she
belonged to him, and he wouldn’t let anyone steal her.
He decided he needed to walk a middle course. He’d learn
whatever Dieter had to teach, but at the same time, defend his position and
prerogatives.
He could start by reminding Jarla whose property she was.
“Take off your clothes,” he said, “and fetch me the rope.”
Dieter poked the corner of his toast into the round yellow
yolk, puncturing it. Mama Solveig had prepared his eggs just the way he liked
them.
He took a bite, chewed, the morsel crunching, and closed his
eyes in pleasure.
“Is it all right?” the old woman asked.
He swallowed. “Better than all right.” Indeed, the meals Mama
Solveig prepared were tastier and more plentiful than any he’d enjoyed since the
day Otto Krieger overturned his life, just as her cellar, squalid though it was,
was luxurious compared to a doss house or sleeping outdoors. He still felt
restless and irritable, still worried about the twinges in his forehead, but for
the moment at least, his new living arrangements, together with his liberation
from the noxious toil of rat catching, had brightened his mood.
It almost seemed conceivable that he might survive this
lunatic errand after all.
“Should I make more?” Mama Solveig asked.
“No, thank you. You already made more than I can finish.”
Her greasy tin plate and utensils in hand, the healer rose
from the rickety, ring-scarred table, a cast-off, by the looks of it, from some
tavern or other. “Then I’ll start clearing and washing up.”
“Leave that for me.”
“I most certainly will not. It’s women’s work, and besides, I
like taking care of people. It’s why I became a healer.”
And a Chaos worshipper, he wondered, forcing me to wallow in
filth and helping mutants waylay innocent travellers? With the thought came a
sudden pang of loathing that burst his appreciation of petty comforts and doting
care like a soap bubble, and he had to struggle to keep his face from contorting
into a scowl.
The mad thing was that he suspected, had he asked out loud
how she reconciled her dedication to the healing arts with her service to Chaos,
she would have justified it somehow. As he’d observed before, the cultists
weren’t crazy, it was subtler than that, but their devotions twisted their
thinking.
How long would it be before they twisted his? Or had the
process begun already?
He finished his breakfast and washed it down with the last
gulp of water from his cup. Then Mama Solveig took up her wicker basket of
healing implements and led him back into the hidden sanctuary.
His heart thumped and his meal abruptly weighed like a stone
in his stomach as they neared the icon. Mama Solveig patted him on the forearm.
“It’s all right, dear. You don’t have to go near it today. It’s too soon, I
think. Just stand back and watch.”
Reciting a prayer, she doddered right up to the coiled black
sculpture, then opened her basket. She took out a bandage and rubbed it over the
image as if to dust and polish it.
Next came a ceramic jar, evidently the repository for some
poultice, ointment or medicinal powder. She rubbed her fingertip on the icon,
stiffening when a jolt of its power evidently stabbed into the digit, then
swished it around inside the container.
She proceeded in the same manner for a while, contaminating a
goodly portion of her supplies. Meanwhile, the entire basket was presumably
soaking up vileness simply by virtue of its nearness to the statue.
Finally she said, “That should do it, and about time, too. We
have a lot of calls to make, and these old legs can’t walk as fast as they used
to.” She recited a prayer of thanks as she bobbed her head and backed away.
When they emerged from the cellar, he blinked, and realised
it was the first time he’d been outside in the daylight since Jarla had drugged
him. The blue sky, breeze and mundane bustle of the streets seemed a bracing
relief from dark, enclosed
belonged to him, and he wouldn’t let anyone steal her.
He decided he needed to walk a middle course. He’d learn
whatever Dieter had to teach, but at the same time, defend his position and
prerogatives.
He could start by reminding Jarla whose property she was.
“Take off your clothes,” he said, “and fetch me the rope.”
Dieter poked the corner of his toast into the round yellow
yolk, puncturing it. Mama Solveig had prepared his eggs just the way he liked
them.
He took a bite, chewed, the morsel crunching, and closed his
eyes in pleasure.
“Is it all right?” the old woman asked.
He swallowed. “Better than all right.” Indeed, the meals Mama
Solveig prepared were tastier and more plentiful than any he’d enjoyed since the
day Otto Krieger overturned his life, just as her cellar, squalid though it was,
was luxurious compared to a doss house or sleeping outdoors. He still felt
restless and irritable, still worried about the twinges in his forehead, but for
the moment at least, his new living arrangements, together with his liberation
from the noxious toil of rat catching, had brightened his mood.
It almost seemed conceivable that he might survive this
lunatic errand after all.
“Should I make more?” Mama Solveig asked.
“No, thank you. You already made more than I can finish.”
Her greasy tin plate and utensils in hand, the healer rose
from the rickety, ring-scarred table, a cast-off, by the looks of it, from some
tavern or other. “Then I’ll start clearing and washing up.”
“Leave that for me.”
“I most certainly will not. It’s women’s work, and besides, I
like taking care of people. It’s why I became a healer.”
And a Chaos worshipper, he wondered, forcing me to wallow in
filth and helping mutants waylay innocent travellers? With the thought came a
sudden pang of loathing that burst his appreciation of petty comforts and doting
care like a soap bubble, and he had to struggle to keep his face from contorting
into a scowl.
The mad thing was that he suspected, had he asked out loud
how she reconciled her dedication to the healing arts with her service to Chaos,
she would have justified it somehow. As he’d observed before, the cultists
weren’t crazy, it was subtler than that, but their devotions twisted their
thinking.
How long would it be before they twisted his? Or had the
process begun already?
He finished his breakfast and washed it down with the last
gulp of water from his cup. Then Mama Solveig took up her wicker basket of
healing implements and led him back into the hidden sanctuary.
His heart thumped and his meal abruptly weighed like a stone
in his stomach as they neared the icon. Mama Solveig patted him on the forearm.
“It’s all right, dear. You don’t have to go near it today. It’s too soon, I
think. Just stand back and watch.”
Reciting a prayer, she doddered right up to the coiled black
sculpture, then opened her basket. She took out a bandage and rubbed it over the
image as if to dust and polish it.
Next came a ceramic jar, evidently the repository for some
poultice, ointment or medicinal powder. She rubbed her fingertip on the icon,
stiffening when a jolt of its power evidently stabbed into the digit, then
swished it around inside the container.
She proceeded in the same manner for a while, contaminating a
goodly portion of her supplies. Meanwhile, the entire basket was presumably
soaking up vileness simply by virtue of its nearness to the statue.
Finally she said, “That should do it, and about time, too. We
have a lot of calls to make, and these old legs can’t walk as fast as they used
to.” She recited a prayer of thanks as she bobbed her head and backed away.
When they emerged from the cellar, he blinked, and realised
it was the first time he’d been outside in the daylight since Jarla had drugged
him. The blue sky, breeze and mundane bustle of the streets seemed a bracing
relief from dark, enclosed
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