and began to lay.
*
Teb’s first view of Nightpool was a towering
black rock jutting up out of the pounding sea. Then of a crowd of
otters silhouetted along the high cliff looking down at him; then,
like birds swooping, they dove into the sea and came up bobbing all
around him, chattering and sending the raft rocking. Pretty soon he
was being carried up the steep cliff, biting his lip against the
pain of movement. It was all like a disjointed dream—some parts
fuzzy, or filled only with physical pain, then a scene coming
suddenly clear. Then he was in a cave, lying on a low stone shelf,
and otters stood looking down at him. One, a plump female, began to
examine his leg, feeling the broken bones with fingers so gentle
they were like the touch of a moth. She felt Teb’s fevered face,
then began barking directions in a sharp, keening voice that sent
young otters flying out the door. “I want wood for splints. Get
straight driftwood. I want horserush, crush it well and make the
tea with it, stir it and stir it until it is all brown. I want moss
dampened in the sea, and braided eelgrass for binding the splints.
And I want fresh clay in the biggest clamshell, well
moistened.”
When she had sent the young otters away, she
sat with her paw on Teb’s forehead, studying his face, her big dark
eyes very gentle. He could hear voices outside the cave, and some
of them were angry. Arguments flew in and out of his consciousness
as he dozed and woke.
Once he felt his head lifted, and then he
tasted the familiar horserush brew. And then later he felt a tug at
his clothes and saw that the female otter was cutting away his
trousers with a sharp clamshell. His boots were already gone. She
undid his tunic, lifted him again, and slid it off, then covered
him with a thick moss blanket. The chain was gone from his leg. It
had been on his left leg. It was his right leg that was so filled
with pain. He thought he remembered something like flame searing
off the chain, but nothing would come clear. There were voices
somewhere nearby, still arguing, but there was no one in the cave
save the small, pudgy female. He could hear the argument
clearly.
“The boy can’t be kept here; such a thing is
impossible.”
“Of course we’ll keep him. He needs
help.”
“He won’t even tell us his name. I call that
suspicious.”
“He can’t tell us his name. Can’t you
see how sick he is?”
“It’s far too dangerous to have a human
here. It’s never been done,” said the querulous voice. Teb tried to
shut the voices out. The pain was coming back, and he felt
sick.
“Hah! Thakkur can’t let him stay. The
council will vote him down.” And then the voices grew silent
suddenly.
Teb saw a white otter enter the cave,
rearing tall, his coat like snow against the dark stone wall. He
stood looking down at Teb, searching his face with great dark
eyes.
“I am Thakkur,” he said quietly. Then,
“Come, Mitta, let’s look at the leg.” He pulled the moss cover
back, then scowled, touching Teb’s leg delicately. “It’s twice the
size of the other leg and purple as sea urchins. Can we heal
it?”
“We will try.”
“And what are those scars on his ankles? Old
scars—as if chains had been wrapped around them.”
“Slaves are chained,” she said. She covered
Teb to the waist with the moss blanket. “The ribs are hurt, too.
And there are old, healed scars on his back. As from lashings with
a whip.”
Thakkur lifted Teb’s shoulders gently, to
look. The smell of him, as of all the otters, was a fishy breath.
He laid Teb down again, and his dark eyes were expanding pools into
which Teb in his half consciousness seemed to be falling.
“Can you tell us your name, child? Who are
you?”
But Teb couldn’t dredge it up. He shook his
head feebly. The pain was too great to think, the throbbing in his
leg and ribs like a drum beating, sucking him down. Mitta gave him
more tea, and soon again he was dropping away into darkness, in and
out of
*
Teb’s first view of Nightpool was a towering
black rock jutting up out of the pounding sea. Then of a crowd of
otters silhouetted along the high cliff looking down at him; then,
like birds swooping, they dove into the sea and came up bobbing all
around him, chattering and sending the raft rocking. Pretty soon he
was being carried up the steep cliff, biting his lip against the
pain of movement. It was all like a disjointed dream—some parts
fuzzy, or filled only with physical pain, then a scene coming
suddenly clear. Then he was in a cave, lying on a low stone shelf,
and otters stood looking down at him. One, a plump female, began to
examine his leg, feeling the broken bones with fingers so gentle
they were like the touch of a moth. She felt Teb’s fevered face,
then began barking directions in a sharp, keening voice that sent
young otters flying out the door. “I want wood for splints. Get
straight driftwood. I want horserush, crush it well and make the
tea with it, stir it and stir it until it is all brown. I want moss
dampened in the sea, and braided eelgrass for binding the splints.
And I want fresh clay in the biggest clamshell, well
moistened.”
When she had sent the young otters away, she
sat with her paw on Teb’s forehead, studying his face, her big dark
eyes very gentle. He could hear voices outside the cave, and some
of them were angry. Arguments flew in and out of his consciousness
as he dozed and woke.
Once he felt his head lifted, and then he
tasted the familiar horserush brew. And then later he felt a tug at
his clothes and saw that the female otter was cutting away his
trousers with a sharp clamshell. His boots were already gone. She
undid his tunic, lifted him again, and slid it off, then covered
him with a thick moss blanket. The chain was gone from his leg. It
had been on his left leg. It was his right leg that was so filled
with pain. He thought he remembered something like flame searing
off the chain, but nothing would come clear. There were voices
somewhere nearby, still arguing, but there was no one in the cave
save the small, pudgy female. He could hear the argument
clearly.
“The boy can’t be kept here; such a thing is
impossible.”
“Of course we’ll keep him. He needs
help.”
“He won’t even tell us his name. I call that
suspicious.”
“He can’t tell us his name. Can’t you
see how sick he is?”
“It’s far too dangerous to have a human
here. It’s never been done,” said the querulous voice. Teb tried to
shut the voices out. The pain was coming back, and he felt
sick.
“Hah! Thakkur can’t let him stay. The
council will vote him down.” And then the voices grew silent
suddenly.
Teb saw a white otter enter the cave,
rearing tall, his coat like snow against the dark stone wall. He
stood looking down at Teb, searching his face with great dark
eyes.
“I am Thakkur,” he said quietly. Then,
“Come, Mitta, let’s look at the leg.” He pulled the moss cover
back, then scowled, touching Teb’s leg delicately. “It’s twice the
size of the other leg and purple as sea urchins. Can we heal
it?”
“We will try.”
“And what are those scars on his ankles? Old
scars—as if chains had been wrapped around them.”
“Slaves are chained,” she said. She covered
Teb to the waist with the moss blanket. “The ribs are hurt, too.
And there are old, healed scars on his back. As from lashings with
a whip.”
Thakkur lifted Teb’s shoulders gently, to
look. The smell of him, as of all the otters, was a fishy breath.
He laid Teb down again, and his dark eyes were expanding pools into
which Teb in his half consciousness seemed to be falling.
“Can you tell us your name, child? Who are
you?”
But Teb couldn’t dredge it up. He shook his
head feebly. The pain was too great to think, the throbbing in his
leg and ribs like a drum beating, sucking him down. Mitta gave him
more tea, and soon again he was dropping away into darkness, in and
out of
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