Chapter Two: Close to comfort - Part One -

   The air smelt of wood and fresh straw, and the crackling of the logs told him there was a fire nearby. He felt the warmth of woollen blankets around him, and found it difficult to rouse himself from the pleasant feeling of drowsiness. It had been long ago that he had felt so safe and comfortable.

   The wanderer slowly opened his eyes and found his head resting comfortably in the lap of a stout woman with freckles on her nose and rosy cheeks, and he could not think more benign eyes except those of his mother. “Relax,” she cooed, and pulled the blanket up to his chin, “you are safe in my home.” Still dazed, he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. They hurt even in the dim light of the hut. Breathing hurt, too, and when the woman held a cup to his lips, he found it hard to swallow though he was thirsty. When the warm water ran down his throat he felt as if it would burn through the skin. He gasped for air. “No, lad, calm down,” she soothed him, caressing his brow, but he could not hold back the coughing, and though he was weak, she was unable to keep him down. “Easy, lad, easy, you must stop, or it will hurt even more.” The coughing fit was followed by heaving, and he turned to his left side to vomit water and bile. “It'll pass,” she said, patting his back sympathetically. “It'll pass. You just need to rest.” She pulled him back gently, wiped his face with a wet cloth, and smiled reassuringly, causing dimples on her full cheeks. “Relax, just relax, you can do no more now.”

   Above him was the soot-stained roof of a wooden hut, illuminated by a fire that burnt a few feet away, but he could not recall having come to this place or why he was in such a desolate state. The wanderer opened his mouth, at least to thank the friendly woman, but no words passed his lips. Instead of any sound the urge to cough rose again and the pain accompanying it. He squeezed his eyes shut to concentrate on the simple task of breathing without giving in. His lungs seemed too tight to let air pass, and no shallow breath eased the feeling of being slowly suffocated.

   “Aye, that's much better, lad. Calm down, think of nothing.” The woman, who had seen no more than thirty summers, wiped away the sweat from his forehead and cheeks and waited patiently until he looked at her again. “Don't try to speak, do you hear me?” He frowned, which made her repeat the words slowly as if speaking to a child. “Just don't. It'll hurt. You must keep quiet.” He wet his lips, and, after a pause, tried again to bring words through his sore throat, but to no avail. “Just don't,” she whispered urgently, and carefully rested his head on a straw-filled pillow to slide back a step and crouch, with her arms folded on her thighs in front of the crude bed.

At least he had awoken, and she was glad about it. Her compassionate smile deepened at the puzzled look of the strange guest she sheltered. With a shudder she thought about the moment he had been brought in. She had thought that there was not much life in that man after all. “I'll clean this up, and bring you some broth, lad. Don't worry, you'll get well again.” She stood with surprising agility, and, after she had rinsed the floor at the bed, went to the fireside.

In the meantime the wanderer took in the details of the small, single room of the hut. Besides two more beds alongside the opposite wall, which looked as old and shabby as the rest, there were some baskets of wickerwork with dried fruits, potatoes, and others with clothes and blankets. At the fire his long-legged boots hung upside down on stakes, and on a small shelf beside the door pieces of pottery and bowls as well as tankards were stored. Under the roof hung fishes to smoke-dry, and their silvery skins glimmered in the firelight, while their smell filled the entire hut.

The wanderer closed his eyes wearily, but he was not granted to rest for long.

The woman returned with a small bowl in her hands and knelt at the bedside. The sleeves of her light brown shirt were rolled up, uncovering strong forearms with equally strong hands used to hard work. Her voice, on the contrary, was soft and childlike when she addressed her guest quietly:

   “I did this myself, and my brother always loves it. So… I hope you'll like it too. I can give you more if you want to. Well, you slept long, but… I thought you'd not be too hungry, …right?“ When he did not react immediately, she added, “You understand Common Speech, don't you?” He nodded slightly, and the bright smile returned to her face, surrounded by curls of fair hair. “Ah, good! Now, let us do this together. You have to sit up a little bit for this.” She put down the bowl on the floor, and resolutely, with the enthusiasm and strength of a learned healer slipped her hands under his shoulders to pull him into her lap again.

The blanket slid down from his chest. The wanderer was taken by surprise and failed to help, but she had expected none. The woman's face gleamed with eagerness as she reached for the bowl. It was the moment the wanderer realised he was not dressed anymore.

“You have to get your strength back,” she emphasised face stern, and left him no moment to cope with the awkwardness he felt. “And this here will help you, I'm sure of that.” When his breathing speeded up, the coughing fit followed, and he fought it down by will, concentrating on this task, and forgetting everything else besides.

