Life Giver

2. Burying the Dead-1

2

BURYING THE DEAD

The next morning, the young man came into the heart of town pulling the cart his father used to load fish and to bring wood from the forest. Yeolani had eaten a dried fish and a bit of bread and felt much better for it, though he avoided the water his mother had left in the pail. Something had killed his little sister, and from the sounds in the village, some sickness was afoot, probably cholera, and he didn't want to add himself to the toll, even if he felt he deserved it. Someone from his family had to survive just to carry on.

After a night of drifting on sour dreams and panicked thinking, Yeolani had made his decisions. So, he could avoid questions about what had happened, he laboriously wrapped his parents’ bodies in the bed linens so that their injuries didn't show. He intended to blame the plague for all three deaths. There wasn't enough linen to complete the job for his sister, but he placed her in their mother's shawl and laid Nevia gently between the adult bodies. Then he struggled to put them on the cart. Still nursing his bruised ribs and lingering seasickness, Yeolani pulled the handcart into town where the cholera outbreak filled the square with other plague victims.

As he suspected, he wasn't the only one bringing dead loved ones into the square that morning. He recognized two crewmen from the ship who must have been spared because they also were on board when the illness struck but were now burying their wives and children left behind. Now, he studiously avoided looking at them. How was he to explain his father dying when he had been on the ship with them? Instead of worrying about that, he went to the bonfire, as was the requirement, to add his family to the burning pyre. Everyone knew you couldn't risk burying when disease could spread so quickly. The bodies must be burned immediately before the entire village was consumed.

As he stood in line waiting for the priest, Yeolani spied a woman he didn't recognize. She had a long, honey-colored braid and a huge pack. She scurried about like a baby goat, trying to meet all those that brought bodies to the pyre. She seemed vibrant, young, though she was probably in her late twenties. She moved with authority and stopped anyone who came in bringing a body. Yeolani thought he knew everyone in Simten, but he didn't know this woman. The priest who oversaw the speedy funerals didn't object, for she only pestered the living, so he left her alone. And when it was his turn to face this insistent young woman, Yeolani swallowed a pit of fear. Would she notice the blood seeping through the sheets covering the bodies he was bringing?

Of course, she did. "I'm sorry for your…loss," she petered out, looking him in the eye, flicking her green eyes to the bodies and back toward him, widening a bit in surprise.

"Your whole family?"

"Mother, father, and little sister," he mumbled, hoping his voice didn't crack, as it often did under stress.

"From the cholera?" the woman queried. By the tone of her voice, he could tell she didn't believe him.

"If that's what's going around. I was on board our fishing boat until last night, and when I came home, I found them dead,” he lied.

The healer pursed her lips knowingly. "You shouldn't try to lie," she whispered. "You're not very good at it. Tell me what really happened."

Something about her command made his tongue loosen. Yeolani looked around to be sure the magistrate wasn't nearby to listen in and then confessed to her frankly. "My father and I got off the ship last night, and when we got home, my little sister was dead and my mother was probably dying. He was so upset that…that he began beating my mother. I tried to stop him, and a lot of good I was at that. Then he started beating me…"

To his surprise, the lady, without asking, flipped Yeolani's tunic up to see the bruising on his ribs. "Hey, warn a body!" he barked in alarm but stopped himself when her amazingly warm hand rested on his side where it hurt the most.

"Three broken ribs, a bruised liver, and internal trauma. You're lucky he missed your kidney," she murmured as her gentle hands moved over him with alarming thoroughness. Yeolani didn't protest, for wherever her hands rested, a warm loosening of the pain and tension soaked into his body. He felt like he was melting and floating at the same time. How was she doing this?

Her bold, unexpected actions began drawing attention from other townsfolk, and the healer abruptly straightened up and pulled his tunic back into place before she was done. "What's your name?" she demanded, now continuing her interview.

"Yeolani, ma'am, and you can keep going. That felt like Jonjonel’s own welcome flame."

The healer’s green eyes widened slightly, and the freckles on her nose suddenly stood out as she blanched beneath her tan, but Yeolani was more worried about the townsfolk noticing her examination. His customary flippancy must be reasserting itself now that his pain had eased.

"Not here, Yeolani. You may call me Honiea. Just burn your dead, don't drink the water, and come see me here at dusk. I'll see to the rest of your injuries, then."

Dusk seemed a long time away with nothing but his thoughts to occupy him. Yeolani couldn't settle until he knew what he was going to do. He didn't want to go back to his empty house, so he resolved to visit the crew members at their various homes and inform them of his father's demise. Despite Honiea's admonition to not lie, he skirted the truth by claiming his father had committed suicide when he saw his wife and daughter dead. When Yeolani went to the first mate's home, he found the man grieving for three of his four children as well as his wife. Only the eldest son had survived.

"It’s not all a loss then," Yeolani explained, "because I'm giving you the boat, and good riddance to me. We both know I'm about as fit a sailor as a short-tailed cat. Your boy can take my place and you can take my father's."

