Book of Water

Chapter 21

21

Astolpho lay awake in his tent, listening to the wind buffet the sides. His belly felt comfortably full for the first time in a year. He’d forgotten what it was like to have so much food in front of him that he had to push some of it away. He’d forgotten what salt tasted like. He knew the cook only used it to disguise the diminishing freshness of the food, but Astolpho welcomed the flavor. It reminded him of home.

He strained his ears to hear any sound coming from Michaela’s tent. The sound of her steady breathing. He worried she wouldn’t sleep. He suspected she didn’t like to be confined. They normally slept out in the open, beside a fire if the weather allowed it. He had never seen her sleep under shelter all those nights before he met her, when he only watched her in visions.

But he knew if he asked her about it, she wouldn’t answer.

She never liked his questions. Even though he always tried to answer hers.

He had pushed her too hard today. No, Rinaldo had pushed her too hard. Bringing the horse to her.

Although, Astolpho had to admit, it was possible Rinaldo didn’t know what would happen if he brought the horse too close.

Still, seeing Michaela so weak again when she still hadn’t recovered from the first healing was proof enough that she was right. It wasn’t safe for her to stay here. The two of them had to leave.

But perhaps not yet. If his god granted it, not quite yet.

He needed the chance to speak with Bradamante. Alone.

To try once more to apologize. To try to regain her trust.

He had failed at that the first time, just a few hours after the tournament ended. She was injured and exhausted, and justifiably anxious over her horse. She wasn’t ready to hear why Astolpho had encouraged the king to put her through that ordeal.

He remembered her face, there in the dim light outside her brother’s house. The intensity of her eyes, the grim set to her mouth.

He remembered her anger, and her attempt to control it, but it was too strong and she was too tired to hold it back for very long.

“I thought I understood you, Astolpho. I thought you were my friend.”

“I am,” he tried to tell her.

“All those things you said. How you wished you could have known me when I was young, how you ached for me when I was in Gibeah—why did you lie to me? Why did you tell me any of that?”

“I didn’t lie.”

But it was clear that she didn’t believe him.

Then he told her he was going away. But he didn’t tell her why. Didn’t say that he had begun seeing visions of a red-haired woman traveling in the mountains with a group of men. Or that he knew in his heart that his god wanted him to find her.

Would it have made a difference if he had told her the truth?

Or would Bradamante have been even angrier than she already was?

She didn’t like Michaela. That was clear. Even though he knew she was grateful that Michaela saved her brother.

But that first confrontation in Rinaldo’s tent… Michaela ordering her to leave, then choking her…

Astolpho couldn’t blame Bradamante for her reaction. He only wished it hadn’t happened.

But he had no control over Michaela. Any more than she had control over herself. In the months when he watched her in visions, he saw her endure terrible pain. He understood why she was sometimes harsh and abrupt. The urge to heal could be overpowering. The pain was worse the longer she delayed.

At least Jara treated her kindly. Small touches, small comforts. As she helped Astolpho and Michaela get settled into their tents for the night, she brought extra blankets to make Michaela a softer bed. She offered to wash and mend Michaela’s clothes.

“You can wear some of mine while they dry,” Jara said. “I can bring them right now if you like.”

Michaela seemed confused by the offer. She slowly shook her head.

“I’ll be very careful with them,” Jara said. “The weavings are beautiful. Did you make them yourself?”

“No,” Michaela said.

But Astolpho could hear something different in her voice. A slight softening. He pretended to be busy lighting the torches from the one that Jara brought. He was curious where the conversation might go.

“I have extra leggings, too,” Jara said. “I made them myself. Your feet and legs must get cold.”

“No,” Michaela said. “I’m not cold.”

Astolpho returned Jara’s torch. She thanked him, then held it in front of her, close to Michaela’s arm.

“Can I?” Jara asked. She pointed to the red and black woven bracelet on Michaela’s right wrist. Michaela wore matching bracelets on both her wrists and ankles.

