Chapter Four
~
I didn’t follow after her right away. Stood frozen, imaginin’ her situation not too unlike my own. But at least I wasn’t afraid to seek out others. Perhaps it’s because my own separation was partly by choice. It would have eventually come to eviction. I never met the clan elders to fight the charges levied against me.
How could I argue them? They were true enough. I often read the thoughts of others, sensed their emotions and intent. Could see game when other ogres couldn’t even smell it. See thin’s that hadn’t yet happened.
No one ever pointed a finger and said, “Out.”
I closed my eyes and saw the bundle of clothin’ and food left on the family’s threshold. Saw the tiny girl poundin’ on the locked door, rakin’ her fingers over the rough door planks until she left streaks of blood on it. Saw her sobbin’, the doors of neighbors slammin’ shut, beams dropped in place across jambs. She picked up the bundle and trudged into the woods, alone.
Livin’ her loss, fear and guilt, tears streamed down my cheeks. Didn’t bother to wipe them away. I breathed heavily and tilted back my head to catch my breath.
“Her kind. My kind.”
I crossed the clearin’ and followed the human’s scent into the woods leadin’ north. After trackin’ her ten minutes my concern grew. She didn’t slow, and blood blotted the pine needles and stones. I pushed my pace to a full run, despite my weakness and remainin’ queasiness.
I came upon her without ever hearin’ her cries, though she lie slumped over an embankment, face pressed against the sleeve of my shirt she wore. One fist still grasped the waist of my borrowed pants to keep them up. She lie quietly. The pain no longer drove tears. She was numbed by a sense of loss—long lost. I sensed her emptiness.
I stopped and dropped my hands to my knees to catch my breath. My head swam, and I lowered to one knee. I looked over at the female human. A dozen cuts bloodied her feet. For some reason an old image flooded my mind which still disturbs my dreams twenty years after first experiencin’ the sight—the bloody iron trap still attached to the stake, though its chain plowed a trough all around it. The wolf’s dismembered leg lie in the grass, where it had gnawed it off to escape.
Animals do what they must to survive.
I’ll ensure this slight thin’ survives. She deserves a life.
I stood and padded softly to the human child—no. She’s a woman, despite her size. She didn’t fight me as I raked her into my arms. She turned and let her face fall into the crook of my shoulder.
Neither of us spoke as I carried her to my home—for now, her home.
“Delia.”
She spoke the single word so softly I first thought I imagined it. She didn’t budge in my arms. I smiled when I realized what she had said.
“Glad to meet ya.” I introduced myself.
“That’s a human name.”
“Is it? I didn’t know that. I’ve never met another Morgan, human or ogre.”
She didn’t say anythin’ else. As the quiet lingered, I feared she would shut back down, and fretted to find somethin’ else to say.
“Delia is a very pretty name.” That should be safe.
She snorted. “No it isn’t. I hate it.”
“Then pick another. It’s yars. I suppose ya have the right to choose a name ya like better.”
“Because no one would care if I do?”
“I wasn’t thinkin’ that.” I tensed, worried about provokin’ her depression more. “But here in the woods, if ya’d like me to call ya somethin’ different, just say so.”
She remained quiet a moment. “I feel stupid being carried like a child.”
I smiled, sensin’ a new mood envelop her. “Ya aren’t gonna be walkin’ much on those feet of yars. Ya did a job on them. So don’t go complainin’.”
Delia relaxed against my chest, her face wormin’ into the crook between my shoulder and throat. She breathed in deeply. Her fingers casually stroked the soft wool of my collar.
“You smell earthy, like the leaves I turn hunting truffles.”
“Sorry. Haven’t visited the creek with a bar of soap in a while.”
“I didn’t mean to insult,” Delia said. “I like the smell.”
I felt heat spreadin’ across my body despite the mornin’ chill. Humans are a homely breed, spindly little things, with their narrow, pointed noses and soft features. Given a proper snout they wouldn’t look half bad. I was raised to distrust them. They aren’t a reliable sort. But I could get used to the occasional company of this one.
I eased through a clump of brush and stepped into my private little dell.
“You’re one too, aren’t you? Why you live out here alone?”
“One what?” I asked.
“They called me a witch,” she answered, her voice strained, angry. An anger that physically seeped from her.
I stumbled as my shock interfered with my stride. Delia stiffened in my arms. She looked up into my face. I felt the fire of emotion sweepin’ from her.
“I shouldn’t have told you,” she said, her voice raspin’, accusin’.
“No. It isn’t that. It’s just— So that’s what I sensed from ya.”
“Sensed?”
“I— I can— It’s hard to explain.”
I climbed the step to my porch which is just deep enough for a chair, where a tall sort can lean back against the cabin wall and set his feet on the rail to enjoy the surroundin’ sights and sounds of nature. I wiped my bare feet on the woven-grass mat and nudged open the front door.
“Then you’re a wizard.”
Warlock. Word I always use.
I chose not to comment upon her declaration, even though I disagreed with it, somewhat. A sort who merely has a way with wood is not a carpenter. Without trainin’, he’s just another soul without focus. I gently set the tiny female on the table so I could see to her feet first thin’.
She fussed for a moment, until I explained my intention.
“Odd,” Delia continued, “with our combined talent we couldn’t put the fire out. If we’d had our wits about us, I might still have a home.”
