The Lord of the Crows

Part 2 - Water for the Dead Man

The next morning, no one brought me water. It was nearly mid-morning when I felt the urge to get out. The thirst caused by the bitter syrups, which the old lady mixed with my meals as a medicine, was equally terrible.

I found the firewood neatly stacked by the front door, as well as an empty, wooden bucket. I stared alternately at the bucket and at the open gate, until the thirst finally won making me move. It seemed to me that coming down those few wobbly steps from the hut, took an eternity. My fingers would not obey, and after a few steps, I dropped an empty bucket that slammed bluntly against the dry, dusty ground. I cursed and went back to the hut, leaving the bucket where I dropped it.

I'd rather die of thirst, I decided and slammed the door behind me. I'd rather die of thirst than allow myself the shame of not being able to bring home a single bucket of water.

I should die, for I deserve no better.

Maybe I would have endured in my decision if it wasn't for the noise, sometime around noon. The thud of horses and the shouts pulled me out of bed and made me open the door and peek outside.

The group of people gathered around four horsemen who stopped two huts away and helped them pull the two bloodied bodies from the horse.

I opened the door wider and leaned against the doorframe to watch.

I couldn't see if they were alive or not, but judging by the hurry, I concluded that they probably were and that they were brought in at the last minute. The woman in the red cloak, on the restless chestnut mustang, shouted the commands briskly and harshly. One man stood up and hurried to the exit of the settlement, carrying a bucket. The shouts mingled and I could not make out anything meaningful.

The woman on the horse was now talking to the old woman who took care of me and at her words, shouted again, pulling the reins. The horse almost propped up attracting everyone's attention.

I realized that the shout meant the same thing: she was asking for more water. I was not that hard to figure out what it was about and what they suspected. The wounds were poisoned with blue flowers and the only thing more effective than rinsing them with a large amount of water would be to push both injured men straight into that stream they brought water from. Before I could even think it through, my legs took off on their own. I grabbed the bucket that was still lying in the middle of the way to my gate, exactly where I dropped it, clenched the fingers of both hands around the poor shaky handle, assessing which hand was able to hold it in its grip, heading for the gate and the path that led into the woods.

The forest was tamed only in the first few dozen steps near the settlement, and then it continued into complete wilderness. The stream, it seemed to me, represented a cleverly exploited natural boundary with that unbridled wilderness.

I came across an elderly man who was returning pulling with difficulty a bucket and met his grateful look.

"Down to the right, it's the easiest to catch there," he said, nodding toward the bushes a little further.

I was not ready to see my own reflection once I leaned over the glass surface of water, and I almost lost the precious vessel. The water was fast, strong, and only seemingly calmer in that part. However, that small, peaceful part was enough for me to see my own reflection and taste a complete defeat.

A pale face with dark under-eye circles stared at me. A gray-haired stranger with sticky hair and dead eyes, a man who had given up his hope for life, who came to grab some water.

Water.

Shouts and snapping of the twigs, followed by new steps, woke me up from the trance. I grabbed the water and with great trouble, pulled out the bucket from the stream, moved it to my left arm, which seemed less uncontrollable, and headed back.

The path leading me back seemed infinitely long and arduous. The bucket seemed to be getting heavier and heavier, my legs were shacking, and on several occasions, I barely managed to lower the bucket down in time not to drop and spill it. I dragged myself back, headed to the yard, handed the bucket to someone and leaned against the fence, trying to suppress fatigue.

I couldn't remember how I got back to my hut and my bed, but when I woke up, it was already evening, my meal was by the bedhead and I could see my bucket next to the fire, filled with water.

The next morning, I headed to fetch my own water, determined to allow myself all the time in the world to bring it back.