2. 2.
2.
“ W hat’d he say?”
A long pause followed Folke’s admission.
“Bloody Hell, he really is!”
Folke recoiled, away from that whinging man.
“D’ye live nearby?” The man with the deep voice. His presence brought with it a slight reprieve from the storm. Folke resisted the urge to huddle into it. “I’ll take ye back.”
“What if he talks?”
“I need to find my sheep!” Folke cut in. “Some–Something attacked them and they ran off.”
Another pause wherein a bushel whipped Folke in the face. He grimaced, but didn’t move to peel it off from where it fluttered, coiled around his neck.
“Where?” asked the deep voice.
Folke faltered. He didn’t want to divulge anything to these strangers, but his Garments were helpless without him. At the mercy of the wilderness entirely. And where there was one wolf, there were several. “The barn. A wolf, I think. Have you come across them? Th-They. . .have bells on.”
“Na, shepherd, we havenae,” said the low rumble, amused again. “I’m gaun’ae touch yer arm to lead ye back.”
He didn’t get much choice in the matter when a large hand wrapped around his forearm, more secure than bruising, and guided Folke to walk alongside what had to be a considerably sized man. Sweat and musk flicked away before the scent could fully settle in his nostrils. Folke’s hold on the crook didn’t ease, not when the first step he took reminded him of the pain in his foot.
“Alright?”
“Yes,” Folke strained. “You don’t know where I live.”
“Old cottage at the top of the hill?”
Folke sucked in an angry breath, drawing droplets of rain into his mouth. He’d not even made it past the first hill before fouling things up.
“Truth be telt, I thought it was abandoned. ”
A stone caught Folke’s foot and he stumbled. The grip on his arm tightened, soon joined by a hand on his elbow. Warm, even through his soaked shirt. He resisted the urge to wrench himself away, to tell them he could do this himself.
Put that ego aside.
“I need to find my sheep.”
“Aye, but no in this storm.”
Damn the man for sounding so reassuring, when he knew nothing of Folke, of his sheep. Of the situation.
Folke snapped, “This is exactly the time to find them!”
“My name’s Darach.” Said as though Folke hadn’t just shouted at him. “Mind yer step.”
One, two. Three steps. The wind chimes must have tangled themselves in the flailing yew tree, the occasional struggling clink a giveaway. Banging suggested he’d neglected to close the front door in his hurry. It slammed shut behind him, reducing the howling winds and downpour to a muffled, chafing rage. Shutters still rattled, and a series of feet trampled the runner in the hallway. Darach’s hands eased off him, leaving Folke to stand there clutching the crook to his chest, teeth chattering, tremors jumping through his whole body.
“It’s so dark.” Whinging Man.
“Which way to the barn?” demanded the fierce voice.
“That’s Finlay,” murmured Darach, but Folke scarcely heard him, his heart scampering too harshly.
“Stop telling him our names!” Finlay snarled.
“Back door past the kitchen,” said Folke, “but my sheep aren’t there.”
“Wonae hurt to look again,” murmured Darach. “Take care o’ yersel, shepherd. We’ll see about yer sheep.”
A series of heavy feet stomped down the hallway, tapped the tiles of the kitchen floor, and disappeared. Folke thought he might be alone, sweeping his crook in a circle around himself to be sure. He limped into the kitchen, aching fingers tracing the walls, finding the knob to the back door, now closed. It ripped from his grasp again when he opened it, nearly yanking Folke out into the storm a second time.
“Stubborn git,” the whinging man said at the bottom of the steps.
Folke ignored him and went ahead to the barn, its doors no longer swinging. The pull of wind swept hay into his face, along with Darach and Finlay’s murmurs. Another language.
Gaelic.
“Is it–is it dead?” Folke used the crook to push at debris on the floor, not wanting a repeat injury.
“Oh, aye. Right in the head.”
“Just how blind are you?”
Folke furrowed his brows. Swallowed against the lump in his throat, stuck like a burr. “Is. . .Are there. . .Do–Do you see any of my—”
“One, shepherd,” said Darach. “I’m sorry.”
The burr in his throat tripled in size. Threatened to choke him where he stood. Folke clutched at his shirt, clinging too tightly to his skin, his fingers digging under the buttons. He couldn’t breathe. Darach said something, nothing Folke could comprehend.
He didn’t even know which one of his Garments was dead. There would be no way to tell unless he found the others.
If he found them.
Folke wobbled, reaching for something to help steady him. Too late did he realise his fingers had connected with one of the men, leather turned slick with rain twisting in his grasp.
“Ye care a great deal for them.” Softly murmured, yet somehow audible over his shattering heart.
“They’re fucking sheep,” snapped Finlay. “Who cares? Let’s go.”
“Dinnae be cruel.”
“We don’t have time for this. Let’s go .”
“It’ll be pointless until this weather lets up.”
“I’m not staying here!”
“Christ. Then leave, but ye’ll be on yer own. I’m no’ having Thomas go wi ye.”
Folke gasped around a hiccup. “The whiny one.”
“He’s still young,” said Darach, although he sounded tickled again.
