8. 8.
8.
T he men left Folke to get dressed in privacy. He didn’t care what clothes Darach had picked out for him, although seemed to gain their approval when he emerged from the front room. Their burning focus became unbearable the more he moved around. Folke wanted to sink to his knees and crawl out from under it.
Finlay thrust a set of boots against his stomach and, after having a feel, Folke thought they were his own, well-worn ones. When he dropped them to put them on, someone immediately set to helping him. Just as well, when bending over made his head pulsate worse.
Misty rain had yet to dwindle, spattering Folke’s face and throat the moment they set down the uneven path. Darach on his left and Finlay to his right, both walking so close their arms brushed with each movement. Thomas trailed after them, the soles of his boots dragging.
Pebbles crunched underfoot, the path winding Folke closer to the rush of water, three brooks melding into a stream. Over it stretched a narrow bridge, uneven stone skipping under his crook with dull clacks.
His legs remained unsteady. He was grateful for Darach’s hands on either side of his rib cage. He thought it to be Darach, anyway, when those hands weren’t trying to control him, merely help keep him upright.
By the time they reached the road, Folke was nearly as drenched as before. A fact he didn’t give voice to, distracted by the distinct sound of keys jingling.
“Drive, Thomas,” said Finlay.
“Serious?” Quick footsteps. A car door opened then slammed shut. “Hurry up, then!”
Folke must have looked as worried as he felt since Darach murmured, “Ye’ll be alright.”
He took his crook while guiding Folke into the car with a warm hand cupping the top of his head. Smooth leather creaked, pliant under his hands and knees. He started when the door opened to his right, and someone also got in on his left .
A frustrated growl. “Feel free to sit in the front.”
“This’ll do fine, thank ye.”
Finlay uttered something in Gaelic. It sounded angry but then, everything out of that man’s mouth bristled with irritation. Whatever Darach responded with was spoken as softly as the drizzle over the car’s rooftop. His massive frame slid up to Folke. Pressed into him.
As did Finlay’s.
Enveloping him in a warmth he didn’t mind all that much when the chill still clung to his bones. Their calescence became a comfort, in particular when the engine rumbled and the automobile jerked into motion. Sped up, back down. Up again, the shift gear grinding each time.
Folke sank along his seat.
Darach chuckled. “No’ often in cars, are ye?”
“It’s–It’s been some time,” Folke strained.
Eleanor was a decidedly better driver than Thomas. It helped that she didn’t find every obstacle within the road. By the fourth ungainly toss of the car, Folke was ready to get out and walk.
“D’ye normally walk all this way?”
Glad for the distraction, he answered, “Only when I have to.”
He preferred to avoid people when he could, and Crossing Wells, while astoundingly rural, was full of them.
The car hit something hard and lurched.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Finlay bellowed. “If I’d known you’d be hitting more holes than a politician at a brothel, I wouldn’t have let you drive!”
A burst of laughter shot out of Folke, undignified and raw. He clutched his head with a groan.
The pain only got worse. By the time the car slowed to a stop, Folke debated asking Finlay to put him out of his misery. He seemed the sort to do it, if asked nicely. As he slid out, Folke thought they were halfway into the village, distant stream-murmurs floating in the air. Finlay took hold of both his hands, easing him upright. His hands were less work-worn than Darach’s.
“Post office is that way,” Finlay said with a shift of fabric. Leather, perhaps.
Darach muttered in Gaelic. It sounded peeved.
“What about me?” Thomas.
“Learn to drive in the meantime. God .”
Folke’s mouth strained. It occurred to him he was smiling again. Mostly because Finlay made another noise of approval.
His crook pressed against his chest and instinctively, Folke clutched it tight. To steel himself, he sucked in a deep breath. Held it.
At least two people were around, their shoes slapping rain-damp pavement and voices echoing through the silent street.
Did they know him? He hoped not. If they did, he truly hoped they wouldn’t approach.
