The Pillar (4 page)

Boro still watched him closely, suspiciously, but Faris pretended not to notice as he heated some water and grains to make mush, adding a little salt and a healthy dollop of honey. He had an enormous crock of honey, a gift from a man who’d fallen from his roof and badly broken his arm. Faris used some of the honey to treat minor scrapes—it seemed to help fight infection—and also to soothe sore throats. He enjoyed it drizzled on bread or in his tea.

Because Boro’s arms were still weak and sore, Faris spooned the mush into his mouth. It was an oddly intimate thing to do, reminding Faris of women feeding their babies. He briefly wondered if someone had once fed him like that. He had no memory of his mother and only fleeting recollections of the elderly woman—perhaps a distant relative—with whom he’d lived until he was six or seven. She was not the nurturing sort, but surely
someone
had cared for him when he was an infant.

Boro ate the entire bowl of mush and drank a cup of strong tea. But instead of going to sleep as Faris expected, he leaned back against the wall and looked around the room. “What’s that?” he asked, lifting one hand slightly to point at a huge pottery jar not far from the bed.

“Fermenting crock.”

“Fermenting?”

“Some medicines work best that way. It’s empty now. I use it more during the summer.” Faris set the dirty dishes aside for later washing, then stood in the center of the room, contemplating which chore to do next.

“Oh.” Boro pointed at a lumpy sack. “And that?”

“Walnuts.”

“For medicine?”

“Sometimes.” The hulls had several uses, including ridding a person of worms or treating certain infections. Faris smiled. “Mostly I just like to eat them, though. One of my patients has a big walnut tree, and he brings me a bagful every autumn.”

Boro nodded slightly. “We had a tree…,” he began. He bit his lip. More loudly, he added, “Do you use
all
these things to heal people?”

Faris looked around at his shelves full of jars and bottles and bags. “Yes.”

“And you know how to use them all?”

“I know… I know uses for everything, but of course I don’t know
all
the things each herb is good for.” Faris was a little flustered—nobody ever asked him about his work, other than to request remedies for their own particular problems.

“That’s a lot to know.”

“I had a good teacher. And I study.”

“Study,” Boro repeated thoughtfully. He swiveled his head slowly as he took further inventory of the room. Eventually he gestured at the empty bowl of mush. “It’s not well made.”

Trying to avoid bristling, Faris frowned. “I’ll make you something else in a bit.”

“No, not the food. It was wonderful. I mean the bowl. It’s uneven and heavier than it should be.”

Oh. Faris relaxed. “Tomo the potter drinks too much.” Faris kept Tomo supplied with milk thistle and dandelion, but eventually his drinking was going to kill the man, and they both knew it. Apparently Tomo loved his rakija more than he loved his life.

After another nod, Boro let his eyes fall closed. He looked suddenly very frail and tired, so Faris hurried across the room to help him lie down. With the pillow arranged under his head and the blanket pulled up to his chin, Boro looked up solemnly at Faris. “Thank you,” he said.

Faris ducked his head under that intense gaze. “It’s what I do.”

“I
NEED
to go out for a while. Do you need anything before I leave?”

Boro shook his head. “I’ll just sleep.” For the first time, a slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I’ve never slept so much.”

“Your body needs the rest as it heals. When I come back, we can try walking again if you feel up to it.” Faris almost regretted the offer as soon as he’d made it. That morning, he’d helped Boro hobble around for a few steps. It was important for him to get back on his feet, but he was still entirely naked, and his bare body leaning heavily against Faris… well, Faris had been very uncomfortable. Now, he vowed to find Boro some clothing while he was out. His own garments were too small.

“Good. Thank you. I’m not usually… I don’t like being weak.”

“If you were weak, you wouldn’t be mending so quickly,” Faris replied. Then he slapped his cap onto his head and walked outside.

The sky was the same gray as the stone roof tiles and the air felt raw, but at least it wasn’t raining. As usual, things were quiet on Faris’s side of the bridge. When he got to the other side, though, the activity level picked up considerably. Merchants chatted with one another and with customers outside their stores; coppersmiths sat on their low stools, hammering at pots; townspeople bustled by with laden bags and baskets.

