4-- Part 1 (A)
PART ONE: THE RANGER
I awoke slowly, calmly, and found myself in a small room, bright with sunlight. The bed I was on was soft, the sheets cool. A blanket was folded down near my feet. To my right was a high, small window covered with a crude piece of glass and it was through this that the light was streaming. In the opposite wall was a door and, as it was closed, I was given no hint of what might be beyond. I discovered that I could not even make a guess. My whole world was what I could see in that one small room. For all that I could imagine, I might cease to exist if I were to step through the door. I had memories of people and houses and animals and trees, but the pictures and words were like half remembered dreams that slipped away when I tried to focus my attention.
My world was that one room, but there was a lot in that place for me to explore and learn about. About the bed, as if they had been hastily pushed back to make space, were boxes and stores and sacks filled with all manner of things. There were apples in a barrel in one corner and a small box of yarn in another. A sack, books, bunches of herbs. As I examined each object in turn, their names and uses came to me suddenly, as if I were grabbing at flies that buzzed about my head. There were parts of farming implements, clothes, food stuffs and seeds. There were boxes that hid whatever simple treasures they might contain.
Pinned to the log wall directly in front of me were two charcoal drawings. One was of a baby, hardly able to walk, and the other of a young boy of ten or so. The latter was so skilfully rendered that I was sure I would be able to recognise him on sight. I looked at that picture until I was sure I knew everything I possibly could about the boy. I knew his serious calm, his strengths and weaknesses. I knew his pains and I knew the grim determination that was so clearly written on his face. That boy, whoever he was, wherever he was, was my first friend. He watched from up on the wall and the tottering steps of the baby did not distract him. The clutter of the room did not draw him from his vigil.
When I had told the boy all that I knew, which was not much, and he had told me all that he could, I lay for a while longer to look about the small room that was my world. And on a wooden crate, up-ended beside the bed so that it might be used as a table, I saw four daggers. Looking at the weapons, I knew they were mine but I did not reach out to take them. They flashed in the sunlight as if they were alive, and I hated them. Two were throwing daggers, I somehow knew, and two of them for fighting. Hanging beside them was a simple harness to hold one of the weapons between my shoulder blades and another that would hang from a belt.
For a long time I lay on my side and watched the daggers, as if they might jump up and commit some atrocious deed. But they did not move. They did not slash at my face or scratch curses into the rough wood on which they sat. They remained lifeless, cold metal and somehow that made me hate them all the more. Eventually I rolled onto my back again to stare at the ceiling and, as if by instinct, I reached under the sheet that covered me and felt for a leather thong I knew should have been around my neck.
It was as I did this that I finally noticed that my chest was covered in a swathe of bandages, from my bottom rib up to my armpits and over my right shoulder. With this knowledge came a faint twinge of tightness that was not in the least painful. I ran my hands over the bandages as if they might somehow tell me of the injury they were hiding. But they told me nothing.
But the bandages did not seem as important as whatever I had lost and for a moment I panicked. I quickly turned to look at the crate-table beside my bed, and there it was. Behind one of the knives there was a glint of green that had escaped my attention earlier. I reached out, careful to avoid touching any of the weapons, and picked the object up. A supple leather thong came with it.
When I had it enfolded in my hands I felt better immediately. The daggers did not seem to bother me so much.
The green that had drawn my attention was a stone. Oval in shape it was the adornment for what was obviously a woman’s ring. The ring itself was like a spring, a coil of silver that would have wrapped around the finger twice. Joined to the ring were two tiny, perfect hands that gripped the stone and were never going to let go. I ran my fingers along the silver coil for the first time and knew I had done it before. I touched at the tiny hands for the first time and already knew their every detail. I let the stone catch the light and reflect it and knew I had previously noted how the stone seemed to increase the light.
“This is everything,” I said to myself. “This represents all that is important. I would give my life for this.” And I knew it to be true. When I had examined every piece of the ring several times, I slipped the leather thong about my neck.
Touching at the ring again for comfort I drifted away into sleep.
