The Totem-Maker (part twenty)

The Totem-Maker

Chapter Three

I Am the Cause

(part twenty)

If in life the Fates were not indifferent to us, and did not record in their Book the start and end of each wayfarer’s journey, merely that; if our sorrows, petty to them, were guided by a kind and just deity, a mother’s hand turning our blind eyes to the light, our stubborn hearts to humility, while the flame of the candle yet burned…

A death would be as a bedside story that ends when the hearer drifts off.

And all is well.

If Lom had opened an eye…if he had been able to speak…if he had said, I am resigned to it, I saw the signs of it, Kire, we spoke of this…

The wound was grievous. The hoof had struck the skull from above and behind. I stood a stupid moment not understanding or believing. Lom, though gone, stood too, in the thick of confusion and cowering, of onrushers (bless them), clutching after garments, tackle, to pull the poor mad animal away. Blood flowed like water from a broken vessel, and all of us, whose bodies had pressured him upright, jumped with horror or milled off in shock. He fell.

Half-kneeling, I saw Mumas had won his deference. No one delayed him now, all parted before him, and he was soon ridden from sight. It was only then, when Vlanna Madla came running with a set, furious face, that I fell myself, pawing at a roll of burnt cloth.

He was gone, he never would know another thing done to his uncaring form, but Lom was not wholly dead. Blood came through the ball I’d bundled and pressed, wanting only a meeting, his strength to mine…

Not this softness, this relentless ebb.

Another roll of cloth was pulled taut, hands on my shoulders drew me back, and Lom was placed. Madla directed the stretcher to her counting room.

I shook off tears and stupor, trailing; I was not the sufferer. “Mera, if I may…I’ll wait.”

Her chin trembled, and she did not answer. But in the hours after, I learned she’d given orders for quiet and comfort, Lom’s and my own.

The room fell dark, and I sat resting a hand on Lom’s chest to feel him breathe, until the numbness in my legs became insistent. I wanted to say soothing words and nothing came to my heart…nothing at last but my failure to honor Lom’s goodness.

“I will,” I said to him. “You would not. If I had been struck, I would not merit a nemesis. But it is you who go and I who stay…and so…

“This the gods ordain. Forgive me. Sleep.”

21

Jealousy

The Totem-Maker (part twenty-one)

(2018, Stephanie Foster)