Anne McCaffrey - Dragonsong

“No, not my feet. My hand,” and Menolly turned on her side, holding out her scarred hand. She was considerably gratified by the concerned pity in Mirrim’s face as she examined the wound.

“However did you do that?”

“I was gutting packtail, and the knife slipped.”

“You were lucky to miss the tendons.”

“Miss?”

“Well, you are using those fingers. A bit drawn that scar, though.” Mirrim clucked her tongue with professional dismay. “Don’t think much of your Hold’s nursing if that’s any sample.”

“Packtail slime is difficult, as bad as Threadscore in its own way,” Menolly muttered, perversely defending her Hold.

“Be that as it may,” and Mirrim gave the foot bandage a final twitch, “we’ll see you don’t have any such trouble with your feet. Now, I’ll bring you something to eat. You must be starved…”

Now that the worst of the dressing was over and the numbweed had deadened the pain in her feet, Menolly was definitely aware of the emptiness in her stomach.

“So I’ll be right back, Menolly, and if you need anything after that, just shout for Sanra. She’s below on the Floor, minding the little ones, and she knows she’s to listen for you.”

As Menolly worked her way through the generous meal Mirrim brought, she reflected on some harsh truths. Definitely Mavi had given her the distinct impression that she’d never be able to use her hand again. Yet Mavi was too skilled a healer not to have known that the knife had missed the finger tendons. She had deliberately let the hand heal with drawn flesh. It was painfully clear to Menolly that Mavi, as well as Yanus, had not wanted her to be able to play again.

Grimly Menolly vowed that she’d never, never return to Half-Circle. Her reflections made her doubt Manora’s assurance that she could stay at Benden Weyr. No matter, she could run away again. Run she could, and live holdless. And that’s what she’d do. Why, she’d run across all Pern…And why not? Menolly became pleased with the notion. Indeed, there was nothing to stop her running right to the Masterharperhall in Fort Hold. Maybe Petiron had sent her songs to Masterharper Robinton. Maybe they were more than just twiddles. Maybe…but there was no maybe about returning to Half-Circle Hold! That she would not do.

The issue did not arise over the next few days while her feet itched—Mirrim said that was a good sign of healing—and she found herself beginning to fret with impatience at her disability.

She also worried about her fire lizards now she wasn’t able to forage for them. But the first evening when Beauty reappeared, her little eyes darting about the chamber to be sure Menolly was alone, there was nothing of hunger in her manner. She daintily accepted the morsels that Menolly had carefully saved from her supper. Rocky and Diver appeared just as she was drifting off to sleep. However, they promptly curled themselves up to sleep against the small of her back, which they wouldn’t have done if they’d been hungry.

They were gone the next morning, but Beauty lingered, stroking her head against Menolly’s cheek until she heard footsteps in the corridor. Menolly shooed her away, telling her to stay with the others.

“I know it’s boring to stay abed,” Mirrim agreed the third morning with a weary sigh that told Menolly Mirrim would gladly have swapped places, “but it’s kept you out of Lessa’s way. Since the…well,” and Mirrim censored what she’d been about to say. “With Ramoth broody over those eggs, we’re all treading hot sands until they Hatch, so it’s better you’re here.”

“There must be something I can do, now that I’m better. I’m good with my hands…” and then Menolly, too, halted uncertainly.

“You could help Sanra with the little ones if you would. Can you tell any stories?”

“Yes, I…” and Menolly all but blurted out what she’d done at the Sea Hold, “…can at least keep them amused.”

Weyrbred children were not like Hold children, Menolly discovered: they were more active physically, possessed of insatiable curiosity for every detail she cared to tell them about fishing and sailing. It was only when she taught them to fashion tiny boats of sticks and wide root leaves and sent them off to sail the skiffs in the Weyr lake that she had any rest the first morning.

In the afternoon, she amused the younger ones by recounting how T’gran had rescued her. Thread was not as automatically horrifying to Weyr children as it would be to Holders, and they were far more interested in her running and rescue than in what she was running from. Unconsciously she fell into a rhyming pattern and caught herself up sharply just before she’d conceived a tune. The children didn’t seem to notice fortunately, and then it was time to peel tubers for the evening meal,

It was difficult to subdue that little tune as she worked. Really it had exactly the cadence of her running stride…

“Oh!”

“Did you cut yourself?” asked Sanra from the other side of the table.

“No,” replied Menolly, and she grinned with great good humor. She had just realized something very important. She wasn’t in the Sea Hold any longer. And no one here knew about her harpering. Likewise no one would know if it were her own songs she hummed when she felt like humming. So she began to hum her running song, and was doubly pleased with herself because the tune matched her paring strokes, too.

“It’s a relief to hear someone happy,” remarked Sanra, smiling encouragingly at Menolly.

Menolly realized then that she’d been vaguely aware all day of the fact that the atmosphere in the living cavern reminded her of those times when the fishing fleet was overdue in a storm and everyone was “waiting.” Mirrim was very worried about Brekke but she wouldn’t say why, and Menolly was reluctant to broach the girl’s sad reserve.

“I’m happy because my feet are healing,” she told Sanra and then hurried on, “but I wish someone would tell me what’s wrong with Brekke, I know Minim’s worried sick about her…”

Sanra stared at Menolly for a moment. “You mean, you haven’t heard about…” she lowered her voice and glanced about to make sure they weren’t overheard, “…about the queens?”

“No. No one tells girls anything in the Sea Hold.”

Sanra looked surprised but accepted the explanation. “Well, Brekke used to be at Southern, you did know that? Good. And when F’lar banished all the rebellious Oldtimers to Southern, the Southerners had to go somewhere. Tbor became Weyrleader at Fort Hold, Kylara…” and Sanra’s usually gentle voice became hard, “Kylara was Weyrwoman for Prideth, with Brekke and Wirenth…” Sanra was having enough trouble telling the tale so Menolly was very glad she hadn’t asked Mirrim. Wirenth rose to mate, but Kylara…” and the name was spoken with intense hatred, “Kylara hadn’t taken Prideth far enough away. She was close to mating, too, and when Wirenth flew the bronzes, she rose, and…”

There were tears in Sanra’s eyes, and she shook her head, unable to continue.

“Both queens…died?”

Sanra nodded.

“Brekke’s alive, though…Isn’t she?”

“Kylara lost her mind, and we’re desperately afraid that Brekke will lose hers…” Sanra mopped the tears from her face, sniffing back her sorrow.

“Poor Mirrim. And she’s been so good to me!”

Sanra sniffed again, this time from pique.

“Mirrim likes to think she’s got the cares of the Weyr on her shoulders.”

“Well, I’ve a lot more respect for her the way she keeps on going when she’s worried sick than if she crept off someplace and just felt sorry for herself.”

Sanra stared at Menolly. “No need to bristle at me, girl, and if you keep on stabbing your knife that way, you will cut yourself.”