Folke forced himself to release his hold on what had to be Darach’s coat. “Where is she?”
“Oh, shepherd. Ye ought to go inside, take care o’ yersel. I’ll take care o’ her.”
“No, I need to do it.”
Darach muttered something in Gaelic.
“There’s not enough left to bury.”
“God damn it , Dunne.”
“No sense dancing around it.”
Can’t bear it. Leave.
Leave .
Folke pivoted, reeling. His sweeping crook caught on debris, pebbles, what had to be Thomas’ shins.
“Oi!”
It clattered to the kitchen floor. The first step of the staircase knocked his right toes, but he ignored their throbbing, seeking the lavatory where he shut himself in.
There were strange men in his home, but he let his boots thud to the floor. His remaining sheep, if they were alive, were out on their own in the wilderness, but Folke peeled his shirt and trousers off. Leaving his undergarments, clinging wet and cold. Pried the sock from his injured foot, the wool tacky.
He had failed what little mattered in his life, but drew himself a shallow bath. Sat on the tub’s edge and dipped his feet in, the water barely tepid. It wouldn’t warm him.
Don’t care.
Rain washed the narrow window, one of few without shutters. The faucet’s drips eventually slowed. Folke counted four staggered breaths before the next drip pelted into the tub. Another sixteen until he heard movement downstairs, muffled voices. Heavy footsteps up the stairs. Three more breaths, and a knock sounded on the door.
Folke opened his mouth, but it was empty of words. A faint rattle of the doorknob turning preceded the door’s low creak.
“Beg yer pardon. Didnae think ye were in here.”
He would have thought that the man would leave him be, but the moments trickled by—two more drips—and still the door hadn’t clicked shut. Eventually, boot-clad feet scuffed tiles.
“I put her to rest near Needle.”
Folke’s muscles had seized up, he struggled to lean into Darach’s direction. The very least he could do when words failed him, still.
“I take it Needle was yer herding dog?”
“The best,” Folke managed. His mother had let him pick her out. “We’ve had a few herding dogs.” But Needle had been his .
“Mind if I wash up?”
“Oh. No.” Water sloshed as Folke manoeuvred out of the tub, feet dripping across ceramic, cool underfoot.
“That looks like a nasty injury.” Darach’s voice rolled around the lavatory, seeming to block out the storm.
“A nail, I think.” Folke curled, chest to his thighs, and trailed his fingers over his foot. He grazed an indentation near his toes and hissed.
“Aye. I’m sure that hurts. Would ye like me to tend to it?”
Folke’s shoulders tensed up. “I can do it just fine.”
“I’ve na doubt. Only offering so ye can rest sooner.” A squeak of a tap, then the stream of water and skin rubbing across skin.
“I’m not resting with you three in my home.” They could be murderers. “Why were you out there?”
The taps turned off. A flutter of a towel. “We were on our way to Crossing Wells, but got turned around in the storm.”
Folke frowned. “I don’t believe that.”
“Naw?”
“Nobody goes there unless they plan on dying. Are you planning on dying?”
For some reason, Darach chuckled. Sonorous, drawing nearer. “I wasnae.”
“And you have no luggage with you. Or a car.”
“That is suspicious.” A click of a knee, and a pause Folke could practically feel vibrate with a silent request for permission to touch him. Hesitantly, he raised the injured foot. Sucked in a sharp breath when fingers traced his skin, the touch cautious and frighteningly gentle.
“We can patch it up for now,” said Darach, “but it’ll need a closer look later.”
It didn’t escape Folke’s notice that no clarifications had been offered, but neither did he have the grit to push it just yet.
“There should be a medical box under the sink,” Folke said.
Darach took care in the way he cleaned the wound. Pressed gauze against it. Bandaged it. Fingers moved along the arch of his foot, his heel, the ankle. Each graze spreading a new wave of gooseflesh across Folke’s arms and back.
His foot eased back down, guided in that same quiet calm. He expected that to be it, but Darach tapped the back of his hands. Slowly, Folke unlocked his grip from the tub’s sides and turned the palms up. Large hands cupped his, calloused fingertips a whisper over his knuckles. Folke’s breath came in short bursts. Hushed, yet alarmingly loud.
Splinters were removed, open wounds cleaned. He didn’t wince, no matter the twinges and burns.
Until hot breath ghosted across the skin of his palm, tightening as the antiseptic dried. Folke flinched, ready to pull away, but stilled.
“Didnae mean to startle.”
Softly spoken, but his heart twisted around itself. The last person to breathe across his palms was his mother, years ago after a spill he’d taken down the back steps. Needle, too young and energetic, had darted past his legs, knocking them out from under him.
“That suits ye better.”
Folke raised his head, following the sound of Darach straightening up. “What does?”
“The smile.” Boots walked away before Folke could figure out how he ought to react. “Would ye mind terribly if we weathered the storm here? We’ll compensate ye for the trouble, o’ course.”
“Help me find my sheep. That’s all I ask.”
“Ye’re terrible at haggling, shepherd. We’ll pay, an’ help find yer flock.”