I awoke slowly, calmly, and found myself in a small room, bright with sunlight. The bed I was on was soft, the sheets cool. A blanket was folded down near my feet. To my right was a high, small window covered with a crude piece of glass and it was through this that the light was streaming. In the opposite wall was a door and, as it was closed, I was given no hint of what might be beyond. I discovered that I could not even make a guess. My whole world was what I could see in that one small room. For all that I could imagine, I might cease to exist if I were to step through the door. I had memories of people and houses and animals and trees, but the pictures and words were like half remembered dreams that slipped away when I tried to focus my attention.
My world was that one room, but there was a lot in that place for me to explore and learn about. About the bed, as if they had been hastily pushed back to make space, were boxes and stores and sacks filled with all manner of things. There were apples in a barrel in one corner and a small box of yarn in another. A sack, books, bunches of herbs. As I examined each object in turn, their names and uses came to me suddenly, as if I were grabbing at flies that buzzed about my head. There were parts of farming implements, clothes, food stuffs and seeds. There were boxes that hid whatever simple treasures they might contain.
Pinned to the log wall directly in front of me were two charcoal drawings. One was of a baby, hardly able to walk, and the other of a young boy of ten or so. The latter was so skilfully rendered that I was sure I would be able to recognise him on sight. I looked at that picture until I was sure I knew everything I possibly could about the boy. I knew his serious calm, his strengths and weaknesses. I knew his pains and I knew the grim determination that was so clearly written on his face. That boy, whoever he was, wherever he was, was my first friend. He watched from up on the wall and the tottering steps of the baby did not distract him. The clutter of the room did not draw him from his vigil.
When I had told the boy all that I knew, which was not much, and he had told me all that he could, I lay for a while longer to look about the small room that was my world. And on a wooden crate, up-ended beside the bed so that it might be used as a table, I saw four daggers. Looking at the weapons, I knew they were mine but I did not reach out to take them. They flashed in the sunlight as if they were alive, and I hated them. Two were throwing daggers, I somehow knew, and two of them for fighting. Hanging beside them was a simple harness to hold one of the weapons between my shoulder blades and another that would hang from a belt.
For a long time I lay on my side and watched the daggers, as if they might jump up and commit some atrocious deed. But they did not move. They did not slash at my face or scratch curses into the rough wood on which they sat. They remained lifeless, cold metal and somehow that made me hate them all the more. Eventually I rolled onto my back again to stare at the ceiling and, as if by instinct, I reached under the sheet that covered me and felt for a leather thong I knew should have been around my neck.
It was as I did this that I finally noticed that my chest was covered in a swathe of bandages, from my bottom rib up to my armpits and over my right shoulder. With this knowledge came a faint twinge of tightness that was not in the least painful. I ran my hands over the bandages as if they might somehow tell me of the injury they were hiding. But they told me nothing.
But the bandages did not seem as important as whatever I had lost and for a moment I panicked. I quickly turned to look at the crate-table beside my bed, and there it was. Behind one of the knives there was a glint of green that had escaped my attention earlier. I reached out, careful to avoid touching any of the weapons, and picked the object up. A supple leather thong came with it.
When I had it enfolded in my hands I felt better immediately. The daggers did not seem to bother me so much.
The green that had drawn my attention was a stone. Oval in shape it was the adornment for what was obviously a woman’s ring. The ring itself was like a spring, a coil of silver that would have wrapped around the finger twice. Joined to the ring were two tiny, perfect hands that gripped the stone and were never going to let go. I ran my fingers along the silver coil for the first time and knew I had done it before. I touched at the tiny hands for the first time and already knew their every detail. I let the stone catch the light and reflect it and knew I had previously noted how the stone seemed to increase the light.
“This is everything,” I said to myself. “This represents all that is important. I would give my life for this.” And I knew it to be true. When I had examined every piece of the ring several times, I slipped the leather thong about my neck.
Touching at the ring again for comfort I drifted away into sleep.
posted by Scott | 10:15 am
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