16. N #2
She stood, taking a moment to focus. She saw that a bowl had been brought while she slept.
That confused her. She usually heard anytime they entered or left the stable, and even when asleep, the sound of the large door opening and closing woke her.
She tried to focus her muzzy thoughts. I slept through the bowl exchange.
How long did I sleep? Can I still make my quota before they take the bucket?
I should eat. She sat down and reached through the cage bars for the bowl, and pulled it towards her.
The cell bars felt cool against her forehead, and she realized she was hot, chilled, and sweating at the same time.
She ate two bites of the food, then nausea overwhelmed her, and she crawled to the drain to throw it back up.
Thirsty. She stood to try and get a little water, but could barely pull the handle.
A trickle fell into her parched mouth, soft and sweet as rain water.
She rinsed her mouth and spat, then drank, grateful for the cool water.
Time to work. She managed to fill a good portion of the bucket, though progress slowed even further as she felt worse and worse.
She could usually count the circles she had completed, singing old songs, making up rhymes and stories to keep her head busy while she worked.
Today, she struggled just to stay focused on the task in front of her, and she soon lost track.
Was that fifteen, or twenty-five? The ash bucket seemed overfull for fifteen laps around the cage, but not nearly enough for twenty-five.
She felt weary enough for a full shift, but now, was not even half done.
And nauseous, not hungry. She went and sat on the edge of her cot.
Lie down. Just a few minutes. She closed her eyes, wrapping the blanket around herself.
Her eyelids felt hot as she closed her eyes. Just for a moment.
Her eyes snapped open. She had no idea how long she had been asleep.
She tried to think, but it was like working through a vat of glue.
She knew she needed to work. Had to work.
No work, no eat. She looked at the ash bucket.
Still there, still just under half full. She might still make it if she hurried.
She managed to stand and got the shovel, then to the bin, where she could place the shovel-load in front of the Rock.
Not quite as close as she wanted, but it seemed to oblige her by moving closer.
She spread the manure out, and went back for another shovel, focusing on lifting the heavy handle, and loading as much as it would hold.
Too much. Most rolled off and onto the stable floor.
Less. More trips, but only carry what you can carry.
She took another shovel, this time half-full, then saw a line of manure that she didn’t recall doing.
Had I done it and forgotten? How queer. Every muscle felt sore and every joint ached.
She raised her hand to her forehead. It felt hot, dry, and papery.
She looked blearily around. “Hey Rock, did I do that?” She couldn’t recall.
The Rock shifted towards her, scraping the floor as it came.
This is it. Time to get squashed. And she understood at that moment that this was probably the worst she had ever felt in her life, even worse than the week that she had spent in bed with what Nora told her was a child’s disease.
Not even the aftermath of the beating in the dormitory had been this bad.
Everything hurt. Everything ached. Even her hair hurt.
She had a headache that was like a spike behind her right eye, mostly blinding her, and the only thing she could feel was—not the usual hunger, but pure nausea and a raging thirst.
She felt ill enough that being squashed by the Rock—as long as it happened quickly—would be a blessing.
So thirsty. She had dropped the shovel by that point, though she didn’t recall when.
Rock stood between her and the sluice. She leaned her hand out and used his/her/its?
bulk to hold her up. Rock’s flank felt cool to the touch, and smooth, like ivory or mother-of-pearl, and not rough as she expected.
She moved to one side, towards the water when her face hurt and she found herself on the floor.
She had the sense that might have blacked out …
as she had the one time when she was younger after too much strong drink.
The floor felt cool and firm, and she shivered even as she broiled.
She tried to get up, failed, and fell back to the floor.
Her last clear recollection was of the Rock looming over her.
Squash away. Then, the world went black.
Triana woke, in her cot. Her last hazy memory was of falling, and the Rock looming over her, and she certainly knew she was in no fit state to crawl this far.
The blanket had been placed over her, angled to the corners to cover as much of her as it could.
She sat up, letting it fall away, and looked around.
She couldn’t imagine the guards entering the cell, or coming within bow-shot of a sick woman, and given her experiences in Haldeen’s little shit-storm of a food production area, she couldn’t imagine anyone caring.
She got up, surprised at how hale she felt.