Her suggestion irked me. Doubt I have any such talent. I can direct my senses enough to determine what riled the jays when they battle in the trees, or feel the distrust of a bear that crosses my path. I have some skill at bracin’ the poultices I mix, but takin’ the life of a flame—that’s silly. Though I can spark kindlin’ with effort.
I used a towel to lift the creosote-layered kettle off the fire. A healthy torrent of steam rose from the spout. I poured into the two waitin’ cups, and pointed instruction for Delia to mind the seepin’ of their tea leaves. I half-filled the nearby basin before replacin’ the kettle back on the hearth where it would stay warm. I ladled a smidgen of cold water into the basin and tested the contents wasn’t too hot. Satisfied, I carried it to the table.
Delia prattled on—I decided from a sudden burst of nervousness—about all manner of thin’s, startin’ with how long it had been since she tasted tea. She worked hard to keep the tremble out of her voice, but it didn’t take an untrained warlock to recognize her unease as I carefully washed her feet. I ignored her repeated complaint that she could bathe herself.
“Part of the healin’ is the nurturin’ of the healer,” I said in a near whisper.
I know her eyes drilled into me, but didn’t look into her face. The water in the basin quickly turned muddy-red. She didn’t once flinch, though removin’ the caked blood and muck revealed purplin’ bruises. Humans are such fragile creatures. I’m not an expert on the race, but Delia has to be more fragile than most.
My mind wandered, rememberin’ how Mama cared for my own nicks and scrapes when I was an ogreling. The bottoms of Delia’s feet, her cuts, sufficiently cleaned, I toweled away a layer of grime off her ankles and toes. They were cute toes, as delicate as one would expect for a fragile little creature. Heat again spread across my body, and I leaned back, carefully dryin’ the female’s feet with the opposite end of my small kitchen towel.
Delia scooped the remainin’ tea leaves out of a cup. I watched her tiny fingers pushin’ the spoon about. I looked into her face. Eyes seemed too big for her petite face. Eyelashes overly long, half-hidin’ eyes that looked amber under the falterin’ flames in the hearth. Her skin silken, white, creamy-soft.
I could get used to a human’s face. Have a lot to overlook, at first.
“Is my face dirty too?” she asked.
I felt my heart stop for a beat. I cleared my throat. “I’ll get ya a clean towel.”
“So it must be,” she said with a smile. “Didn’t expect an ogre could be so gentle. With those big hands of yours.”
She handed me a cup. I accepted it and took a too-quick sip, searin’ my tongue. Worked hard to hide the agony as the hot tea went down. I blinked quickly to clear my vision, and rose and fussed, collectin’ the miniature mugs of herbs I would use in the poultice. I poured a generous dab of my precious oil onto a plate and added the crushed bark, dried leaves and flower petals.
As I blended the mixture together, I summoned the energy I required to instill the ethereal healin’ properties. The sensation eased my own ills as I visualized Delia’s cuts healin’, the bruises fadin’. I reached out for more power than I normally would. Wanted that poultice to be the best I’d ever made. Vertigo dizzied me as the livin’ force passed through me into the aromatic concoction.
“What is that?” Delia asked.
“A poultice.”
“No. The—light. Never mind.”
She shook her head when I turned toward her. A vee etched the space between her brows. I used my fingers to lather the poultice onto the soles of her feet. She squirmed.
“Does it burn?”
“Some. It tingles. Little pin pricks.”
Good. Must be workin’.
She sat where she was, close by, as I prepared us somethin’ to eat. Stood next to her as we took turns slatherin’ butter over slabs of hot cornbread, sinfully crumbly without any eggs to bind it. We finished the tomatoes, as I reluctantly thought about the errands I had to run. I stalled, not wantin’ to leave the human woman’s side. She entertained me with every naive remark.
But I had to retrieve my staff, first of all. In two decades it hadn’t been far from my hand. It collected power every time I pulled from the ethereal. Vibrated in my hand with power. I felt naked, vulnerable, without it.
I also knew I must visit the Hamlet to get clothes more appropriate for the tiny Delia. And food. I don’t mind gnawin’ on dried venison twenty meals straight. But what kind of host would force that on a delicate human woman?
I didn’t look forward to the three-hour hike. Worse—the thought that I should be takin’ Delia to the Hamlet. Wouldn’t she be better off with her own kind? She could be cared for better there. She didn’t deserve to be abandoned in the wilderness. And it wasn’t proper for her to stay in my dark, rank cabin.
“I’m glad you don’t want me to go away,” she said.
I flinched. So she could read the thoughts of others. That could be an irritant. Or ease communication. Bind us with truth, even.
“I’ve cared for myself since I was fourteen,” she said. “No one cared where I lived before. Don’t suppose there’s anything wrong with staying for a while with the ogre who saved my life. If I’m, indeed, welcome.”
Heat radiated across my face. Chest tightened. “Indeed.”
“You’re a good—ogre. A good heart. I can tell. If you don’t mind putting up with me, I would readily accept your hospitality. I can pull my own weight. I know what herbs can soften and make an old elk taste like a yearling calf.”
The most bizarre need to cry overwhelmed me. I took slow, deep breaths until the sensation lessened. Delia’s lashes batted and her face turned red.
“I’ll likely not return from my errands before sundown,” I mumbled.
“I’ll be fine. No. You take the rest of the cornbread. You’re the one who’ll need the energy.”
~
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