Folke didn’t want to talk to anyone.
He didn’t even want to be here .
The bell to the post office rang, merrily. Which meant they were near the doctor’s home. If not directly in front of it. God, what would Mister Hibbett say to him?
What if Eleanor happened to be there? She often was, helping the moribund.
Folke wanted to go home, tend to his sheep. Find the other missing two.
He retreated. His backside hit the car, startling him.
“Careful.” Finlay’s grip came tight around his biceps. “I was waiting for you to find your way, Mister I-Can-Do-It, but if you’re just going to stand there shaking like a fawn—”
Folke yelped, his whole body flung forward. He set his crook down and rooted himself.
Tree. He was a tree.
A goddamn mountain, even.
Unmovable.
Hands slammed down against his back and shoved .
“No!” Folke crumpled. “I can’t.”
“Don’t be such a fucking baby!”
“Folke?”
He froze, caught in a precarious balance between dropping to the ground and Finlay keeping him off it, rough fingers digging into his armpits.
“What are you doing?” Thinly-veiled anger shook Mister Hibbett’s voice. “Stop manhandling him!”
“I’m not manhandling anyone.” Finlay hauled Folke upright. Straightened his clothes with firm tugs.
“You kind of were,” Thomas piped up.
“Shut up.”
“Come to me, Folke,” Mister Hibbett urged. A cold hand wrapped around the back of Folke’s. Coaxed him forward. “How does tea sound? Do you still like peppermint?”
“I–Yes.” Folke took a tremulous step forward.
“Wonderful! I’ve got honey from Mrs Morris. You remember her, don’t you?”
Folke jerked his head to the side, alarmed to have taken several more steps. “Yes.”
His clipped voice resounded. They were inside Mister Hibbett’s home. Dusty tiles under his feet, sickly perfume clinging to the air. Distant meowing from cats demanding to be released.
Exactly like that night, after Eleanor finally found him by the brook. Brought him here.
“It’s such a delight to see you again, Folke. This way to the kitchen.”
“He needs his head seeing to,” Finlay barked.
“ You can wait right here, whoever you are.”
A door closed while another opened, releasing a battalion of cats. Slinky bodies rubbed against his legs, heads nudging his ankles. They followed, forcing Folke to focus on not stepping on any of them. Mister Hibbett eased his cold hand off.
“Do you remember where I keep the teabags?”
“No.” Folke remembered very little about that night, other than the smell and unrelenting meowing.
“To your left, last cupboard against the wall—that’s it.”
Folke searched over several tins, stopping at one with a rubber band tied around it. He set it down on the worktop and plucked at the band with a fingernail. It was Mister Hibbett who had given him the tip about using rubber bands to identify things. Like spices, or tea tins.
“Not the same batch as last time, naturally.” The water tap was as squeaky as Folke’s, but it didn’t splutter. “Only got it a month ago.”
Four years since he’d last seen Mister Hibbett, and he kept a tin of peppermint tea stocked just for him? Folke slid it across the worktop to where he thought the elderly man was.
Embarrassment cinched his shoulders. He couldn’t believe how hysterical he’d been moments ago.
Mister Hibbett tutted. “Banged your head, hm? Did that fellow patch you up?”
“I slipped,” Folke muttered. “On tiles.”
“Shall I take a look while we wait for the kettle?” Wooden legs scraped across floorboards.
Mister Hibbett offered no support in finding the chair. Folke appreciated it, even if entwining cats made walking an onerous task. Thick leaves and swirls were carved into the backrest, the shellac finish worn down, scratchy under his fingertips as he traced the pattern. Folke lowered, only for a cat to jump into the seat. He scooped it up, fur long and downy against his hand as he held it to his chest. Claws caught in his jumper, but he didn’t mind. The cat seemed content to dangle across the length of his forearm.
“What colour is this one?”
He knew Mister Hibbett was behind him, nose faintly whistling.
