I.xxi
When the sun breaks through the window it takes me a bit to figure on where I am. It starts to piece together slow. The stiff in my muscles, the pain in my leg, the strange grouping of smells—of unfamiliar breeze, drift of rosemary, stink of manure, must of hay, and my own staled blood. My mind’s hazy, and my eyes take some convincing before they’ll open fully.
“Get up,” I tell myself, only my command don’t seem too convincing. “Come on, Liddy, get up.” I take a few deep breaths then manage to creak myself upright. My body’s holding a grudge against me, no doubt, and it takes me a while to get my boots on and my satchel packed and ready. As I’m finishing the task, the farmer’s wife—Clare, I think?—walks in. She just looks at me wide-eyed for a bit, almost frozen herself. “Er … good morning. Thanks again for … well, everything.”
She nods, then begins mouthing a few words but never seems to bring them to quite the point of speaking.
“I’ll, uh … be out of your way in just a minute.” My back could be made of granite, it’s so stiff.
And this lady just gets all flustered, walks away without managing to say a word more to me. I imagine she’s something upset, my coming to her house in the middle of the night like I did. Barging in, using her bandages, bleeding some on her floor. I was not the ideal guest, truth to tell.
As I finish getting all my meagers together, Clare comes back carrying a round of bread and a bowl of milk. The bread is baked hard but with the top crunched down, a scramble of eggs in the dip that’s formed. She offers the lot to me. “You should eat,” she says, quiet, and it’s maybe the first time I’ve heard her say a thing.
I nod, taken a bit aback by the generosity. “Thank you. That’s … thank you.”
She nods at me and gets the milk into my hand, sets the bread round on the table. This bowl of milk’s the perfect thing to drink right now: cool enough, full of flavor, letting my body know it’s getting something hearty into it. My head starts to clear quick-like. As I’m finishing my gulps, Clare says, “You should rest more. You should rest.”
“Oh, no, it’s okay. Thank you. I’ve got ground to cover. And I’ll just be riding, anyway. But thank you. For everything.” It feels like I should express my gratitude in some better way. No, it’s more: I feel like it would make me the wrong sort of person if I don’t find a way to be more grateful.
Clare looks me over for a few long seconds, then says, “I’ll get your horse ready.”
When she leaves I take a look around the room. Then my mind settles on it. I reach down to my coin purse and pull out one of my golden crowns. It’s a fair deal of money to me, but then, these people may have saved my life, all I know. And I think … yeah, I want to be the sort of person who doesn’t take that as given. So I put the coin in the bottom of the empty bowl I used for milk and set it down on the table. Hoping they don’t see it until after I’m gone so I can avoid any sort of fuss. And honestly, they earned it. More than.
I pick up the round of bread and start eating. My family doesn’t eat from off of hard bread, but I know those who do. Tends to be the sort of meal you eat with just your hands. Slurping and scooping at the eggs help me feel a bit more hale too, though my stomach is getting along poorly with the solid food. I pick at the last of the eggs but can’t seem to convince myself to eat the whole of the hardened bread, so I carry the round out with me.
Outside, Clare has the horse set and ready for me. I say thanks again, and she just shies off in her quiet way. I put the round in the saddle bag. Sure, crumbs and such will spill, but I’d rather that than the generosity go to waste. Then I hop to the stirrups, glance back, nod to Clare, and say, “Thank you. Again. You and your husband. And daughter. For all of everything. Really. Light bless you all.”
She says something quiet. I think it’s “good luck,” but I can’t quite make it out. I just nod as if I’m sure of what she’s said. Then I find my bearings with the direction of the sunrise and ride off toward Worth.
It takes days before my body stops holding its powerful grudge against me. Even then, my leg carries a stiffness. It’s easy enough to be grateful for a good horse when your journey is as long as mine, but when every attempt to walk on your own accord reminds you that you’ve got one proper leg and one that seems to be made of wood … well, Willow seems a right blessing.
And so does everything else. As the next few days pass, gratitude swells to the surface easy. I find myself wanting to cry over little things. Over how my body is mending itself. Over the way there’s so much more green in the land south of the wastes. Over how I seem to be on the right trail again and even know where I’m going to from here. Over how the innkeeper in the next small town on the way is so friendly-like. Over how I get the chance to sleep in an inn by a roaring fire. The sky seems something beautiful every time I see it and some sounds seem truer and … point is, I never thought on how struggle can make a soul pick up on all the things it’s been taking for granted.
There’s a strange beauty: the way being nigh on death’s kingdom can wake you up to all the things that make it worth fighting hard against dying for at least a little bit longer.
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