Read Online My Swordhand Is Singing by Marcus Sedgwick - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marcus Sedgwick
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watched. He shook his head free from the feeling; he had more pressing things to worry about. His side and back still hurt from the blows he’d taken.
He staggered across the bridge, and let Sultan find his own way to his stable.
As soon as he crossed the threshold he knew things were wrong. Tomas lay on the floor of the hut, his eyes open.
“Father!”
Peter rushed to him.
“What happened?”
He smelt the drink that clung to his father’s clothes, to his breath. A smashed stone jar of slivovitz lay nearby, its dregs oozing into the earthen floor.
“I can’t move my arm,” Tomas said, “or my leg.”
He nodded his head at his left side, on which he was lying. His eyes looked at Peter wildly, like those of a frightened dog.
Peter was scared, and what scared him the most was seeing that his father was afraid. It was not something he had thought possible.
“Help me up,” Tomas said.
His father was very heavy, and his being a dead weight, unable to move two of his limbs, made it hard to lift him properly. Despite his strength, it was all Peter could manage to drag his father to his bed and haul him onto it.
“The drink,” Peter said as gently as he could, though he felt angry inside. “The drink did that to you.”
“Nonsense,” Tomas spluttered out. “I had a fall.”
Peter said nothing. Tomas did not have falls. But then, his hands never used to shake either.
He didn’t believe his father, but he didn’t want to fight him. He needed to keep things simple. Practical.
“Are you in pain?” he asked.
“A little,” Tomas said. “Nothing serious. Just can’t move my damn arm.”
Peter pulled the covers from under his father, and put them over him. Then he went and stoked the stove, and made some soup. By the time he had done that, Tomas seemed slightly better.
“I think I can move my fingers,” Tomas said. “Yes? Are they moving?”
Peter wondered why Tomas couldn’t tell for himself. He didn’t want to think about what it meant. He looked at his father’s hands, but could see no movement at all.
“Yes, Father,” he said, “I think they are moving.”
With that, Tomas had exhausted himself. He fell asleep, but even in his sleep he tried to move his fingers, as if to close them around something, something like the hilt of a sword.
Dreams rode like wild horses through Tomas’s sleep, dreams in which he himself was riding, and riding hard.
Riding out for a reason, for a cause.
A good cause.
19
Turnings
The days passed.
Tomas recovered, slowly at first. He had taken soup from Peter after waking from the accident, and had seemed more lucid. Peter was surprised that though Tomas had refused to attend the Nunta Mortului, he had asked about the wedding, and how Agnes was.
On the third day, Tomas got out of bed for an hour or so, moving his arm and leg freely once more. He even went out to talk to Sultan for a while.
Peter was worn out, for it fell to him to do all the work he could, as well as nurse his father and make two trips into Chust to deliver logs, collect money, and buy food. In the village he tried to inquire after Agnes, but no one would even meet his eye, let alone talk to him. But then, what was there to say? Apart from a basket of food that was left silently on the windowsill of the hut every morning, no one went near her. No one had spoken to her, no one was willing to talk about her; no one was allowed close.
There was an ominous mood in Chust. Something had changed, and a place that was dour at the best of times had become even more cold and unwelcoming. Peter knew why: fear. More cattle had been attacked—two were found with dried blood caked on their forequarters—and a couple of ewes had been killed, drained of blood. It was not the work of wolves, but no one would say more than that.
When he went to talk to Agnes’s neighbors to see how her mother was, they refused to speak to him at all, merely indicating that they would look after everything.
He staggered across the bridge, and let Sultan find his own way to his stable.
As soon as he crossed the threshold he knew things were wrong. Tomas lay on the floor of the hut, his eyes open.
“Father!”
Peter rushed to him.
“What happened?”
He smelt the drink that clung to his father’s clothes, to his breath. A smashed stone jar of slivovitz lay nearby, its dregs oozing into the earthen floor.
“I can’t move my arm,” Tomas said, “or my leg.”
He nodded his head at his left side, on which he was lying. His eyes looked at Peter wildly, like those of a frightened dog.
Peter was scared, and what scared him the most was seeing that his father was afraid. It was not something he had thought possible.
“Help me up,” Tomas said.
His father was very heavy, and his being a dead weight, unable to move two of his limbs, made it hard to lift him properly. Despite his strength, it was all Peter could manage to drag his father to his bed and haul him onto it.
“The drink,” Peter said as gently as he could, though he felt angry inside. “The drink did that to you.”
“Nonsense,” Tomas spluttered out. “I had a fall.”
Peter said nothing. Tomas did not have falls. But then, his hands never used to shake either.
He didn’t believe his father, but he didn’t want to fight him. He needed to keep things simple. Practical.
“Are you in pain?” he asked.
“A little,” Tomas said. “Nothing serious. Just can’t move my damn arm.”
Peter pulled the covers from under his father, and put them over him. Then he went and stoked the stove, and made some soup. By the time he had done that, Tomas seemed slightly better.
“I think I can move my fingers,” Tomas said. “Yes? Are they moving?”
Peter wondered why Tomas couldn’t tell for himself. He didn’t want to think about what it meant. He looked at his father’s hands, but could see no movement at all.
“Yes, Father,” he said, “I think they are moving.”
With that, Tomas had exhausted himself. He fell asleep, but even in his sleep he tried to move his fingers, as if to close them around something, something like the hilt of a sword.
Dreams rode like wild horses through Tomas’s sleep, dreams in which he himself was riding, and riding hard.
Riding out for a reason, for a cause.
A good cause.
19
Turnings
The days passed.
Tomas recovered, slowly at first. He had taken soup from Peter after waking from the accident, and had seemed more lucid. Peter was surprised that though Tomas had refused to attend the Nunta Mortului, he had asked about the wedding, and how Agnes was.
On the third day, Tomas got out of bed for an hour or so, moving his arm and leg freely once more. He even went out to talk to Sultan for a while.
Peter was worn out, for it fell to him to do all the work he could, as well as nurse his father and make two trips into Chust to deliver logs, collect money, and buy food. In the village he tried to inquire after Agnes, but no one would even meet his eye, let alone talk to him. But then, what was there to say? Apart from a basket of food that was left silently on the windowsill of the hut every morning, no one went near her. No one had spoken to her, no one was willing to talk about her; no one was allowed close.
There was an ominous mood in Chust. Something had changed, and a place that was dour at the best of times had become even more cold and unwelcoming. Peter knew why: fear. More cattle had been attacked—two were found with dried blood caked on their forequarters—and a couple of ewes had been killed, drained of blood. It was not the work of wolves, but no one would say more than that.
When he went to talk to Agnes’s neighbors to see how her mother was, they refused to speak to him at all, merely indicating that they would look after everything.
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