(106)
"You really don't know me?" he says, rubbing at his face. "What do I look like?"
And now that I've heard him, I think I know who he is, but I'm not suggesting anything that he can quickly agree to. I fold my arms and keep my distance.
"It's Barry," he says finally. "Barium Hawkins."
I look to see if it really is Barry, but what I see behind him, almost a shadow, is someone else. Moonlight glints off of the knife blade he raises.“Watch out!” I yell.
He turns the way I am pointing, but doesn’t see what I am yelling about. How can he not see? He had survived the explosion, but he was still going to die. I run towards him, holding out my hands as if it will get me there faster. The wrong things are illuminated and the right things are in shadow. And then I see the orange knife, shining in the glow from burning trees like water in a sunset. But the face of the man holding it, I can’t see it. He’s not real. Just a force in the night like a wild animal, like fire.
I am hot and frozen all at once. I see the buttons on his jacket, his hair standing in a mess. And that one moment stretches out, won’t end.
Time moves again as my shoulder crashes into his side. And then there is the tangle of all three of us, and I can see limbs, but I can’t tell which ones are mine. Then there is something wet and hot and slick on my hands, dark in the dim light, and I have no idea whose blood it is. All I can do is push and kick and once, when an arm tightened around my throat, I twist and bite hard, tasting cloth rather than skin, but it works anyway. The arm jerks away, and I cough.
And then suddenly, I am pushing at nothing. I sit up, feeling foolish, grass in my hair.
Next to me on the ground is the shadowy man, and he isn’t moving. Barry is wiping a knife on the grass. “Thanks,” he says grimly. “That was close.”
I open my mouth to say a thousand things. A thousand stupid things like “he’s dead” or maybe “you killed him.” Nothing comes.
“Quick!” Someone yells, “Yarrow! Come over to the tent. Sage needs you.”
“Kestrel,” Barry says. “I need your help. Come on.”
I follow him, whether from shock or fear, I don’t know. Just yesterday, Barry sat a couple of rows behind me in ancient literature class. He answered the question about what a behemoth was. How could he have just killed someone? How could I have helped him?
Before I can think anymore, I find myself crawling into a tent that really is just a tarp draped over a rope frame, low to the ground. There is only enough room for the hurt man and me kneeling next to him. Barry crouches in the doorway, holding a lumilamp. It casts shadows from below that make him look ugly and evil rather than just worried. He raises it a little so that I can appreciate the red spreading over the lower part of the man’s shirt, and spreads across the top of his pants. The cloth is ripped on his hip, ragged edges that might be cloth, might be skin, or both. I wonder if I will throw up or pass out, but I am strangely calm. The tarp rubs against my back, and I wish it would stop.
“So what do we do?” Barry asks.
“What do you mean? I don’t know.” But he looks at me like I should be a part of this.
“Kestrel.” His face looks green-gray, and I wonder if it’s just the light. “Look at him. You have to have some idea of what to do. Your grandmother does all that herb stuff. Besides," here he pauses and puts his hand on my shoulder, "I know that you know more about magic than you let on. Yarrow is my best medic, and she can't save him. If you don't do something, he’s going to die.”
I don’t know what to do. I have no idea what to do. “Barry,” I start. “It’s not the same thing. Magic is energy, not medicine. It makes light, heat, motion...” I’m about to yell or pass out or something. I’m breathing too fast. I can feel the texture of the cloth under my hands as they rest on my knees. I avoid looking at him again, but I can’t stop hearing his breathing, his little moan of pain. "Herbs are what heal, but I don't have any." I take a small peek at the remains of his hip, "and no herbs are going to heal that. We can try to stitch it together..."
"Stitch it together? Are you crazy?" Barry looks right in my face. "There is nothing to stitch together. The whole hip is blown off. He's bleeding. He's got maybe a couple of hours left--and they will be worse hours than he ever imagined he could live through. Don't let him die like that."
113 "I close my eyes, trying to make sense of any of this. All I wanted was to see if Boron was awake. I was studying tonight. I was studying the equations about transfer of magic, about the amplitude needed to overcome resistance in gold, brass, copper. What is the resistance of bone, of muscle, of skin, I wonder. I have no idea. I doubt that anyone has ever asked. "I'd help him if I knew how to," I say. "But all I know is the transfer of energy. That's for lights, for machines, not for people."
http://kestrelbook.blogspot.com/2012/08/113-x.html
114 "I stop for a moment, ask myself what I do know. I know how to put energy into things. In fact, I know more about it than I should. And if I can use a crystal to power a lamp, to run a clock, then maybe I can use one to heal a wound.
http://kestrelbook.blogspot.com/2012/08/114-x.html
"You really don't know me?" he says, rubbing at his face. "What do I look like?"
And now that I've heard him, I think I know who he is, but I'm not suggesting anything that he can quickly agree to. I fold my arms and keep my distance.