His throat and lungs already hurt enough. He pressed his lips tight, fighting the anguish that seized him.

 “Now, calm down, lad, easy! You'll spill the broth!” she reminded him in mild reproach, but smiled again quickly as if to soften her hard words. “Easy. Relax.” She waited until he breathed normally again to hold the bowl to his lips.

He lifted his hands to take it, only to see the thick bandages around both his palms and wrists. And he realised that he had been in more peril than his mind could think of at the moment. “Don't worry. I'll help you.” Bewilderment covered his features, but the woman did not heed it. “Drink slowly. It's warm, not hot.”

He sipped it carefully, and she nodded encouragement every time he swallowed the warm liquid. It was painful though, and he stopped after having emptied only half of it. “You don’t want any more?” she asked and he only closed his eyes for a moment as an answer. “Very well.” She put down the bowl and left her place. “It'll be more next time.” Straightening she looked at him again. “A pity you can't tell me who you are.” But he was already asleep.

-o-o-o-o-

“Is he there, Nilana? And still alive?” a female, high-pitched voice asked. The woman, who stepped over the threshold of the little hut, seemed neither young nor old, but the wrinkles in her tanned face indicated she had seen more than thirty winters. She matched Nilana in age, but not in appearance. Wearing a cloth over her brown, braided hair, and an apron, on which she wiped her hands dry, she got closer, bending forward to peer through the near darkness. Curiosity shone in her eyes. “Really?”

“Yes, Baeni, he is,” Nilana answered in a low voice, gazing at the dark-haired man in her brother's bed. He had been lying there motionless for more than an hour, his lips slightly parted, sighing from time to time, then exhaling in frustration. Now that dusk was close she began to worry again. He was so still she had frequently checked his breathing. But she would not tell Baeni, so all she said was, “He sleeps, so don't upset him.”

“Upset, hum?” Baeni chuckled, then sniffed the air. “You had to do a lot for him, right? Aye, he was rather… soiled, wasn't he? Looked more like a mud cake.”

“It's not your concern.” Nilana intercepted Baeni's attempt to get further into the hut. Baeni straightened her slender form, but did not succeed in passing by the other woman, and her disappointment showed. “I will take care of him.”

“I don't doubt that.” The undertone made Nilana swallow a harsh reply, and Baeni's mocking grin deepened. “If he recovers…”

“He will.”

“…he might prove a fine catch… so to say.” She glimpsed past the woman, who had prodded her hands on her mighty hips. “Ah, cleaned him up, hum? Had you got enough water for this?” Another chuckle followed, tempting Nilana's patience. “He stank as if he'd been in that mere the whole day! Or more likely a week! And those clothes! Must be quite a strange fellow if he walked into the Marshes without knowing them.”

“We will find out later,” Nilana concluded and with a gesture indicated the woman to leave.

“Yes, we will… if he lives long enough.” Baeni gave another ominous glance follow and left the hut, amused by her little banter.

Nilana turned, her hands still on her hips, feeling her cheeks on fire and her heart racing. She knew she should not be upset; Baeni always used to play pranks on her, even more since Nilana had lost her husband a year ago. Baeni had called it a fair decision by the gods, but that was only a quick lie to cover up her yearning for Donyc years ago.

Nilana did not know how long she stood in the dim light and thought about the loss the gods had forced her to bear. Donyc had been a good, well-respected fisherman. He had cared for his wife and child. Now that he was gone, Nilana lived with her brother and daughter, trying to cope with the fact that life would never again be as joyful.

She woke from her contemplation when she saw movement in the bed yonder. Grey eyes looked at her, and Nilana knew from the expression of regret that the stranger had heard the conversation. She blushed even more and knew not what to say. What would he think of her? But then she dismissed the thoughts crossing her mind immediately – none of them good – and put the duty she had taken up before her doubts and assumptions.

Nilana crouched at the bedside.

“Do you want some water?” He parted his lips, and she quickly raised her hand to stop him. “Just nod.” He did, giving her the faintest smile. “Good.” She brought the cup and helped him drink. When his head rested on the pillow again, he looked at her questioningly. “You don't remember how you got here, do you?”

He shook his head, and let go of his breath wearily. With the empty cup in her hands, Nilana reported, “The fishermen – one of them is my brother – heard a kind of shrieking and so they dared to venture into the marshes.” Her look was stern when she added, “They never do that at other times. They really don’t. It’s far too dangerous. But you know that.”

