Riven Isles

40 | Jaded Emeralds

--Narrative resumed by Walter Avery—

Over the quiet bubbling of the creek, I heard a bell so many minutes ago. The cheering that resulted continues now, muted by distance and trees and muffled by running water and the beating of my heart. My breathing has calmed, but it is all I can focus on. How my heart beats, how my lungs fill. How the sounds in the distance no longer depict violence and bloodshed.

It distracts me from the aching of the bullet in my shin. My bandanna, tied tight around the wound, has stemmed the bleeding, at least.

"I wonder..." Laod, my voice trembles, but if I don't hear something, I'll go mad, here. "I wonder if we have won."

I exhale heavily, shuddering. The shaking of my hands diminishes slightly, my fingers relaxing in their grip on the painting; my responsibility. Perhaps one day soon, I will take this painting and the map and find the treasure—if this is the right painting. Like an adventurer, like the Captain, I might explore and seek out treasure. Maybe I will find a large emerald to bring to my mother's grave. She always loved emeralds. She said that they reminded her of my father's eyes—eyes which I inherited. I see it now.

I should like an emerald to—

Leaves rustle nearby. Debris crunch under boots.

My chest rises and falls faster, eyes widening and lifting to the cave wall. Blood flowing, suddenly, I try to quiet my breathing so as not to give myself away; so as not to give the painting away. I am responsible.

A man grunts and wheezes. I hear him fall on the ground with a heavy thud. Then, splashing as he drags himself into the creek upstream of my safe place. Unsettled pebbles and mud tumble past me.

"Dorian!" he shouts. My eyes bulge and I scrabble to unfurl my cold, shaking limbs from the cramped space. "Dorry! Little Fox!"

Tumbling out into the water, I hear his retching and, gaping, scrabble up the bank. His lunch dribbles past in the currents. His fingers are in his mouth, unaware of me. He convulses a second time, then tips his head back, eyes closed, his face deeply creased with an aggrieved emotion. So much deeper than pain. I don't know what to do, I don't know what he is thinking, I don't know what is wrong. There are shallow scrapes on his forehead, and nothing more.

He collapses in a heap on the bank, shoulder knotted with tension. Wincing, he stretches his fingers out ahead and laboriously drags himself further from the stream. His legs lag uselessly behind him, as though broken or limp.

I carefully cross the water and offer my hand. "Captain?"

He looks up, recognition slowly bringing warmth to his pallid cheeks. A small smile spreads on his whiskered lips. He reaches for my hand and holds firm. "Hello, Walter. It's good to see you."

I pull him up the bank, falling with the effort, then roll him on his back. He gasps in air, as if taxed by such movement. His head rolls to one side, eyes seeming to lose some characteristic light and vigor. They close wearily and he breaths long and deep in a peaceful way. Why had he been so frantic before? He'd forced himself to vomit, he'd nearly sobbed to the sky filtering through the leafy canopy, he'd fallen as though wounded.

Frowning, I peer at his hand in mine, its strength run out. It does not move; not at all. His skin has turned grey, like those wolves, like stone, like steel and other lifeless things. "Captain?"

My voice breaks.

I pick up a leaf and jump to fill it, cupped, with water from the creek. He is only tired. Weary. Nothing that can't be helped. I lift his head and pour the refreshment carefully past his lips. He opens his eyes as he swallows—lethargically and savoring as if it is honey. He offers a meek smile. My hands fold around his again. Chills charge from my fingers and prickle at my nape, rising hairs all over my suddenly stone-cold body. The temperature seems to have dropped at just a touch of his palm, but I refuse to let go.