When I woke in the early hours of the morning, I was surprised to find that Hawthorne was not inside the windmill. I sat up and stretched my arms. My leg had a dull ache, and when I pulled up my skirt to inspect it, I found the bandage was congealed with dried blood. I had no knowledge of medicine, or first aid, and wasn’t sure what to do. Should I change the bandage?
Angry with myself, I ploughed my fist into the cushion. I wished Jack was here. He’d fix it within seconds!
It took a long while to hoist myself into a standing position. The pain was not as intense as it had been, but it was still bad. I hobbled towards the grimy window but couldn’t see Hawthorne anywhere along the hillside. It was an unusually bright day – not a cloud in the sky. This lifted my spirits considerably.
However, I waited for Hawthorne for over an hour, thirsty, hungry, and unable to hop more than a few steps, before he made an appearance through the trees. His white coat stood out like a sore thumb. He slunk towards the windmill, his head low.
‘Where have you been?’ I demanded as he walked through the door. ‘I’ve been waiting for hours! I’m starving, I’m thirsty, and I can’t walk!’
Hawthorne’s expression was worrisome – it looked as though there was a lot on his mind. He looked over his shoulder and ruffled his wings in a rather disgruntled fashion.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, slightly miffed. ‘You’ve been acting strange ever since we got back to Mortlock.’
He looked at me with those large periwinkle eyes that said more than words ever could. I knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t guess what it might be.
‘You can tell me … or show me … whatever, okay?’ I said. Hawthorne averted his gaze and thought it over, though apparently decided against involving me, for he turned around and walked back out.
‘What the-? Hawthorne!’ I yelled. ‘Come back!’
Muttering profanities under my breath, and feeling utterly useless, I waited for Hawthorne to return.
He wasn’t gone long, returning within twenty minutes of his departure. In his mouth was a fat rabbit.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘You brought that for me?’
Hawthorne dropped the rabbit at my feet and stared at me.
I picked the lifeless rabbit up and turned it over in my hands. It made my sad to see a dead animal, but what choice did I have but to eat it?
‘Thanks,’ I said to Hawthorne, feeling guilty about my rant earlier.
Using Finn’s dagger, I managed to skin the rabbit, and remove its innards. It was a messy job, one that I wasn’t very good at. Hawthorne gobbled up the intestines as I removed them, making me gag repeatedly.
Finally, I was able to cook the rabbit. This, I would have no trouble with. I set up a small, controlled fire in the centre of the windmill. The smoke rose through the rafters, sending the owls into a hooting frenzy. Disgruntled, they swept off to find somewhere else to sleep.
Once the rabbit was cooked, I devoured it within minutes, leaving the bones for Hawthorne to crunch on noisily. I felt much better now that I had been fed; yet I couldn’t rely on Hawthorne to bring me every meal. Hopefully my leg would be well enough to walk on within a day or two. Perhaps I could thieve some vegetables from the farm a short walk away. They were sure to have a well, too.
The simple act of gutting, cooking, and eating the rabbit had drained me of what little energy I had. Soon enough, I was fast asleep, propped against the wall of the windmill.
~
I woke because of the dull throbbing in my thigh. Not only that, but my throat was dry, and my skin felt like sandpaper. Salt was still embedded in my hair and clothes. I felt dirty, but there was no possibility of a bath because I couldn’t walk.
Looking around groggily, I saw that Hawthorne had stayed by my side whilst I’d napped. By the position of the sun, I could tell it was late afternoon. I tried to move my leg, but it was stiff. Pulling up my dress, I inspected the bandages. They needed to be changed.
‘Hawthorne,’ I croaked, my voice raspy. ‘Is there a creek nearby? Or a pond?’
Hawthorne got up with a great groan, stretched, and padded to my side. He lowered his nose to my wound and sniffed gently, before licking the bandage.
‘Thanks,’ I muttered. ‘But that won’t make it better.’