She waved a hand and shot him an amused glance before she became earnest again. “So… they heard that… sound and then saw your boots, says my brother, the good Dinúvren. And that… thing. You were with your head and all under water, no doubt. So it was that thing crying… had to. It was ugly, they say, and… bony, and slimy, and had a hideous look. Ah, not good at all,” she added, shaking her head with disgust. “They got you out. Quite an effort, he says! All wet and heavy with all your clothes on! So many of them! And then they cut loose that creature from your arm. Your poor arm! It bled so badly!” She frowned with sympathy, and then big brown eyes rested on his pale face again. “Why’d you do that? Bind that thing to you! That rope cut through to your bone! That thing must have torn like a wolf! Why in the name of the Valar did you do that?”

The wanderer’s head swam from the information he got at a pace faster than an archer could loose arrows in a fight. And without a pause Nilana went on, “That thing then hissed and bit and ran away, not ever bothering to say thank you!” She deliberately ignored his shock-widened eyes. “But… ah, anyway, they brought you here then. I for myself thought you dead as a chicken without a head. But you were actually breathing.” Another warm smile and she slapped her thigh as if congratulating herself for the miracle. “Well, and now you’re awake also! No, no, stranger, don’t speak. Don’t even try. ‘Tis no good right now.” She shook her head resolutely, and the wanderer gave in, too exhausted to even continue thinking about the loss he had come to grieve. “The foul water burnt your throat and lungs. You are lucky to have survived.“ And gloomily she added, “Many did not return from that evil place. You lost your voice though, and it won’t return for some time. Eat, drink, get your strength back. That is all you can do now.”

She rose and brought back the cup while the wanderer closed his burning eyes again. When she turned, she thought him deeply troubled, but she could not help it. Maybe this thing had been of importance to him, but she was glad it was gone.

-o-o-o-o-

Nilana folded the wet cloth she had prepared, and gently wiped the man's forehead. He was asleep, and she listened to his laboured breathing. Vividly she remembered the evening of the previous day when Dinúvren, Gaellyn, and Daevan had carried the man into the hut. His head had hung down lifelessly, his clothes and hair had been dripping wet and filthy, and his whole outer appearance had appalled her. But she knew her brother's good heart, as he knew of hers, and when they had found him still breathing – miracle that it was – she had undressed him, thoroughly washed him, and covered him with clean blankets.

During the night – Dinúvren had gone to bed completely exhausted after telling his tale to all villagers willing to listen – she had sat at the bedside, guarding the stranger's sleep. He had been so still she had thought more often than not that he had stopped breathing. But every time she had talked to him, touched him ever so slightly, he had inhaled shallowly and eased her worries. She had bandaged his right wrist after cutting the rope, and had renewed the bandage around his left hand, grimacing at the ugly bite wound. For the better part of the night she had wondered what kind of path he had trodden to finally reach the Dead Marshes. And what kind of man he was. Now that he had been delivered into her care, she wanted him to live and recover. It was an unbidden thought, for she held no responsibilities toward that man, but still…

She sighed and put away the cloth. Her gaze travelled to the belongings of the uninvited guest. His jerkin, shirt, and trousers she had washed, and they dried now on the floor behind the bed. The leather coat would need days longer for that as well as the boots. But there were more and stranger things among them: a shattered sword in a sheath beside another in one piece, a pack with pouches – smelling strangely – a water-skin, and a sleeping roll, a long knife – of more value than any of the fishermen had ever seen, as she remembered – and a bow together with arrows in an old quiver. He had not carried any traps, Dinúvren had noticed, but nevertheless had caught that fell thing, which had tried to bite the hands that freed it. And there was that brooch shaped like a star. Silver it was, and a white jewel was set in its centre. Nilana took it out from between his clothes to look at it again. It was beautiful. Far more beautiful than anything she had ever held in her hands, and she pondered about its meaning. Dinúvren had said he had found it in his hand. He had not let go of it though he had been close to drowning. But while her brother had shaken his head, considering such action foolish, Nilana pressed the brooch against her bosom, daydreaming what kind of value stood behind that jewel. She wanted it to be something special. Something he did not only wear because it held his cloak together. The same moment she thought that if the brooch had a meaning, then the man had, perhaps, a woman he would return to.

When the stranger turned his head slightly, she quickly hid the brooch among his garments again. Not too soon. He opened his eyes, but before she could react and offer him to drink or to eat, she heard footsteps drawing closer.

“It's Bradolla,” she whispered and stood to greet the guest.