Igor the shoemaker leaned in his doorway, a tiny cup held in one delicate hand. He smiled when Faris walked toward him. “Surely your boots don’t need repairing already! Didn’t I just resole them?”

Faris returned the smile as he lifted one foot. “They’re still in fine shape.”

“Did you have your eyes set on something fancier, perhaps? I’ve a pair with fine decorative stitchwork, and they’ll fit you perfectly. They’re red. Red suits you, Faris.” He raised one eyebrow a fraction of an inch, which made Faris blush and stammer.

“I-I… no. Th-thank you. I need shoes for someone else. Sturdy ones.”

“Someone else. A man or a woman?”

Faris felt his cheeks grow even warmer. “Man,” he muttered. “A patient.”

“Ah.” Igor always had an easy grin. He gave the impression that nothing in the world could be a happier fate than to be a shoemaker in Zidar. He liked to tease Faris a little, but without malice. “Well, have him come here so I can measure his feet.”

“He’s not well enough yet.”

“Then I’ll come by this evening before dinner.”

“Thank you.” Faris hesitated a moment before raising an uncomfortable subject. “Um… the cost….” He wasn’t sure he had enough coins for a new pair of shoes.

Igor flapped his free hand dismissively. “Don’t be silly. You know my father would be in his grave right now if you hadn’t tended to him so well last spring. Anything I have is yours for the asking, Faris.” For once, his expression was serious.

“But—”

“I’ll be there just before dinner.”

A new pair of shoes was expensive, but Faris was never any good at arguing. He nodded at Igor and continued on his way.

He had intended to do some shopping, but he passed near Mirsada’s kafana along the way and went inside. The place was crowded and busy, which was good; nobody took note when he entered. He found his usual table near the back.

Mirsada’s daughter, Ajla, approached with a shy smile. “Coffee today?”

“Please.”

“I made baklava this morning. Do you want a piece?”

He didn’t especially, but he also didn’t want to offend. “Of course.”

Ajla dimpled at him and hurried away. He stared down at the scarred tabletop as the loud conversations around him buffeted his ears. When he looked up again, Mirsada was just about to set her tray in front of him.

“Did he live?”

Faris was terrible at small talk himself and probably should have appreciated Mirsada’s directness, yet it tended to make him uncomfortable. “Yes.”

Her expression softened just a little bit. “Good. He’s recovering now?”

“Yes. He heals well.”

“He has a good doctor.” She set the little plate of baklava in front of him, then the coffee cup, the pot, the spoon, and the glass of water. She tucked the tray under her arm and turned to go.

Faris had been momentarily astonished at the unexpected praise but managed to find his tongue before she walked away. “Mirsada?”

She turned back. “Yes?”

“He needs clothes. Mine won’t fit him. Do you know—”

“He’s bigger than you?”

Faris nodded. Most men were. He’d been undersized as a boy, short and skinny. He’d filled out a bit as an adult, but his muscles were more wiry than bulky, and his features… well, some of the sailors who visited a certain kafana in the port city of Tuchenik called him delicate. He didn’t like it, but they were right.

“He’s too thin now,” Faris said. “But when he eats properly, he’ll be a big man. Not terribly tall, but… broad.” He ducked his head.

“My husband was big. You remember?”

“Yes.” He’d been handsome too. Young Faris had always been especially tongue-tied around him.

“I’ve saved his clothes for Ibro, but we can spare a few. I’ll have my boy bring them over later.”

Faris blinked at her. “Thank you. I didn’t mean… I only meant to ask if you know someone who might sell me….”

“Like I said, we can spare a few. Can’t have the man wandering around naked, can we?” She almost smiled, which would have been a newsworthy event.

After finishing his baklava and coffee, Faris stopped at a few shops, buying bread and sausage and potatoes and cheese. Well,
buying
wasn’t quite accurate, seeing as no coins exchanged hands. The baker always just gave him his loaves, a fair trade for the elixir that soothed the baker’s coughs. The cheese came from an old woman who used Faris’s treatment for arthritis, the potatoes from a shopkeeper whose son had cut himself badly a few weeks earlier. And the butcher simply asked for Faris’s promise to help next time someone in the butcher’s family took ill.

