Patrick by Stephen R. Lawhead Page A

another until I was a single great palpitating bruise. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep but could not for the pain.
    Thus I lay awake all night, unable to move, watching the fire and wishing I had that arrogant king and his cowardly warriors trussed up and spitted to turn slowly over theflames. I would listen to their screams, exulting in their agony as I tossed more sticks onto the fire.
    Morning found me still awake but incoherent with pain. My limbs had grown stiff, and I could not move. The fire had burned to embers, and I was cold, but it hurt too much to try to reach more fuel, so I stared at the cooling ashes until Madog awoke and came out. He built up the fire again, gave me another drink, and then left to take the sheep out to the grazing land. Before he departed, he paused to stand over me one last time.
    â€œYou should not run away,” he said, then turned on his heel and moved off, leaving me to my torment.
    He did not speak to me that night when he returned, nor the next morning either. This, I concluded, was my punishment for leaving him. During the day the shadow of the high trees drew across me as I lay there on the ground, and it was to me the shadow of a powerful guilt: not for trying to escape my slavery—I would do that again in an instant—no, I felt guilty for deserting Madog, for running away without a word of farewell.
    My coming had been the saving of him, in a way. Under my urging he had recovered more and more of himself—his speech, his memories, his life. My companionship—contemptible, selfish thing that it was—had nevertheless allowed him to regain some small, sacred shred of his former humanity. Running away again as I did had shown him just how little I cared about him. He liked me, he honored me, and I esteemed him not at all. He knew that now, and it cut him deep.
    I dozed through the day, my conscience squirming with shame, and awoke as the sun passed behind the western ridge of the mountains. Although it hurt to do so, I roused myself and sat up, nearly swooning from the pain. I dragged myself to the water stoup, drank and washed my face, and then crawled to the woodpile and pulled out some loose sticks and branches to feed the fire.
    Each of these simple chores required a rest until the painsubsided and I could breathe again. I pulled up my tunic and looked at myself. Chest, ribs, and stomach were a lumpy mass of bluish-black bruises; likewise my thighs, shins, and arms. My once-handsome clothes were blackened from soot and singed through in a dozen places. The warriors had been most thorough in their beating; there was scarcely a place on my whole body where I could put a finger without touching discolored flesh. And when I could not put it off any longer, I got up to pass water; it hurt so much I could hardly unbuckle my belt, and when I was at last able to relieve myself, I was alarmed to see that my piss ran red with blood.
    I sat down and cried. When the tears ceased, I crawled back to my place by the fire and dragged more fuel to the flames. By the time Madog returned with the sheep, I had a fine fire going once more. A small thing, but it pleased the old shepherd to see that, battered as I was, I had at least made an effort to help with the daily chores.
    He brought with him a lamb that had fallen from the rocks earlier in the day and broken its back. He had put the poor creature out of its misery, skinned and cleaned it with his flint knife, and brought the carcass back to the bothy for us to eat. I watched as he quartered it and put two meaty haunches on spits.
    We sat opposite one another across the fire ring as the sky grew dark, watching the meat sizzle, turning the spit from time to time, smelling the oily smoke, and listening to the rooks croak and call as they flocked to their treetop roosts. As the meat cooked, we pulled juicy bits from the spitted haunches and ate.
    â€œWhere did you go?” asked Madog at last. The smoke swirled up from