consciousness.
Then he woke a little more, for they were
doing something to his leg. He lay watching them, the white otter
and the smaller, rounder brown Mitta. He studied her squarish,
furred face and her round dark eyes, which looked at him so gently,
and her spiky, drooping whiskers. She hadn’t any chin, and when she
spoke, her dark nose twitched and her whiskers trembled.
“We must set the leg, Thakkur and I. We will
do it as gently as we can. But there will be pain again when we
pull and the bones pop into place. It cannot be helped.”
He felt their paws on his leg, felt them
grip and knew a surge of fear at new pain. Their paws touched his
leg, investigating, searching, as he lay trying to put down the
fear.
“Is the splint ready?” said the white
otter.
“Yes, here. And the clay.”
“All right, then. Steady now, boy. It won’t
take long.”
And then the pain struck him so his whole
body was afire and tears spurting from his eyes, and he heard a
crunching of bone. Then it was over.
He felt himself covered again, felt the
gentle paws, felt at last the sweet coolness as the wet clay pack
was worked around his splinted leg. Then, exhausted, he slept, only
vaguely aware of Mitta laying her head on his chest to listen, and
then the two otters sitting nearby, talking softly.
“I’m afraid for him,” Mitta said. “The clay
will help soak infection from the leg, but it’s more than
that.”
“The ribs are broken, too. We will bind
them,” Thakkur said.
“But look how old the cuts on his arm are.
He has had a long time of being hurt, perhaps being cold and
without proper food. There is a sickness there in his chest, as a
creature will get when it is harried and cold and without
rest.”
“We can only do our best for him.”
“We must get food down him. Charkky and Mikk
were right to chew shellfish for him, and I will do the same.”
“We can all do that, if needed. I will
choose half a dozen to help tend him, so you can return to your
cubs when you wish. We can only do our best,” he repeated. “And
make a prayer at meeting.”
“And keep Ekkthurian away from him.” She
raised her eyes to Thakkur. “I’m glad he is in your cave, where he
will know added protection. Who is this boy? Mikk said there was a
terrible battle where they found him. The dark ones, I suppose,
raging and making trouble. I do wish humans could be content with
the land, and with the riches we all have.”
“Some humans can,” said Thakkur shortly.
“It’s the dark ones—Quazelzeg and his kind.”
“If they keep on, nothing will be safe.
Nothing will be left.”
Thakkur nodded. “Not even Nightpool.” He
patted Mitta’s forepaw. “The boy will tell us more when he is well
again.”
Mitta looked at him doubtfully.
“He will get well, Mitta. He must. I feel it
is important—that the boy is important somehow.” Thakkur turned and
left his cave, and Mitta settled down on a stone bench near Teb and
took up her weaving again. Her paws were never idle, those busy
otter paws mending and weaving and shucking shellfish, cleaning and
grooming herself, changing Teb’s bandages and gently feeding
him.
And so began a strange, disjointed,
dreamlike time for Teb, when he would wake and see daylight outside
the cave, or darkness and stars, sometimes a moon, but with no idea
of passing days. He was vaguely aware sometimes of being waked and
his head held up, and food spooned into his mouth on a shell, of
being told to swallow though he felt too tired to swallow. Aware of
things done to his leg, of covers pulled over him or removed. Aware
of the furred paws tending him and of the softness of otter voices,
of their soft “Hah” of greeting. Strangely aware sometimes of
dreams that tangled into senselessness when he tried to remember
them.
Often he woke moaning with terror and
visions of men with knives bending over him, and then Mitta would
come and hold him like her own child and nuzzle his neck until he
felt
Then he woke a little more, for they were
doing something to his leg. He lay watching them, the white otter
and the smaller, rounder brown Mitta. He studied her squarish,
furred face and her round dark eyes, which looked at him so gently,
and her spiky, drooping whiskers. She hadn’t any chin, and when she
spoke, her dark nose twitched and her whiskers trembled.
“We must set the leg, Thakkur and I. We will
do it as gently as we can. But there will be pain again when we
pull and the bones pop into place. It cannot be helped.”
He felt their paws on his leg, felt them
grip and knew a surge of fear at new pain. Their paws touched his
leg, investigating, searching, as he lay trying to put down the
fear.
“Is the splint ready?” said the white
otter.
“Yes, here. And the clay.”
“All right, then. Steady now, boy. It won’t
take long.”
And then the pain struck him so his whole
body was afire and tears spurting from his eyes, and he heard a
crunching of bone. Then it was over.
He felt himself covered again, felt the
gentle paws, felt at last the sweet coolness as the wet clay pack
was worked around his splinted leg. Then, exhausted, he slept, only
vaguely aware of Mitta laying her head on his chest to listen, and
then the two otters sitting nearby, talking softly.
“I’m afraid for him,” Mitta said. “The clay
will help soak infection from the leg, but it’s more than
that.”
“The ribs are broken, too. We will bind
them,” Thakkur said.
“But look how old the cuts on his arm are.
He has had a long time of being hurt, perhaps being cold and
without proper food. There is a sickness there in his chest, as a
creature will get when it is harried and cold and without
rest.”
“We can only do our best for him.”
“We must get food down him. Charkky and Mikk
were right to chew shellfish for him, and I will do the same.”
“We can all do that, if needed. I will
choose half a dozen to help tend him, so you can return to your
cubs when you wish. We can only do our best,” he repeated. “And
make a prayer at meeting.”
“And keep Ekkthurian away from him.” She
raised her eyes to Thakkur. “I’m glad he is in your cave, where he
will know added protection. Who is this boy? Mikk said there was a
terrible battle where they found him. The dark ones, I suppose,
raging and making trouble. I do wish humans could be content with
the land, and with the riches we all have.”
“Some humans can,” said Thakkur shortly.
“It’s the dark ones—Quazelzeg and his kind.”
“If they keep on, nothing will be safe.
Nothing will be left.”
Thakkur nodded. “Not even Nightpool.” He
patted Mitta’s forepaw. “The boy will tell us more when he is well
again.”
Mitta looked at him doubtfully.
“He will get well, Mitta. He must. I feel it
is important—that the boy is important somehow.” Thakkur turned and
left his cave, and Mitta settled down on a stone bench near Teb and
took up her weaving again. Her paws were never idle, those busy
otter paws mending and weaving and shucking shellfish, cleaning and
grooming herself, changing Teb’s bandages and gently feeding
him.
And so began a strange, disjointed,
dreamlike time for Teb, when he would wake and see daylight outside
the cave, or darkness and stars, sometimes a moon, but with no idea
of passing days. He was vaguely aware sometimes of being waked and
his head held up, and food spooned into his mouth on a shell, of
being told to swallow though he felt too tired to swallow. Aware of
things done to his leg, of covers pulled over him or removed. Aware
of the furred paws tending him and of the softness of otter voices,
of their soft “Hah” of greeting. Strangely aware sometimes of
dreams that tangled into senselessness when he tried to remember
them.
Often he woke moaning with terror and
visions of men with knives bending over him, and then Mitta would
come and hold him like her own child and nuzzle his neck until he
felt
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