The ash bucket had been replaced, so she’d missed at least one gathering, and given how sick she’d been, she would have expected to have looked and felt like something dragged to death behind horses.
She felt a powerful thirst, and hungry …
oh so very hungry … but no worse. She went and got water, warm but wet and so very, very good, and drank until her belly swelled.
That might do something to slake her hunger, at least for a bit.
She caught a whiff of herself then and felt her nose curl with distaste.
Her smell of sickness, rancid sweat, and fever gave off a sour odor, and even if not completely healed, put her under the spigot again to wash.
Haldeen might control everything else, but as long as she had water, she could keep herself clean.
She had only one set of clothing, but washed it anyway, working to get the sick odor out of it, then setting it up to dry.
In the meantime, she wrapped the blanket around her, wrinkling her nose a bit at its sour smell.
Whatever had made her sick had lasted long enough for her to both soak her clothing, and the blanket, with rancid sweat, until both were stiff with dried salt.
So, why am I not dead? Her only experience with being ill had resulted in a slow recovery, though by comparison she did recognize that first time had involved some serious whining and feeling sorry for herself.
This one though, should have killed me, by all rights.
And if it didn’t, then why am I not an invalid?
The Rock, as usual, remained inscrutable.
But she thought she had … vague, pain-swathed memories.
A fever-dream where the Rock somehow curved around her, radiating heat, a soothing warmth that stopped her uncontrolled shivering and eased the aches.
Then, nudging, rolling her, incrementally.
Then being within reach of the cot. Then somehow hauling herself into it.
But the blanket? That had been on the floor.
But maybe she just didn’t remember somehow grabbing it.
“Did you have something to do with this?” she asked, using the tone of voice that she might with a restive stallion that she wanted to gentle. “Did you help me?”
It shuffled a bit, moving a bulk the size of a cottage so that she could just see the shovel handle.
She understood its interests lay in her getting back to work.
If she didn’t work, then neither of them got fed.
It took her a moment to realize that it just showed awareness of its interests, an intelligence …
granted that most tamed animals knew who to pester at mealtimes, but this seemed a bit beyond.
It had recognized a problem with its feeder, then solved the problem, and even seen to her comfort, though the last bit might be wishful thinking.
It might have acted to get her up off the floor where it could squash her by accident.
Still …. She made a formal bow to it, and said “Kind Sir, I do most humbly thank you.”
It responded by shifting a bit more. The shovel, now in clear view.
She smiled at it. Her clothing still had a long way to dry, and the collar would put her on the floor in agony if she tried magic to speed that along.
So, she used what she had, wrapping the smelly, sick-stained blanket around her while she went to shovel manure and feed Rock its dinner.
She took less care as she worked to avoid its bulk, patting it or touching it as she passed by one side or the other. It didn’t seem to mind. In time her clothes dried, and she changed into them, then soaking and wringing out the blanket as best she could before leaving it to dry.
She noticed as she patted it that it was warm. I wonder if it would let me lay my things on it to dry. Or would it just eat them?
She had filled the bucket then, ash mounding high enough to survive the settling and still be considered full.
She was hungry, certainly, but she had come out of her sick-bed and back to work without a meal, and completed her task.
Whatever it had done had not just healed her, but had strengthened her as well.
She moved close around it, intending to look for a place where she might set her blanket to dry more quickly …
perhaps on its back? … when she caught a whiff of something that smelled like rock dust and corruption.
The unpleasant scent had been just a whiff as she walked along its side, but this was the first time she smelled anything identifiable.
She looked up, searching for the source of the smell, and scanned along the control rods that had been driven into the top of its shell?
Carapace? Outer battlement? The control rod closest to her appeared to be leaching a small amount of some kind of fluid. This was the source of the smell.
Rock shuffled a bit, moving away. She saw the control rod wobble a bit. A bit more liquid leaked out around the and ran down the side. She caught a whiff. Definitely the source of the smell.
“Hold still,” she told Rock. Its side felt like warm mother-of-pearl, but lacked any obvious handholds, and it stood twice, maybe thrice her height …
the literal size of a house. She took a few steps back to size up the situation.
The control rods had been driven through its carapace, and she could see the cracks around the edge of the other rods as Rock turned a bit in the light.