Cicatrix
Part III. Rachel, Rabbits, and Eggs
He opens his good eye. He hears an unfamiliar rustling sound outside of his hut. The fire has burned to embers and daylight intrudes through cracks in the roof.
He rolls over and listens. He silently crawls to the door and cautiously pushes the sticks and branches aside. He pokes his head out. The morning sun has burst through the fog. He squints and peers across the glaring snowfields. There is movement in the underbrush nearby. A covey of birds explodes into the air. Then silence.
He scans the bushes, shielding his eye from the glare. Nothing but silence. Long windy silence. He crawls outside and slowly gets to his feet. He looks up. High above the crags the monastery mournfully broods.
He looks down. There are fresh tracks in the snow. Footprints smaller than his. The tracks lead around the edge of a rocky promontory.. He quietly follows. "They will soon meet a dead end," he thinks.
He begins to climb upward to gain a vantage point. As he climbs he grabs a ledge that crumbles away and he tumbles down the cliff amidst a rockslide.
He lies dazed among a pile of jagged rocks. His scalp is badly gashed and he is losing blood. He is dizzy and his left arm feels like it is on fire. He has completely lost his sense of direction. He looks up and the sky spins.
* * *
He awakens to a blurred tangle of red hair.
He is in his hut. He is lying on his bed. Rachel is bent over him.
He raises a weakened arm and attempts to push her away. “How did I get here!?” he feebly demands.
“I dragged you,” she says.
He looks around. His clay pot is steaming on the coals of the fire pit. “Why are you here?”
“I came to spy on you.”
“You must leave.”
“Don’t be a fool. You are injured.”
“I will heal!” he snarls. “Get out!!”
“Nonsense.” She turns toward the steaming pot. “Now, mister, whoever you are, perhaps you would like something warm.”
He raises up, unsteadily, and growls, “Perhaps you would like something cold!” He reaches beside his bed, grabs a Roman gladius, and points the steel blade at her throat. “Get out!!!” he screams.
She backs off. She stares at him in disbelief. “You are pitiful,” she says. She crawls out the door, making sure to show him her ass.
* * *
The tavern is buzzing. The Abbott has announced that the Church would no longer be buying rabbit lauricesduring the Holy Days.
“I’ve heard that a thief has been stealing their books,” says the cobbler, rubbing his bald head. “And they wish to blame us. To punish us simpletons.”
“Not true, mister shoemaker!” says the big woodchopper, running his thick fingers through his curly blond hair. “I have it on the best authority that the edict comes directly from Pope Gregory!”
“That is but a rumor,” scoffs the snub-nosed stonecutter, slapping a gnarled hand on the table.
“Would you care to make a wager,” says the woodchopper.
The ferret-faced weaver leans forward. “It would be best that we save our precious few coins,” he says. “If we cannot sell laurices to the monks, then we are all in for hard times. For most of us, this is the only money we ever see.”
“If things were not bad enough!” moans the skinny potter. “Last night the wolves lured away my dog.”
The woodchopper shrugs his broad shoulders, spreads his hefty arms, and grins. “Look on the bright side, my friends. Now we all will have little bits of meat scurrying underfoot!”
“This is all fine and good,” says the weaver. “But take it from me, rabbit’s fur is worthless. The hairs shed from the skin like fleas abandoning a dead rat. Except on their legs. Don’t ask me why.”
* * *
The next morning Rachel descends the narrow, treacherous path along the cliffside. She carries a basket of eggs and walks very carefully. More than once she stops and turns around. Yet she continues on.
= = =
The one-eyed man is attempting to repair his roof. He has stripped away the mud-caked thatch and branches, but he is not sure what to do next. His head is wrapped with a blood-stained bandage.
He spies Rachel coming down the trail. He raises his arms into the air and looks up to the sky in tribulation. “Why? In the name of Saint Peter and Paul, why?”
“To be truthful, I’m not sure,” she says. She hands him the basket. “I brought you some eggs.”
He stares at the basket with his one good eye. “What do you want from me?”
“How about a kind word.”
“How about this? ‘LEAVE ME ALONE!’ Will that do?” The top of her cloak is undone and he can see the descent of her neck.
“Not hardly,” she says.
“How about this? ‘GET AWAY FROM MY HOUSE.’”
“You call this a house?” She laughs, flinging back her fox-red hair. “I would say this is nothing more than a pile of rocks and sticks.”
“Insult me! Insult me! It will do you no good. Begone!”
“Not until I find out what makes you so mean, mister… whoever you are.”
“What if I were to throw these eggs at you?”
“They are a gift. You wouldn't dare!”
* * *
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(Go to Part IV: Soldiers, Deception, and Rejection)