When Faris crossed the bridge and turned the corner to his house, he was suddenly struck by how cozy the little stone building looked with smoke curling from the chimney. He was always thankful to have such a good place to live, with a sturdy roof, thick walls, a big fireplace, and comfortable if slightly shabby furnishings. But he tended to think of it as Enis’s house, not his own. Today, though, a warm fondness stirred in his chest. Odd.

All the peaceful contentment fled as soon as he opened the door and found Boro curled in the middle of the floor.

Faris dropped everything he carried and rushed to Boro’s side. Boro was shivering violently, and a few of the wounds on his back had reopened and were sluggishly bleeding. He started at Faris’s touch on his shoulder, uncurled slightly, and looked up blearily. “Fell,” he wheezed.

Not wanting to waste time in conversation, Faris lifted him up and dragged him across the floor. They both collapsed onto the bed. Faris was breathless from the shock and exertion, but Boro was still very cold, so Faris maneuvered him around and then under the blankets. More bloodstains on the bedding, but that wasn’t the worst concern now. Instead, he uncovered bits of Boro’s body, checking for new injuries. Only then did he notice that Boro reeked of urine. Faris glanced at the patch of floor where Boro had fallen—a drying puddle told the tale.

“What were you doing?” he scolded, his tone less harsh than he’d intended.

Boro’s eyes were closed. “Needed to piss.”

“I see that. You have a chamber pot.”

At first Boro seemed disinclined to answer. But eventually he rasped, “Didn’t want to… trouble you.”

Faris snorted. “
That
worked out well, didn’t it? I told you. This is what I do. Yours isn’t the first chamber pot I’ve had to empty, and I’m certain it won’t be the last. I’ve faced much worse.”

Boro opened his eyes. “I’m sorry. Will you….” He swallowed thickly. “How will I be punished?”

The question made Faris shudder. “You won’t be. You’re not a slave any longer.”

“What am I?” Boro whispered.

“Just… just a man. A
free
man.”

“Free,” said Boro, as if he’d never heard the word before.

Faris ignored the way his stomach clenched. “Look. I don’t own you. But for the good of us both, obey my orders until you’re well. Use the cursed chamber pot.
Don’t
get out of bed until you’re stronger. Eat and drink what I give you, let your wounds heal, and rest.”

“I’m not very obedient.” Was that a glint of humor in those blue eyes?

Faris sighed. “Then if you
must
fall, do it on a rug near the fire, because I’m not carrying you around again. You’re heavy.”

After a few slow blinks, Boro said, “I should sleep on the floor anyway. This is your bed.”

“I’ll be happy to reclaim it once you’re healed.”

“Could share.”

“No,” Faris said firmly. “I don’t want to hurt you. I thrash about in my sleep.” That wasn’t a lie but wasn’t exactly the truth.

Boro let the matter drop. Aside from a few clucks of Faris’s tongue and a few quiet groans from Boro, both men were silent as Faris medicated the reopened wounds. He decided they didn’t need bandages. The two men carefully avoided eye contact while Faris ran a warm, soapy cloth over Boro’s skin, cleansing away urine, blood, and dirt.

Finally, Faris warmed a bowl of mush and a cup of tea, and he helped Boro consume them both. The tea was strong stuff, meant to ease pain and bring on sleep. And it worked; Boro slipped into slumber before the food was quite gone.

That left Faris to grumble quietly to himself as he cleaned up the mess. He washed the pots and bowls and cups, scrubbed the floor, gently replaced a dirtied blanket with a clean one. He put away the food he’d dropped when he came home. He made himself a small meal and mild tea, and he sat at his table with a stack of Enis’s notes on treating Saint Anthony’s fire. There had been two cases of the illness the previous winter—both unfortunate people died—and Faris wanted to be prepared in case it struck again.

Enis’s writing was neat but tiny. After a while, Faris’s eyes ached. If it had been morning, he’d have gone for a walk in the hills. If it had been night, he would have strolled along the river, letting the sound of the rushing water clear his head. But it was late afternoon, and he was loath to leave his patient alone again. Besides, Igor the shoemaker would be coming by soon, and Mirsada would be sending the clothing.

A bath, Faris decided. His skin felt crawly and too tight, and his muscles were tense. Cleaning up would help.

He heated a big pot of water over the fire and found a clean, soft rag. He had some nice soap too, made from olive oil and lavender. Another gift from a grateful patient.