The Shadows Within

Chapter 7-The Recovery

“If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottage princes' palaces.”

 William Shakespeare

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 The soil tasted bitter, the dry particles coating her tongue and making her gag. It had made its way up her nose, the acrid scent burning as she struggled for air, face down on the forest floor. Sensation in her left leg was fading, she thought she was going to be sick. It was some relief when she was grabbed by the scruff of her neck and hauled to her feet.

 His sword kissed the soft skin of her elbow, the fleshy meat of her thigh. Cáit’s hands slipped on her own sword as she tightened her grip. Blood coated her arms. She could roughly make out the shape his torso before her, and lunged wildly forward, arms dragging her reluctant sword.The blow caught her on the curve of her exposed neck. He hadn’t needed to even use his sword this time. Brute force brought Cáit to her knees, as pain radiated sickeningly though her body. The snap of her clavicle was almost audible among the suddenly silent onlookers. Her body began to betray her, whimpering and shaking against her will. Yet still he kept coming, his hands pounding her gut, her breast, her temple, and her jaw.

Her traitorous legs gave out.

He was now supporting her, keeping her upright as he delivered blow after blow after blow.

The world dipped and faded and twirled and still he kept coming.

“Enough, Kanem.”

 The words echoed in the still air. The jeering of the gathered crowd had ceased around the time Cáit’s jaw had swollen so much she could no longer scream. Kanem held her close for another second, breathing in her fear and pain, more before releasing her to her knees. His great face swam above hers, dragging his thumb across her lips, smearing the blood he found there, in a sick parody of affection.

 Big mistake.

 The thought had barely crossed her mind before she spat in his still-too-close face, the blood he had spilled a spray of scarlet.She shut her eyes.

 His boot found her ribs, her gut, her back, over and over again. With nothing left to defend herself, Cáit curled up and endured. 

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The sweet relief of unconsciousness never came. She floated somewhere wake and sleep, in a reality dominated by pain. The leaves beneath her scratched her bare arms and offered no comfort. The trees bent down and laughed at her, their needles scratching the jagged edges of her wounds. And worst of all: the men.  The men passed all about her, their heavy footsteps jolting her aching bones. They seemed to pass over her and under her and around her, their words floating down to her and crawling under her skin.

 “He ain’t happy”

 “Of course he’s not, we’re no further on now than we were when we found her!”

 “Lornon thinks she’s still pretending…dya reckon?”

“I dunno. I mean, look at her. It was pretty rough.”

“Hmm, yeah. Wouldn’t like to be in her shoes.”

Their voices grew quieter. 

“Kanem didn’t appreciate that.”

 “No. He did not.”

 She was too tired to try and make sense of what they were saying. Thinking was like trying to wade through mud, her thoughts slow and sticky. Maybe they had forgotten about her. Maybe she was such a pathetic fighter she had failed their test miserably, and they were going to leave her alone now. In a cold, frightened corner of her heart, Cáit tried to convince herself that these people had no connection to her mother and that if they were going to let her go, there was no shame in running as far and fast as she could. The creeping cold compounded this feeling. Every time her blood pulsed past her broken collarbone, it compounded this feeling. Fear infected her, and filled her body, until the darkness crept in, and Cáit felt no feeling at all. 

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 Consciousness came, not like a train bursting out of a tunnel, but like a bird emerging from an oil spill: slow and muggy. The light that filtered through the tent’s canvas walls hurt her eyes. She knew without a mirror that they were swollen and puffy, that in fact her whole face was distended, her jaw possibly dislocated. She continued her careful examination, noting the lacerations to her arms and legs, the painful bruising of her abdomen and back and worst of all, the aching scream of her clavicle. As she pushed herself painfully into a sitting position, dizzy and sick, she finally noticed with alarm that he was sitting in the corner of the tent. Crouched on his hunkers, he had been watching her the whole time. Though not one for keeping quiet, Cáit bit her swollen tongue and returned his gaze coolly.

“I’m sorry”.

His voice was low, Cáit almost didn’t hear him.

“What?” Shock coloured her voice. Though she had had no clue what he was going say- sorry was not what she was expecting.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I allowed it to happen at all, and I’m sorry that I let it get that far”.

Cáit stared back at him. He seemed to be waiting for a response.

“Are you expecting me to say that it’s alright?”

This was greeted by silence.

When he spoke again, a sense of urgency entered his tone. “You don’t understand, it was the only way, how else were we to know?”

Cáit’s body began to tremble, her hands clenched in fists, the blood rising in her cheeks. She stared at spot to the left of his head. Rage and terror hit her in one terrible wave. He was barbaric.

“How dare you.”

He deflated as if he were a balloon she had pricked with a pin. ”You don’t understand”, he repeated. "I.." His whisper reached her across the tent.

“I would do it again if I had to.”

He rose and began to come towards her. Cáit lurched backwards, into the wall of the tent, her hands scrambling on the floor for something, anything she could use as a weapon. She opened her mouth to scream before remembering that no one would care. He stopped mid-stride, his hands thrown up as if surprised at her reaction. She wondered how he could possibly be surprised that she was terrified of him. His face was carefully blank as he looked at her again.

“I need to see to your wounds”.

She made no effort to hide the disgust she was feeling, and let it be written across her battered face.

“No.”

A pointless protest, she knew.

His shoulders slumped as if under a great weight. He grabbed a small leather case from the corner and crouched beside her.

“Yes.”

He tended to her with light, confident touches as she turned her face away, refusing to let him see her tears.