Kared's Children - Chapter 3

"Well," a raspy voice said. "The boy wakes."

Damon groaned. He held the edge of the basin with both hands, even his bandaged left fingers. He dry-heaved again.

"You have nothing to expel," the voice said. "I knew better than to try to feed you while you were so ill."

Damon rested his head against the basin.

"This feeling will pass," the voice said. "When you are ready, we will try at last to give you some food and to help you regain your strength."

Damon tried to concentrate on his breathing.

"Tt-tt," the voice said. "You have soaked yourself, though, haven’t you? Just a moment." The door opened. There was silence. Then the voice returned. "We have a dry shirt for you," it said. "But you shall need to sit up."

Hands not ungently grasped Damon beneath his armpits, and smoothly, seemingly effortlessly pulled him upright, slipping first his left arm, then his head and other arm through the shirt’s loose openings. Damon’s ribs cried out in agony. He hadn’t opened his eyes. But before he could lower either arm, a new shirt was pulled down over each and his head.

"Lean against the table. Behind you."

Damon sank backward. He waited a moment, then opened his eyes. He was looking at an old man, impossibly old, skinny, who was squatting across from him spryly with the loose, accustomed pose of a child or one who was used to working long hours outdoors. He, too, was dressed in a loose cloth shirt and thin pants. He wore leather sandals.

"Hello," the old man said. His voice was kind, though his accent unusual.

Damon merely blinked at him.

"My name is Perth Standford. You may call me Perth. And you are? But I don’t need to know who you are. You were dressed in the useless leather of the city guard. Don’t worry; it is outside and it is clean. Though why anyone would want to wear that stiff, cheap stuff instead of comfortable garments is beyond me. Leather is flimsy. And doesn’t offer adequate protection against a salamander’s bite. I should know; I’ve seen enough hooligans sliced to the bone while they were wearing leather. But you are no hooligan. I suppose you are a guard."

Damon sighed heavily. He tried to speak. His eyelids sank again.

"Yes? My. Your first words. Though I suppose your rantings while you were feverish also qualify as words though they made no sense. The words, that is. As rantings, perhaps, they were quite sensible. Although no one I know might have been able to translate them. Into words for sensible people, I mean. Sensible rantings lose their sensibility in the translation, don’t you think? But, of course, how could you know? You’ve been ill."

"Water." His voice sounded terrible.

"Yes, certainly," Perth said. "A good word. A fine translation. Certainly, water. You may have said that, but I no longer remember. I didn’t write everything down that you said. Though I did listen, yes. You said crazy things. And people’s names. Bedelia. Southland. Though that one might have been a place. And Borja, which I thought at first was a belch, but you kept saying it and you didn’t seem to find comfort or anything afterwards. I suppose it was a name. Maybe you can tell me? If you can translate your dialect?"