The preceding chapters should be available under 'possible related items'.
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.......
Slave!” Whined Jonalla, “Slave girl!”
Verdeyan stirred, looking down from her bed on the roof, below an awning. The light of a candle flickered in a window below.
“Slave girl!”
Frowning, she got to her feet and descended the twisting wooden stairs to the second story room where Jonalla stood.
Jonalla eyed her sharply, and pointed to a wooden basin at the foot of her bed.
“My son Aspen is sick to his stomach tonight. Would you go ahead and wash this out—I can’t sleep for its stench. And be quick about it. Oh, and Asabet wishes to see you and Gattlin. Go on now! Move!”
Without speaking, Verdeyan made her way down the second set of stairs to the first floor, and out the back door. There, she dumped the basin into the chute of refuse, and took it back upstairs, placing it carefully beside Jonalla’s sleeping son.
Tiredly, Verdyean knelt on the floor at Asabet’s feet. Gattlin stood, staring into the night out the front window, his eyes rimmed in dark circles.
Verdeyan could feel her heartbeat pulsing in her head, her blood singing with the cold lightning of adrenaline that had been coursing through her veins non-stop for the last days since her capture.
“So, Gattlin, how are you?” Asabet murmured, her face wrinkling into a broad smile as her child turned to face her.
“I’m fine, mother.”
“You haven’t told me of your journey yet,” she persisted.
Gattlin sighed, sitting down on a stool at the windowsill.
Verdeyan could sense the heaviness of movement about his limbs, a fatigue that went further than the physical.
“Come now, certainly there is something to tell. You were gone over a week. A mother wonders about her children when they are away.”
“When I left last week, I bypassed Locher entirely and took the herbs to Mylin… and, I, uh, visited dad. Like you asked…” Gattlin shifted uncomfortably, his face twisting as if he felt pain.
Asabet’s steady gaze took in the change in his countenance, and she raised here eyebrows, a sad smile briefly crossing her lips.
“The herbs fetched only ten johls. Then there was a storm, I had to wait another day and a half before leaving Mylin...and so I headed back, cutting through Sleveten territory.” He paused, the fall in his tone indicating he meant to say no more.
“Ah. But where did you find her?” Asabet’s question hovered over them like an insistent sparrow watching for a worm.
Verdeyan stole a glance in Gattlin’s direction, his shadow imprinting a dark silhouette on the faint blue glow of the moon hidden behind the clouds.
More seconds passed, the only movement in the room Asabet’s eyebrows and the crackling of the fire.
“That is where he found me.” Verdeyan spat her words.
“Yeah,” he assented somberly.
“Ah. And what do you think of our tribe, Verdeyan?” Asabet inquired.
Verdeyan raised her head slowly, her face burning, her fists clenched.
“I have my opinions. But I don’t think that’s what you’re really asking me.”
She rose, saying “I’ll be upstairs if you so desire any more from me.”
Her footsteps echoed in the quiet house, leaving Gattlin and his mother alone in the downstairs room.
“Gattlin, might I ask you what you did on your trip?” Asabet’s hoarse voice was layered with questions she hadn’t voiced, somehow intertwined with the few words she did speak.
“What do you want me to tell you? That I ransomed a princess to achieve justice for our tribe! I didn’t plan to do this. She was just there. And our cupboards are empty. Aspen and you are ill. And captives fetch a decent price as slaves.
What do you want me to do? I know you have an opinion. What is it? Dad could play these games with you, but I’m not Dad! You talked to him in ways you’ve never spoken to me or Jonalla. I can’t read your mind. Please, just tell me—“
“Gattlin.”
“If I’ve done the most idiotic thing you’ve ever heard of, or—“
“Gattlin. No. It isn’t a question of what you did. It’s a question of what you will do. You have her now. So what will you do with her?”
Gattlin raised his head to look his mother in the eyes, supporting his head with his fingers, elbows braced against his knees.
“I don’t know what to do with her. That’s why I’m asking you.”
“It’s not my call. She’s your captive, Gattlinian. You decide what to do with her.”
He shut his eyes, sucking in a deep breath before standing.
“Thankyou for your counsel, mother,” he muttered, entering the adjoining room to lie down on his bunk.
…………..