The first mate looked grim but grateful. "What will you do instead?" he asked frankly. The new captain never suggested that Yeolani could stay on with the crew. They both knew better than that.

With a sigh, Yeolani shook his head. "Anything but the sea. The fish are fat enough without my help. Good luck,” and, abruptly, Yeolani left.

Now, faced with several more hours before his rendezvous with Honiea, Yeolani forced himself to return to his empty home. There he had to again acknowledge the bloody murder and the ghosts he imagined there. Rather than wallow, he began packing everything he felt he could carry and fashioned a bag out of his father's winter coat. Hopefully, Yeolani would not need it for several more months, and with luck, by then he could make a better bag once he needed the coat for warmth.

Yeolani was resolved. He was leaving Simten.

He took the last remaining stores of dried fish and potatoes, a brick of cheese, and the one jug of ale his father had left, though Yeolani had not drunk any before. He then placed the best of the kitchen tools: flint and steel, a hatchet, pot, pan and a spoon in his pack. He dearly wanted a knife but couldn't endure the thought of taking that knife. Instead, Yeolani buried the weapon under a loose stone in the hearth and used the cholera-infested water to wash the stones free of blood. And then he was done.

Yeolani sat in the hut, memorizing the shape of the simple furniture and watching the shadows pass across the room, fighting tears. He felt like a little boy now, with his eyes aching and a burning down his throat, wallowing in his loneliness until, finally, he gave in and wept. His tears took him to the point that the western window glared at him with the sun at sea level before he wiped his nose, took a final shuddering breath, and mastered his emotions. He was over it now. He stoutly rose and walked out the door of the only home he knew, never to return.

The bonfire still burned in the square, a glowing ember in his mind, reeking and evil in his eyes. The glow provided the light to see his way as he returned for his meeting with Honiea. In a way, it seemed alien to come meet her just because she had requested it of him. His side didn't ache anymore. The bruises had shifted to gray and yellow blotches rather than the angry red and purple swellings they had been before her touch. Maybe that was it – magic. She had done something mystical to him undoubtedly, and now she was luring him back into her web. For what purpose, he couldn't guess; but even as he acknowledged the magic she had wielded, he still had no desire to miss the appointment.

Honiea stood by the well, the main source of water for most of the town and therefore probably the cholera. It had been capped off by someone, and barrels instead lined the pedestal and a wagon team unloaded yet another full barrel to add to the supply. Honiea supervised this effort but caught sight of him and waved him over.

"I've put a treatment in the well, but it will take another week before the water will be fit to drink again. Thank you for coming." Then she bent to pick up her sizable pack, but Yeolani stopped her and hefted it instead. It was heavier than his own, and she smiled her thanks.

"Come with me," she ordered since he was offering to take both packs. "I'll buy you supper at the inn. That's where I'm staying, and we need to talk."

Obediently, Yeolani followed the lady toward Simten's only inn, swallowing his excitement. He'd never been inside the public-house, always considering it his father's hideout where he grew drunk and learned where the best fishing could be found. However, somewhere within, Yeolani also knew this was where travelers stayed and where the townsfolk could always come for news, like cholera. The inn had always been the denizen of adults, but at this point, carrying his father's ale and giving away his inheritance, Yeolani realized that yes, now he could consider himself an adult.

He had expected the inn to be crowded with men who had been away fishing and now came to drown their sorrows after spending the day burning bodies. However, the common room echoed and stood empty but for the innkeeper. Yeolani could hear the crackling fire and the clink of rearranging glasses behind the enormous counter, but no one had come for news. The entire town knew about the plague and didn't want to share their grief yet. Honiea ordered two suppers from the morose barkeeper and then guided Yeolani to a dark corner far away from the fire. On a warm spring evening, they didn't need the heat, and apparently, their conversation required privacy. Yeolani's innate curiosity nearly choked him as he set the packs down and watched how Honiea deliberately sat with her face toward the door, her back to the corner. What had a healer, a magical healer, to fear from being overheard?

She didn't say anything until the cook brought them each a plate of fish baked in cream and spring vegetables. Yeolani's stomach growled at him, and he began wolfing down this fine food like a dog, barely tasting it. He also sampled his first ale and decided he didn't like it, though it was better than going thirsty with no water. Honiea watched him eat and was covering a private smile before he noticed, and he realized his manners probably spoke volumes. Self-consciously, he stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth and put it down.

"No," she insisted. "You need to eat. If you were a sailor, I don't doubt you need nourishment. You're skin and bones and a growing boy. Let me guess – sea-sick?"

Yeolani nodded wearily. "Sick as a cur dog every single day," he mumbled, swallowed, and then repeated it. "I could never hold a thing down when I was aboard. How did you know?"

"Because you're a magician. I can't go to sea either and for the same reason. Magical people cannot cross the water without…well, let's just say it's not the best state of being, and I have yet to find a cure. Believe me, I've tried."