The Fickle Winds of Autumn
47. Headache

“Oh! My poor old bones!” Aldwyn groaned.

A dull throb gripped him tightly behind his eyes and told him he had been concussed. A stinging pain rang out from the back of his head.

He stretched up a tentative hand to assess any damage to his skull.

A large, bruising lump meant there had obviously been an impact of some sort, but no apparent fracture.

His probing fingers searched further across his tender scalp. A patch at the side, above his left temple, felt wet and slimy. Some of the thick, oozy substance had dried and matted into his hair.

Surely, it must be blood?

He touched his lips and tasted - but did not encounter the dry metallic sourness he expected.

He forced his regretful eyes open and tried to look at his hand.

An unending dark prevented him from seeing anything.

Perhaps the impact had detached his optic nerve?

No - he was not blind - he could sense dim shadows and outlines.

A rounded, musty smell of damp pervaded.

He tried to focus and assess the blackness of his surroundings - the cold hardness of a rock floor beneath him; the close blank craggy walls; the shallow echo of his own breath - clearly he was in a cave of some sort.

He inhaled deeply and took his time to gather his scattered senses and be sure of the rest of his aching body and limbs.

He studied the damp on his fingertips once more. Against the dark light-less background, a blur of glowing purple-blue slowly came into focus.

Yes, a cave; the memory wriggled at the back of his mind; a cave and a waterfall; the girl flung towards him; a giant eagle of some sort; he had been thrown backwards to the wall and must have hit his head.

He propped himself up doubtfully against the hard, damp surface behind him and examined his fingers again, his eyes now more certain of themselves and their surroundings.

Yes, a pale phosphorescent glow of purple and blue; smooth and slippery between his inquisitive fingers. Most likely a luminescent algae of some sort, living in the damp of the cave. He had read of such things before, but had never encountered such a phenomenon.

His scrambled senses eased into lucidity and accustomed themselves to the dim interior. Most of the cave seemed to be coated in the strange algae, so that the dark hollow of rock radiated with a faint blue light; vague and shadowy - but just enough to see by; its soft, calming company assured and mellowed his troubled memories and allowed him to gather his scattered thoughts

Had he been flying?

A giant bird of some fantastical dream?

He touched the shuddering pain in his shoulders. His clothes were shredded and bloodied, but the trauma was bearable.

Claw marks of some description?

Yes, flying, that was it.

A great bird was carrying the girl.

It crashed heavily into the cliff above them.

A dreadful, terrifying, living rumble of shrieking feathers and thunderous boulders rained down; his life was certain to end, crushed by the fierce anger of the crumbling mountain; the foundations of the dark ground shook and trembled; the crashing rocks had sealed the cave.

The waterfall foaming and tumbling, the girl falling through it.

Yes, the girl.

What was it he must remember?

How could he ever be positive it was true?

The uncertain darkness of his mind gnawed uneasily at him.

A dull, roaring rush filled his ears and head.

Perhaps it was the result of the concussion?

No - more likely it was the waterfall, shut out by the fearful avalanche of rocks, but still thundering on its turbulent course as it had done for undisturbed eons.

But the others?

Ellis?

The girl?

His bleary eyes scanned through the gloom; the dim purple outline of the girl lay crumpled in an ungainly heap not far from his legs, partially buried under dozens of small rocks and fragments which piled up and littered the cave floor.

Her left foot was twisted round at an awkward, unnatural angle. Clearly, the ankle or lower tibia must be broken.

The pebbles clattered under him as he forced his aching body to crawl towards her; their dry ripple echoed and bounced shallowly against the inside of the cave.

He reached the girl and cleared away some of the debris to better appraise the situation.

He felt for a pulse - it was regular but weak - the patient was alive.

She was breathing steadily, but unconscious.

It would be best to heal her now before the agony of her injury woke her.

His fingers examined for other problems.

Her thigh was gashed; her clothes were bloodied and ripped at the shoulders - no doubt as a result of the eagle holding her - the cuts would also require his attention - if his own pain was anything to go by - but they were not urgent.

Perhaps Ellis had been injured in the crushing maelstrom of rocks?

His needs may be more pressing and vital?

He peered through the vague light, across to the other side of the rubble-strewn floor. The boy seemed unharmed, and the steady rhythm of his breathing demonstrated he was not in immediate danger.

He reached down for the girl’s legs; her heartbeat was slow and subdued. The break was an ugly one, surrounded by a growing welt of swollen bruising, but it was not a compound fracture. She would make a full recovery, but he must work now for the best results.

He pulled the tattered sleeves up on the remnants of his robe, and exposed his forearms to the dimness of the cave.

He settled and slowed his mind into a deep and focused immersion; he murmured the ageless incantation; no need to move his mouth above a faint, arcane whisper.

The living markings, dormant beneath the skin of his limbs, flickered and throbbed with a familiar blue glow.

He felt for a deeper focus and increased the fervour of his words, drawing out the beauty and intensity of the colourful dance. The shimmering symbols became dazzling and wondrous against the near darkness of the cave, throwing stretched and elongated shadows across the flickering walls and his patient.

