‘You should have died on the rocks, but the tide was in and you landed in the only deep pool near the village.’ Again he nodded vigorously. ‘Ruthia!’
‘I’ll make an offering at her shrine the first opportunity I have.’ She wasn’t jesting, as she took her devotions very seriously despite her Order and Ruthia’s seeing the world in very different ways; hers sought balance, they accepted chaos and imbalance as natural.
‘That would be good,’ agreed the hermit. ‘The water was very cold and that seemed to staunch the bleeding; you were only there a short while, else you would have drowned before you washed up on the rocks. I found you and carried you here.’ He reached over and held up what appeared to be another bunch of skins and furs. ‘Look, I made you this.’
Not entirely sure what it was he offered her, she said, ‘Thank you.’
‘You can wear it when you feel better.’
Then it struck her: she was more than two weeks by horse from the nearest Temple and even if there was a Keshian authority nearby, which there wasn’t, they would take no interest in a girl wrapped in ragged skins claiming to be a Knight-Adamant of the Order of the Shield of the Weak. On foot she was a month away from help; even if she grew strong enough to walk, without weapons or coin, her chances of reaching the Temple down in Ithra were close to none.
She lay back and sighed, then started to nibble at the crab. It was surprisingly good, if a little salty.
‘What?’ he asked hearing her sigh.
‘I guess I’m going to have to find those who did this to me.’
I le looked at her as if she were the mad one. ‘Why?’
‘They have my weapons and clothing, and a very good horse. I want them back.’
He laughed, a short barking sound, then stopped, then laughed again, full-throatedly. After a minute of laughter, she heard him say, ‘Ah, don’t say I never warned you. You’re asking a lot of Ruthia after everything she’s already done for you.’
‘Perhaps,’ answered Sandreena. ‘But when I’m done, they’ll be the ones praying for mercy.’ She ate more crab and the hermit fell silent.
*
Days passed and finally Sandreena’s sense of time returned. She had no idea how long she had lingered in the cave, but knew it had been at least three weeks, perhaps a month. She would sport a nasty assortment of scars, for the hermit had sewn her up with some sort of rough fibre, perhaps stripped from some kind of seaweed. She’d been tended by all manner of healers, from the finest magic-using priests in the Temples to village medicine women with their poultices and teas. She found it oddly amusing that she was recovering from her worst collection of injuries, perhaps more severe than all her previous ones combined, and with the most primitive ministrations she had ever received.
As she began picking out her stitches with a fine fishbone -the ones she could reach, anyway - she reminded herself that she needed to thank the hermit, as well as her Goddess - and perhaps she needed to include Ruthia as well. That she was still alive was proof that some benevolent force was looking after her.
By the time the hermit returned she had removed all the stitches within her reach. She held out the fish bone and motioned to her naked back. He nodded, sat down and quickly took the stitches out. She could feel a little blood welling and some tenderness, but at last she could move without the constant tightness.
She pulled on the rough hide dress he had made for her and said, ‘There, that’s better.’
‘I was going to wait a little longer; some of those wounds were very deep,’ said the hermit.
‘One thing I know is wounds, and another is my own body,’ Sandreena said. ‘Those stitches would only start being a problem if we waited any longer to cut them out.’ She indicated the cave with her hand. ‘You don’t have a lot of chirurgeon’s tools here.’
He found that very funny and laughed deeply. ‘I did once.’ Then he stopped. He tilted his head as if listening for something. ‘Or did I?’
Whatever had happened to this man long ago, was lost even to him. A tragedy, illness, or a vengeful god, whatever the cause, most of his memory and mind were gone. Still, he had visited kindness on a stranger with no hope of recompense. She wished to repay him, but she lacked even the most fundamental possessions. He had found her as naked as the day she was born, and as helpless.
Still, she felt a debt. ‘Once I settle matters with those killers, is there anything I can do for you?’
He was silent for a long time, then he said, ‘I would like a real pot.’ Then his eyes widened and he sat up. ‘No, a kettle!’ He nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, a fine iron kettle!’ His eyes grew even wider. ‘And a knife! A knife so I can clean my catch! Yes, that would be wonderful.’