"It's Barry," he says finally. "Barium Hawkins."
I look to see if it really is Barry, but what I see behind him, almost a shadow, is someone else. Moonlight glints off of the knife blade he raises.“Watch out!” I yell.
He turns the way I am pointing, but doesn’t see what I am yelling about. How can he not see? He had survived the explosion, but he was still going to die. I run towards him, holding out my hands as if it will get me there faster. The wrong things are illuminated and the right things are in shadow. And then I see the orange knife, shining in the glow from burning trees like water in a sunset. But the face of the man holding it, I can’t see it. He’s not real. Just a force in the night like a wild animal, like fire.
I am hot and frozen all at once. I see the buttons on his jacket, his hair standing in a mess. And that one moment stretches out, won’t end.
Time moves again as my shoulder crashes into his side. And then there is the tangle of all three of us, and I can see limbs, but I can’t tell which ones are mine. Then there is something wet and hot and slick on my hands, dark in the dim light, and I have no idea whose blood it is. All I can do is push and kick and once, when an arm tightened around my throat, I twist and bite hard, tasting cloth rather than skin, but it works anyway. The arm jerks away, and I cough.
And then suddenly, I am pushing at nothing. I sit up, feeling foolish, grass in my hair.
Next to me on the ground is the shadowy man, and he isn’t moving. Barry is wiping a knife on the grass. “Thanks,” he says grimly. “That was close.”
I open my mouth to say a thousand things. A thousand stupid things like “he’s dead” or maybe “you killed him.” Nothing comes.
“Quick!” Someone yells, “Yarrow! Come over to the tent. Sage needs you.”
“Kestrel,” Barry says. “I need your help. Come on.”
I follow him, whether from shock or fear, I don’t know. Just yesterday, Barry sat a couple of rows behind me in ancient literature class. He answered the question about what a behemoth was. How could he have just killed someone? How could I have helped him?
Before I can think anymore, I find myself crawling into a tent that really is just a tarp draped over a rope frame, low to the ground. There is only enough room for the hurt man and me kneeling next to him. Barry crouches in the doorway, holding a lumilamp. It casts shadows from below that make him look ugly and evil rather than just worried. He raises it a little so that I can appreciate the red spreading over the lower part of the man’s shirt, and spreads across the top of his pants. The cloth is ripped on his hip, ragged edges that might be cloth, might be skin, or both. I wonder if I will throw up or pass out, but I am strangely calm. The tarp rubs against my back, and I wish it would stop.
“So what do we do?” Barry asks.
“What do you mean? I don’t know.” But he looks at me like I should be a part of this.
“Kestrel.” His face looks green-gray, and I wonder if it’s just the light. “Look at him. You have to have some idea of what to do. Your grandmother does all that herb stuff. Besides," here he pauses and puts his hand on my shoulder, "I know that you know more about magic than you let on. Yarrow is my best medic, and she can't save him. If you don't do something, he’s going to die.”
I don’t know what to do. I have no idea what to do. “Barry,” I start. “It’s not the same thing. Magic is energy, not medicine. It makes light, heat, motion...” I’m about to yell or pass out or something. I’m breathing too fast. I can feel the texture of the cloth under my hands as they rest on my knees. I avoid looking at him again, but I can’t stop hearing his breathing, his little moan of pain. "Herbs are what heal, but I don't have any." I take a small peek at the remains of his hip, "and no herbs are going to heal that. We can try to stitch it together..."
"Stitch it together? Are you crazy?" Barry looks right in my face. "There is nothing to stitch together. The whole hip is blown off. He's bleeding. He's got maybe a couple of hours left--and they will be worse hours than he ever imagined he could live through. Don't let him die like that."
113 "I close my eyes, trying to make sense of any of this. All I wanted was to see if Boron was awake. I was studying tonight. I was studying the equations about transfer of magic, about the amplitude needed to overcome resistance in gold, brass, copper. What is the resistance of bone, of muscle, of skin, I wonder. I have no idea. I doubt that anyone has ever asked. "I'd help him if I knew how to," I say. "But all I know is the transfer of energy. That's for lights, for machines, not for people."
Barry grabs my arm and gets close to my face. “Get creative, but do something. He can’t die. Not tonight.”
“Magic can’t fix everything. If I do the wrong thing, then he doesn’t even have a chance to survive.” http://kestrelbook.blogspot.com/2012/08/113-x.html
114 "I stop for a moment, ask myself what I do know. I know how to put energy into things. In fact, I know more about it than I should. And if I can use a crystal to power a lamp, to run a clock, then maybe I can use one to heal a wound.
"What kind of energy do you have around here?" I ask him. "You must have some kind of crystals.” What I'm about to try is completely illegal, but then, that doesn't matter much at this point. I also have no idea what I’m doing, but he doesn’t have time for me to come up with a good plan.
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