor of consideration, decision-choosing. All odors had been clearer to her when she was young, gift of the Talents. That gift now fading, with others. "- Perhaps," she said from her sheepskins, heart going thump thump thump, "- perhaps I can offer a suggestion that prevents what appears to be discord between you important Robins, which might injure the tribe."

Silence.

"I'm speaking," Patience said, "of a fortuitous escape." She tried a smile. "- In which case, no decision would have to be made, no disagreement caused among leaders. Also no anger from Boston if I die the city's friend, no strengthening of Boston if I die their enemy – which it happens, I am."

"Fortuitous." Paul French returned her smile, but unpleasantly. "See?" he nudged the dwarf-giant, "- how richly Cambridge educates? Such learning in the Yard. See what a considerable thing she is, to show tribal fools and savages a way past their difficulties… Perhaps she is considerable enough to lie staked before the children, and scream out life's lessons under the knife. Much to teach… much to teach, who could doubt it?"

"Boston's enemy – how?" Certainly-Budnarik had no expression on his face, no expression in his eyes. The question might have come from a tree. A tree with filed teeth.

"They've taken something from me," Patience said, "- something that was mine alone. And voted me exiled for protesting, though I was the Township's daughter, and Nearly-Lodge."

"What thing?"

"That is my business, Chad Budnarik-Robin – not yours." Patience's stomach turned in fear with that defiance, and she saw herself – after already toileting before these men – now vomiting mutton broth into their laps.