Chosen

Chapter Two

A pounding woke me. At first I thought it was only in my head - the residual waves of pain that I still couldn't shake. But it was too sharp, too loud. And real, like knuckles on wood.

"I'm coming!" I yelled as I stumbled out of bed and cut a wobbly path to the door. I opened it a crack, saw a sliver of curly red hair, and then flung the thing wide open.

Alistair's big smile stretched the freckles that covered his face. "Good morning!"

"Not sure what's good about it." I stepped aside to let him in, rubbing the heel of my hand into my brow.

"Aw, what s'matter?"

"Nothing. Just my head. It's killing me."

"Again?" he said.

"Yeah, three days now."

"You should have something around here for that. An herb you can make into a tea. Everyone here has it." He crossed the room and crouched in front of a cupboard.

"Everyone, huh?" I asked, leaning against the table and folding my arms over my chest. "Headaches a frequent occurrence around here?"

"Thin air. Gives some of us trouble."

Exhaling a breath of relief, I said, "Oh...right," and laughed. I'd started to think I had permanent brain damage. I watched him inspect the insides of the cupboard, sliding the contents around until he found what he was looking for.

"Aha!" He held up a jar of brown flakes. "Mix in a little water, drink, and you'll be better in no time. Works best when it's hot." He stooped down in front of the hearth and frowned. "Sticks, you've let the fire go out." He grabbed the long poker resting near by and shoved it into the logs over and over until he'd stirred up a flame. On top of it, he put a grate and a pot of water.

"Alistair, are we friends?" I asked him out of the blue. "Like, were we friends before...you know?"

He shrugged. "Eh, I wouldn't call us that. We didn't really cross paths, 'fore the queen sent me over here yesterday, that is." He checked his pot of water and added, "But that doesn't mean anything."

"Do I have any friends?"

A dark look flashed over his face. It lasted a second, maybe less, but it was long enough for me to notice. He played it off, shrugging and telling me, "Dunno. From what I heard, you pretty much kept to yourself."

Sounded like a nice way of saying that I didn't really have anyone. Except for Gwenyth. "How long have you been here? Did we come at the same time?"

"Nah, I've been here all my life. Least, as far back as I remember." He stood and brushed his palms on the front of his pants as he surveyed his work. Jabbing a thumb toward the pot, he said, "We'll wait for that to boil and then throw the willowbark in. You'll be feelin' right as rain in no time. Go get dressed while we're waitin'. I want to take you down the storehouse."

"Storehouse?" I glanced around. Food. Water. Several changes of clothes. "What else could I possibly need?"

He grinned. "It's not about what you need. It's more about what you want."

~***~

"Storehouse" was a fancy name for a big hole cut into the side of the mountain. It was situated at the very end of the road leading away from the village. A black metal gate spanned the gaping mouth of its entrance. It seemed like the kind of place that would be locked, but the bolt slid freely in Alistair's hand.

The inside was full of large wooden crates, carefully placed in a grid with narrow rows to walk between. Alistair's whistle echoed off of the high stone ceiling. "Ship was unloaded yesterday, so the pickings should still be pretty good." He slid off one of the lids, his eyes gleaming as he peered inside. He plunged a hand in, dug around, and then said, "Catch," before flinging a small object my way.