He grasped the girl’s damaged leg in one confident hand and placed the other softly over her foot.

He emptied his eyes of the meaningless illusions of this world and reached down deeper, slower, into reality and the writhing focus of his magik.

He sensed the living glyphs swirl and snake their way along the length of his arms towards his fingertips; the two pulsing bundles of light joined to form a single ball of dancing blue; his oldest and most intimate companion breathed and contorted in time to his urgent incantation; it hovered above the wretched ankle of the girl.

The fragile bones of his young patient began to stir beneath his fingers, the talus, the navicular, melding and moving; the shattered shards of the fibula searching for each other, knitting and fusing into one.

With their knowing guidance, he gently grasped the girl’s foot and manipulated it around to face its natural direction; it clicked into position; the girl murmured and stirred uneasily in her sleep, but did not rouse.

Her skin, too, required his attention; he sank deeper into a fierce concentration; the effort and exertion pulled at him and stretched his thoughts down further into the origin of his magik; a light sheen of sweat seeped and trickled across his forehead.

The soft flesh of the girl’s dermis wriggled and regenerated; it squirmed and twisted in a gentle rippling flux, covering her wounds and scratches, healing the deep bruises and contusions that infected her body.

A series of pale purple-blue markings seemed to glow and throb around her legs, deep in the vulnerable flesh of her shins.

Presumably some of the luminous algae had rubbed off onto her when she landed in the cave and had formed into curious patterns of streaks and smudges.

Aldwyn persisted and absorbed himself into the profound intensity of his thoughts; the girl’s torn skin reformed and stretched and healed; the smeared, blurred blue markings on her legs seemed to respond to his ancient words with a puzzling increase in lucidity and colour, until they too seemed to swirl and throb as if beating in resonance to the calling of his incantations.

Perhaps the vital living algae could sense the wisdom of his words?

A troubling image, profound with intricate pulsing patterns and symbols, seemed to sing out to the depths of his focus; it carried the shadow of a distant memory - but one whose cut was still fresh.

But he must concentrate; he must heal the patient

He changed his attention to the torn flesh of the patient’s shoulders; her damaged skin rippled and fluctuated. One of the girl’s sleeves had ridden up; her bare forearm glowed and shifted in hues of pale blue and purple; no doubt the blotches and stains of the algae again

But steadily, through the smudges and smears, a deeper, more insistent shade stabbed and pierced into the depths of his thoughts; a twisted, writhing design of markings and symbols, pulsing in a living sympathy of vibrations, animated by the call of his words; incandescent; etched somewhere beyond his waking memory; flaring; dissonant; resonating deep behind his disquieted mind - just as it had done that day back in his cottage.

Yes, his old cottage.

His quiet life, away from the problems of the world.

Must it all be lost?

That pattern; that image; it had refused to settle before, but now it seemed ready to make itself seen; to finally fall out into the light where his mind could grasp it and make sense of it; that puzzling sifting dream.

He fought hard to keep his focus.

His mind seemed so distant and clouded.

Perhaps it was the after-effects of his concussion?

Or perhaps somehow the result of flying with that eagle?

Or the weariness of his ageing body as it began to lose its lonely fight against the star-blight?

He was an old fool; going senile; all those years of grinding herbs and wielding the Healing Magik had taken their toll on his addled, ancient mind; once so sharp and keen and flexible.

And yet - that pattern of symbols, vibrating behind his tired eyes - it seemed so familiar; buried down and lost somewhere, deep inside the creases of his folded memory.

If only he could think.

If only he could remember.

But the patient must come first - there would be time later to worry about these visions and hallucinations and his own befuddled infirmities.

The girl kicked out in her troubled sleep and murmured to herself, but remained oblivious to the cave and the world; her skin closed and repaired; he finished his curative touches and stilled his words.

The boy too needed his attention - his shoulders were cut just like the others, no doubt from that eagle’s talons. A sedative of some description coursed through his system; but otherwise, his skin soon healed, and he seemed unharmed and untouched by the ordeal.

Aldwyn breathed heavily and sank back against the wall of the cave. His patients were out of any danger; they would heal nicely. He may be old, but he still knew his business.

His stomach growled; he wiped the trickles of sweat from his brow. He was hungry and needed a drink of water; he peered around the dim interior - but could see nothing that might serve.

The world was a cold and comfort-less place - but he knew that already - he had learnt it the hard way.

It would not shield him or offer him the soothing ease of his cottage - it was savage and cruel, and it took without ever giving.

Only the boy; the consolation of the boy; of knowing he could help and pass on his knowledge, his craft, not all would be lost of him to this world.

His heavy eyes closed; but his weary mind was haunted by the patterns projected by the girl - swirling, writhing, so alive, they still seemed to light up the dark of the cave

What was it he needed to remember?

His stubborn old brain would need time to think; he must give it his sternest consideration.

But for now, after all the exertions of healing, an irresistible burden of sleep called out to him.