Eight: Faded Feathers
Gattlin sat up on his bunk, running his fingers through is hair.
Early morning sunlight streamed through the open shutters of the window, lending the small room an air of simple beauty. Flecks of dust danced in the rays of light, teasing his mind with longing to fly away and be free of his troubles. But to fly away was to ignore a problem. He sighed and stood to stretch, reaching for the wooden wash basin filled with water.
Gattlin splashed his face and stepped across the floor to get a fresh shirt from a hook on the wall.
The stained gray cloth bore wear of years of use, a garmet which had once belonged to his father.
He shook his body, stretching out his wings in the cool morning air that drafted through the window.
Upstairs, on the roof, Verdeyan still lay asleep on her pile of leaves, wrapped in a tattered old blanket.
Gattlin made his way up the stairs t where she lay, hoping to awaken her himself instead of letting his sister kick her awake later.
The entire house was quiet in the dull morning light, the only conscious soul, Gattlin as he stood, looking down at the girl who lay sleeping.
Her wings appeared mangled, dried blood encrusting the bandages he’d carefully wound over her injuries. Tangled red hair fell over her face, lending a forlorn look to her features.
A floorboard creaked beneath his bare feet, and she jerked upright. A wild look of terror crossed her face. Her breath caught in her throat, as if she’d tried to swallow a stick.
The world around her rushed into focus, replacing the blurred dream images of her mother and father.
“Oh, no! No!” She cried, ripping at the air with fingers contorted like claws.
“No! You did this to me! You did this-did-this-to-to-me,” she gasped, clutching at her chest then pressing her hands over her eyes, a flurry of movement and tearless sobbing.
“You’re right. I did this,” he whispered, crouching to his knees.
“Then why are you groveling!” she hissed, turning her back to him as she sobbed.
“Fine. I”ll leave,” he returned flatly, walking away.
His face stung with a potent mixture of indignation and sadness as he tramped down the stairs to the first floor. There, his mother sat sleeping on her mattress near the hearth.
He made himself busy, crossing the room to fetch his mother’s walking stick, her shawl, and a cask of cold tea. The fire had died to smoldering coals, which hissed pale tendrils of smoke out into the room.
With the poker, he stirred the embers, reviving a small flame, above which he hung the cask of tea. He stared pensively into the flames as he fanned the fire, thoughts burning in his mind like the ashes of the wood.
He stood, transfixed, for several moments, stirring only when Asabet coughed.
“Gattlin,” she croaked, her voice terribly thin.
“Mother. Are you well this morning?”
In response, she only coughed, a harsh, grating sound.
“I-I need to go…” she wheezed, trying to stand up.
“No, no, don’t try to move just yet. You’ll fall. Hold on…” Gattlin began to reach for the tea, and then stopped.
“The chamber pot, oh, yes…”
“I don’t have time for you to fetch the pot! I have to-go-now-“ she coughed again.
“Very well,” he sighed, draping her shawl around her shoulders, putting the staff in her hand.
She wobbled as she strained to stand, and her son braced her with is hands, steadying her as best he could.
In short, shuffling steps, they made their way out to the back of the house, where, at the edge of the platform, she sat down, motioning him to turn away.
Silently, he faced the house, waiting for her.
Asabet was so frail, it seemed the smallest breath of wind could carry her away. Her hands shook when she moved, and her bones ached no matter how much she rested. Her gnarled hands and weathered face were the only consistent thing in Gattlin’s life aside from Jonalla’s bitterness and the demanding nature of life in the trees.
He sighed heavily, tracing the lines of moss that grew on the old wooden boards of the house with his finger, wincing as his mother groaned behind him.
Verdeyan looked down from where she sat on the roof, her head pounding with the deepest pangs of sorrow.
At the sight of Gattlin, she spat, beginning to swear “You vulture, you son of a flea-ridden hen…” but trailed off as she watched him walking alongside his bent, aged mother, not hesitating to steady her with his hand on her shoulder.
He continued to aid her as he disappeared into the house, a look of such caring on his face that she had to tear her eyes away as turmoil welled up within her.
“What are you, Gattlin? Why have you done this to me?” She whispered.
Below her, she heard the household stir into activity, the day beginning in homes thoughout the forest, and sighed, realizing she too had to find a way to struggle through until that night.
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--Voxina
