Chapter Two
~
The eastern sky reflected the glint of a new sun by the time I staggered into my cabin. I placed the human woman on my cot and fell to the floor to rest. The floorboards knifed at the burns on my back, makin’ me roll onto my side. Arms and hands cramped from carryin’ the human. I trembled—not from the cold. It took a lot of cold to bother an ogre.
I forced myself to rise and walk to the hearth, stirred the ashes with the poker. Blood smeared the cold, iron handle. I groaned and chucked kindlin’ onto the live embers I uncovered. I inspected the raw flesh of my hand and shook my head. Usin’ an axe the next week would be more than a chore.
I knelt and blew at the coals, which renewed my hackin’ cough. I swallowed hard and tried it again. The embers glowed. The smallest kindlin’ lit and I added ever-larger until a good fire blazed. The flickerin’ light made me aware of the human’s—indelicate way. What was left of her gown had ridden above her waist. I leapt to cover her.
She mumbled. Her head turned slowly side to side. I placed my hand to her forehead. She was hot with fever.
How could it take her so fast?
“Were ya already sick, little thin’?”
Am I gonna come down with some plague, on top of these burns?
~
I spent the day doin’ what I could to make the human as comfortable as possible. I refrain from callin’ myself an herbalist, but I have a knack for findin’ those remedies that grow in the woods and the plains to the east—it’s as if they call to me. I used them as best I could on the tiny thin’ lyin’ on my bed. Dribbled tea into her mouth to get fluids into her. Kept her forehead dampened with an aromatic mint, and poulticed the worst of her burns.
That night I lie near the hearth on my huntin’ fur. Hands cramped. I couldn’t lie on my back because of my burns. Sleep didn’t come until nearly sunrise.
~
The human periodically startled me with delirious mumbles. She cried out a number of times, “I’m not. I’m not.” The declaration kept my mind busy, guessin’ what her words might mean, since I wasn’t up to doin’ much of anythin’ else. Not that I could leave with her like this, anyway.
So I stayed near and watched over the tiny human, studied her face. Found her gentle features terribly borin’. An attractive face requires a snout. Strong cheekbones. Square chin. The absence of tusks gave her an immature appearance, though I know she’s well past adolescence. Humans aren’t new to me. Trade with them in the Hamlet, but certainly found no reason to ponder their looks before. They are simply lesser creatures. Weak thin’s.
But the soft curve of her cheeks and chin were not unpleasant to look upon. Her hair, what wasn’t singed by fire, shined a glossy clay-red. Freckles flowed across her snowy-white complexion, as though she didn’t spend every day collectin’ in the forest. Her lips were just a slip of peach. That particularly bothered me. An ogre hen would be ashamed of such minuscule lips.
“Why do ya hate bein’ spied in the woods so much, little hen—girl?”
Those thin lips trembled. I refreshed the cloth with the cool mint tea and blotted her forehead.
“Ya were here long before humans came to the Hamlet. How’d ya get here? The nearest human settlement must be a ten-day walk for someone like ya. Ya couldn’t have been more than a child when ya came here.”
I shook my head. How’d ya survive? A single, stinkin’ highland winter.
~
The fourth day I started makin’ up names for her. None fit. Maybe because I’m not well versed in humanish names. I read a book about a human named Victoria. Humans must like a lot of syllables sprinkled in their names. But the game passed the time. I told her about myself, answerin’ unspoken questions. I’m not used to speakin’. Have lived my adult life alone. I broke into my wine to sooth my throat, and to battle my own fever that brought sweat to my brow now. The wine evermore loosened my tongue. To make it feel less like I rambled to myself, I got into the habit of usin’ only one of the many names I tried out on her. She never complained.
She learned much more about me than I imagined willin’ly sharin’ with anyone. It wouldn’t be easy to start over when she wakes. If she wakes. If she even wished to speak to an ogre. My kind aren’t naturally taken fondly to by humans, after all. Though, seems thin’s are changin’ a bit, down on the Lake shore. Lots of new folk gatherin’, in a peaceful manner. Not that I venture into the Valley often. Always good to come back with a bag of salt, flour. I do love to splurge and trade for a book, now and then.
~
The sixth day I woke sick to my stomach, and vomited. Wish it was the wine from the previous day, but know better. I shook, felt freezin’ cold then icy hot, only to shiver a moment later. I struggled to brew what I guessed would best fight the evil coursin’ within my veins. I’m not a trained herbalist. But they do speak to me, some.
She brought it upon me, but I don’t blame her. Just hope she survives. She has a lot to overcome. If she lives, it gives more promise to my own survival. I knelt by the bed and encouraged her to suckle as much from the soaked cloth as she could manage. I might be unable to care for her in the hours to come. I changed her poultices, and lie down. Slept fitfully. Threw up once, but was unable to rise to clean it from the floorboards.
~
I believe it’s the seventh day, since I found her. Perhaps I missed a day. I heard someone callin’ out. I mumbled somethin’, not sure what I even said, before my eyes closed again. I woke in darkness, vomitin’.
~
The next time I woke the sun shone through the open shutters. A fire burned in the hearth. I closed my eyes again assumin’ someone from the Hamlet found us. Had the human woman survived?
I felt a hand under my neck, liftin’ my head.
“Up, you stubborn beast.”
Beast? Who had I angered so much, to call me such a thin’? I sensed light filter through my eyelids. A mixed up, swirlin’ world greeted me. My stomach twisted, but I kept from vomitin’.
“Take some broth, ogre, or I’ll pour it in your ear.” The voice was a cross between an oriole and a spring breeze. Certainly not Ogreish.
I groaned, I think.
Never felt so sick in my life. Dyin’ would be best. A relief.
I forced my eyes open. They wouldn’t focus. “Be still. Why ya leapin’ about like an antsy frog?” I asked.
“I’m sitting still, you silly ogre. Drink.”
I felt a cup at my lips and slurped from it. Thin broth. Only a hint of venison. Hunger ripped at my gut equally as strong as the revulsion of takin’ anythin’ in. I closed my lips as nausea swept over me again.
“It’ll go away after a bit. Getting something into my stomach did wonders for me.”
Her words made no sense. Did others from the Hamlet come and get sick too?
“Did the human live?” I asked. A laugh made the pain in my head thump.
“Drink. It won’t do your ear a bit of good.”
I closed my eyes but accepted the broth. A cloth wiped my chin when I didn’t keep up with the stubborn tilt of the cup. My torturer finally allowed me to rest, pullin’ my fur up to my chin. I took slow breaths to calm my stomach.
~
I woke to darkness only broken by the flicker of flames from the hearth five feet away. The nausea was thankfully sufferable, replaced by intense hunger. My head ached, but nothin’ like it did the last time I tried to open my eyes.
I pulled away my blankets and tentatively rose to my knees. Was startled to find I was stripped down to my flesh. I stood slowly and pulled my fur over my shoulders. Made my way one careful step at a time through the back door, to the outhouse.
I may live. Why am I sleepin’ on the floor, before the hearth? Without a stitch on?
~
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