“Mostly black.” Cold fingers pushed dressing and hair away from the lesion. “White patch around the nose and white socks. I call her Skogul.”
“Another Valkyrie.”
Most of the cats were named after them. Folke remembered that, too.
“List your symptoms for me.”
“Headache. Fatigue. Dizziness. I only want to sleep.”
Mister Hibbett hummed. “When did you fall?”
“Just after the storm died down this morning.”
“Ah, wasn’t as bad as expected, was it?”
“The storm?”
“I wouldn’t even call it a downpour. Dear Eleanor had us worried for nothing.”
Folke frowned.
“Shepherd?”
He swung in the chair, free hand lifting to the backrest. Darach’s footsteps were followed by another set, nearly as hefty. Skogul wriggled fiercely, claws digging into Folke’s skin before he had the sense to release her.
“My friend tells me ye’re the doctor. Folke’s pupils arenae dilating.”
“I appreciate you barging into my home to inform me,” said Mister Hibbett. “They haven’t since he became blind.”
Someone released an overstrung sigh. Folke thought it might be Finlay. Guiltily, he thumbed the carved wood, tracing the swirling petioles.
He should apologise for not knowing that.
Folke didn’t. Instead, he asked, “Does that mean I can go?”
“It should be fine, Folke,” Mister Hibbett said. “Sounds like a concussion. I’m afraid that means bedrest. I know you’re strong, and by God your self-will even more so. However, if you want to feel better at all, you need to rest.”
“For how long?”
“A week at least. And you must stay awake for the first twenty-four hours.”
He opened his mouth to protest.
“Dinnae fash. I’ll see to everything in the meantime. It’ll help wi yer foot, too.”
“Who are you two?” Mister Hibbett finally demanded.
“We—”
“I’m renting out Bwthyn Ywen.” A silence followed, during which Folke assumed everyone’s attention had fallen to him. “Money’s been tight since my sheep. . .”
“Ah. Of course.”
Metal wobbled over metal. The water had come to a boil.
Folke laboured upright. “I should get going.”
“Well, if you won’t stay for tea. . .” Feet shuffled across the floor. Mister Hibbett had to be wearing slippers. Then, he pressed a tin into Folke’s free hand. “Please, take this. You know I don’t like peppermint tea.”
“Oh—”
“Ah, and this!”
Folke shifted his crook, and a jar pressed into his hand. He ran his fingers over the lidded top, his thumb coming away tacky. “I can’t take this. I can’t even pay you for wasting your time.”
“Seeing you is never a waste of my time. You should come visit more often.” Mister Hibbett shooed his cats. Or so Folke hoped, especially when he added, “Now off you go to rest .”
“Would ye like me to carry that for ye?”
Folke’s heart skipped a beat, their fingers brushing again when both tin and jar were eased out of his grip. He muttered his thanks. To Mister Hibbett or Darach, he wasn’t so sure, suddenly in a rush to escape.
After suffering the fusty barrel that was the doctor’s home, Folke gulped in desperate breaths, the air a needed mix of crisp and damp. Rain previously misty had transformed again, thick droplets pelting his face as he tilted his head up.
Would the sky be dark and glum? Or a bright pale grey, promising eventual sunshine ?
“D’ye need anything while we’re here?”
He leant into Darach’s direction. “What I said about renting the cottage. . .”
“We wonae be putting ye out of yer home.”
Folke lifted a hand to his stomach to toy with the buttons under his jumper. “I wasn’t—what I meant was, you’re not obligated just because I said that.”
“Naw?” God, he sounded tickled again.
“Of course not.” Folke dug his fingers in harder, desperate to feel the lip of the buttons under his nails. “But if you wanted to stay. . .maybe you could? You don’t have to pay. Obviously. I only thought—”
“Still terrible at haggling.” Darach chuckled. “We’d be pleased to stay and pay ye rent.”