James White: The First Protector

His two attackers backed away, blinking, their faces contorted by fear, and were turning and running for the trees when a sharp cry from behind him made Declan swing around.

The old man was holding something in his hands that shone brightly, although the light seemed to be fading from white to yellow as he watched. Beside him the boy was holding his sword at full extension as he had been instructed and the pikeman, his weapon already dropping to the ground, was backing away, clutching at his shoulder and whimpering with pain. The robber turned quickly and, still dazzled by the old man's strange light, he too stumbled toward the shelter of the trees. The battle, it seemed, was over and won.

Declan replaced his axe in its harness and tried to keep from staggering with weakness as he strode back to the wagon. Relief made his voice harsher than he had intended.

"Pleased I am to see that you fared well, old man," he said. "But you, boy, you should have aimed and stuck that pikeman in the chest or belly. He wanted to take your life, and you gave him another chance to do it someday…"

"I do not take life," the boy interrupted, his voice almost strident with anger. "I am a healer."

"Even a stupid apprentice healer," said Declan scornfully, "must continue to live if he hopes to practice the high art."

"Enough," the boy replied, glaring up at him. "Your cheek is opened, the blood is flowing and the edges of the wound will need to be pulled together. I promise you, our ragged and uncouth guardian, that the work will be neater and you will feel less pain if you curb your unmannerly tongue."

The old man held up a hand for silence with a gesture that was graceful and almost fluid, then looked at Declan with large, soft eyes that were set in a face that bore no lines or wrinkles either of age or character. In a gentle voice that was low and clear like a woman's, he spoke for the first time.

"We owe you a great debt, young man," he said. "How may we repay it?"

Declan had expected to be stealing from the two of them rather than being offered a reward. He shivered and a sudden yawn stretched his jaw and caused more blood to trickle down his cheek. "You may pay me with warmth, and rest, and food."

The old man pointed to the fire. "Warm yourself," he said, "Light and neat are needed to mend your face, and to cook our food. In a short time you may eat your fill and later, before you leave us, as much more as you wish to carry."

–

"Thank you," he replied, grateful that he did not have to steal. "My name is Declan."

"And I am Ma'el," said the old man.

'There is no need," said the boy, "for one such as you to know my name."

"May-ell?" said Declan. He looked at the stiff, angry face of the boy for a moment, then went on, "A name can be a proud or a shameful thing. If you do not give it I will not know which."

"Ma'el," the old man corrected him gently, and quickly before the boy could respond he went on, "and this one calls himself Sean. My hand light is nigh to expiring and I must wait for it to renew its life. Let us move to the fire."

A few minutes later Declan was seated crosslegged and as close to the light and heat of the fire as he could bear while the boy busied himself with boiling a pan of water in which lay strips of torn cloth, a small, bone needle, and what looked like a length of fine catgut already threaded onto it. An apprentice healer he might be, Declan thought, but the boy had been taught the habits of cleanliness. Ma'el brought two sharpened, divided branches from the wagon which he pushed into the ground on opposite sides of the fire, and within a few minutes there was a large wood fowl, already plucked and gutted, rotating on a spit between them. The smell of the roasting bird was causing his stomach to remind him noisily that it was empty. His mouth was still watering when the boy tipped the boiling water from the pan onto the ground to allow the needle and dressing to cool, then held the top of Declan's head and chin between his small hands to look closely at the torn cheek.

'The cuts have bled themselves clean," said the boy in a strangely mature and self-assured voice, glancing across briefly at Ma'el. "No poultices or ointments will be needed to draw dirt or poisons from the wound and slow the healing. Seven, maybe eight stitches will suffice… You, hold still!"

Declan held his head still, teeth pressed tightly together and neck muscles tensed against the expected pain. But it was not as bad as he had expected. Although Sean was young and could not therefore be a fully tutored apprentice healer, the boy's hands were deft and sure and even gentle in their touch. Declan felt scarcely any pain at all and he began to relax. The work ended with a soft, sharp-smelling pad which, the boy said, contained herbs that would speed the healing, being applied to cover the closed wounds. A long strip of clean cloth was wound vertically around his head and chin to hold the covering firmly in position.

For the first time he was beginning to feel grateful and well-disposed towards young Sean, but the feeling lasted only until the boy spoke.

"You may eat now," Sean said, putting aside his materials. "Do not wolf the food or you will loosen the dressings and open the wound again. I'm presuming that an unmannerly ruffian like you is capable of eating in small mouthfuls?"

"Guard your own mouth, boy," said Declan sharply, "or I'll loosen a few of its teeth."

"Be at peace," said Ma'el, "and use your mouths for eating."

The old man's tone was chiding, gentle, and soft but, Declan thought with a small shiver, it also carried within it the quality of quiet confidence and authority found only in a commander of men. With persons such as this the habit of command, and of obedience to those commands, was instinctive. Declan stopped speaking. So, apart from the few words needed during the carving and separation of the wood fowl, did the boy.

"Declan," said Ma'el, breaking a long silence, "we shall return to my wagon now. Sean takes his rest under the awning over the driving bench, which is wide and softly padded. He will bring you blankets so that you may sleep by the warmth of the dying fire-"

"I shall not sleep," Declan broke in. 'There is little danger of the robbers coming back this night. Sean wounded one and I cut another, very deeply 1 think, and they did not have the look of nor did they act like the bravest of men. The small chance of them returning troubles me not, and I feel sure that both of you can sleep in safety."

"You have a listening look, Declan," said Ma'el. "Is there something else that is troubling you?"

He nodded, and began, "There is a sound among the trees…"

"I hear it, too," Sean broke in. "It's like the low, uneven whining of a wounded animal. Perhaps it is the prey of a wolf or fox who escaped its attacker, but perhaps not with its life."

"It is not an animal," said Declan.

He climbed to his feet, pleased that the fire's warmth had taken the stiffness out of his limbs, and checked the free movement of the shortsword in its scabbard. He stepped around the fire and strode toward the trees, saying over his shoulder, "Stay here. I will look to it."

At once he heard the light sound of Sean's footsteps behind him. He turned to speak sharply to the boy only to find that Ma'el was following him as well. One word from me, he thought irritably, and they do as they like.

He followed the sound until they came to the base of a tall tree whose gnarled branches had been left blackened and leafless by a lightning strike so that bright moonlight shone down on the white face and figure of the leader of the robbers whose back was to the thick trunk. There was no sight or sound of his men who, as Declan had guessed they would, had deserted him. Thick, drying blood covered the sides of the other's mouth and darkened the gray streaks that had been in his beard, and the ground under and around him was also saturated by a dark and widening stain. His axe lay in the grass several paces away and both of his hands and forearms were pressed tightly against his middle. Declan stepped closer.