The old woman, who entered the hut, was so thin that onlookers, who did not know her, would have expected her bones to rattle if it had not been for the loose hanging tunic and long, woollen skirt that covered her. Bent with age, her skin looking like leather tightened over her meagre face, yet the keen, blue eyes were in hard contrast, as sparkling with life and interest, they regarded the sick man on the bed. She knelt beside him, cocked her white-haired head, and tucked up the sleeves of the old and stained shirt.

“What have we here?” she said, and her voice, too, was younger, and clearer than her features implied. “Taken a bath in the Marshes, eh?” Her thin lips curled to a gentle smile as she pulled away the covers from his upper body.

The wanderer was still too much in a daze to even try to resist. He swallowed carefully and needed his strength to fight the immediate urge to cough. She put a hand on his chest, which was partly bruised and had turned purple on both sides of his ribs.

Bradolla's hand was warm and dry, and her touch reassuring as well as her look. “Hum, does not feel good. Rumbles like stones. You exposed yourself far too long to that foul water, y' know?” Her hand moved up to his throat. “Burnt everything inside you. Could you not be more careful, lad?” He shook his head slightly, and her smile deepened. “Ah, you'll recover. Bradolla has seen more than that. Wounds, y'know, bad wounds from fights. Ugly ones, down to the bone.”

“I think he understands,” Nilana interfered firmly, sensing that the old woman's visit confused her patient more than it was useful. “Did you bring herbs for the tea?”

“Yes, yes,” Bradolla replied without taking her eyes of the man. “He has old eyes, eh? Much older than he looks.” She clicked her tongue and wiggled her thin, grey brows. “Been through more than marshes…”

“Bradolla…”

“Ah, my girl…” She pulled the cover over the man's chest and slowly rose, grimacing with discomfort, but still her gaze held the man's. “You know more than you'll ever tell,” she closed quietly, and turned to the younger woman, who impatiently waited for the small pouch of herbs. “Collected them myself. So don't waste them. And make a warm poultice around his neck.”

“Yes, I will.”

“Should have done that already. Bradolla told you. And keep him warm.”

“I do,” Nilana said, determined to shove the old woman out, but the guest did not sway.

“You know it is still very cold at night. Keep the fire going. You got enough fire wood, don't you?”

“Dinúvren brought it today.”

“That's good.” Bradolla looked back to the man on the bed, and frowned deeply. “Do you know who he is?”

“No, and we won’t find out tonight.” She gently pushed the woman out of the hut, and sighed, still holding the pouch in her left hand. When she turned she found the eyes of the stranger resting on her, and saw him smile. “Ah, she is a good woman,” Nilana gave in with a gesture to the dusk that lurked through the open entrance. She turned and crouched at the bedside so that he did not need to look up to her. “She is wise… in her way. She knows much about herbs, and I asked her to bring some of them for your cough and the pain.” He nodded slightly. “And I will do the poultice now,” she closed, rising again. “You brought some trouble, lad. Some trouble indeed.”

-o-o-o-o-

After nightfall the old man sat at the fire, smoking thoughtfully. In the glow his wrinkles seemed deeper than mountain dells, and he looked older than he actually was. He threw another twig into the flames, watched them devour it, and tried to remember events, which had taken place so long ago that even the land had changed in the meantime. He smirked. Pictures of old battlefields came to his mind, and with them he felt the perils again he once had faced. The times had been harder than they were now, but vigilant men had stood fast against the armies of the east and south. Now the evil sparked again, and he could sense it. Bad incidents were looming though they still seemed blurred. He feared they would take shape sooner than later.

He drew the blanket closer around his shoulders. The night turned as cold as the ones before; spring was late this year, and the few plants that had started growing, would need longer to blossom than in the year before. He hoped the harvest would suffice to sustain all the people living here. He had only a few friends and a single grand-son was his whole family, yet the young folk would listen to his stories, and he had plenty to tell. Whenever he sat down in the afternoon, the children and young adults gathered around him, eagerness in their faces, to hear some lore from old grumpy Doran. When he emptied his tankard, he smiled warmly at the memory of the wide eyes and half-open mouths of the boys and girls sitting close to him. Since his son had left the village years ago, he had never felt better than with this friendly and grateful company.

But the evening the day before had ended differently. He had been recalling another of his adventures, when the fishermen had brought the stranger to Dinúvren's hut. Though he had only got a glimpse of him, Doran had not stopped thinking about that man since then. That face… He remembered that face.

-o-o-o-o-