To Astolpho’s surprise, Michaela allowed Jara to touch her hand and hold the bracelet closer to the light.

“This is beautiful,” Jara said. “Did you make it?”

Michaela nodded.

Jara stroked her finger over the fiber. “What is it? Is it horse hair?”

“No.” Michaela pulled her hand back. But not forcefully, the way she might have with someone else.

She didn’t like to be touched. Astolpho knew that as well.

He felt he was watching something very special. A moment that would be too easy to disturb if he said anything or drew attention to himself. He stood still off to the side, as quietly as possible, wondering how long this moment might last.

Jara seemed unaware that any of it was unusual. She carried on in her natural friendly manner.

“Even if you don’t want me to wash it,” she said, pointing to Michaela’s cape-like shirt, “I can resew the sides of it if you want. You can see some of the stitching has come loose. It wouldn’t take me long.”

Michaela looked at Astolpho then, as if imploring him to help. He gave her what he hoped was an encouraging nod and smile.

“Why?” Michaela asked Jara.

Jara seemed surprised by the question. “You saved Rinaldo. I love him. He’s like a brother to me. I’d do anything to thank you.”

Michaela’s face went slack. As though she had never heard something so extraordinary.

Then, to Astolpho’s astonishment, she reached up and pulled her outer shirt over her head. Underneath she wore a sleeveless undershirt of similar construction, with a hole cut in the center for her head and the two sides neatly stitched up. It might have been a light tan color at one time, but in the torchlight it looked darker in certain places, stained by sweat or dirt.

Jara handed her torch to Astolpho. “Hold this, please.” With the torchlight flickering in the wind, Michaela and Jara examined the frayed outer shirt more closely. Astolpho could see, just as Jara said, that much of the old stitching along the two sides had fallen apart. There were several large gaps along the shoulders and armpits. He could see holes in the woven cloth, too, where the woolen threads must have snagged on tree branches as they rode past them.

“I can fix all of these,” Jara said with confidence.

“We… we leave in the morning,” Michaela told her.

“Then I’ll do it now,” Jara said. “I’m not on watch tonight. It won’t take me long. I promise.” She smiled, obviously pleased to be able to offer this gift of her handiwork to Michaela.

Michaela hesitated. Again she looked over and met Astolpho’s eyes. He saw apprehension there, but also something else.

Perhaps relief.

“Wait,” she told Jara. Then she crouched down and crawled into her tent.

Astolpho could hear movement inside. He had no idea what to expect.

He knew that Michaela’s hearing was sharp, so he couldn’t risk speaking to Jara, even in a whisper.

But he could mouth the words, and he did. “Thank you.”

Jara smiled and placed both her hands over her heart. “Of course,” she mouthed back.

Soon Michaela emerged from her tent wrapped in one of the long blankets Jara had provided. She handed Jara both her undershirt and the wide strip of woven cloth that she wrapped around herself as a skirt. Jara gathered the pile in her arms.

“Would you like me to wash them, too?” Jara asked. “I’d be happy to.”

Michaela hesitated before nodding. Then she added, “Wait.”

She disappeared into the tent again. When she returned she held a balled-up wad of much thinner cloth. She seemed slightly embarrassed as she handed it to Jara.

“My thanks,” Michaela said.

Astolpho turned his head to hide a smile of surprise. Never in all the time he had spent with Michaela had he heard her use those words.

“I’ll come back and bring you some of my clothes to sleep in tonight,” Jara said. “I won’t be long.”

She left them then.

Wind shook the sides of the two tents behind them. Astolpho could hear the canvas snap against the anchor ropes. The stout flames of the two torches he set in front of the tents cast a sporadic, fluttering glow.

He could not see Michaela’s face. Just her proud, erect posture, the blanket hugged around her body, her long hair whipping across her face.

She watched Jara go.

“She is good,” Michaela said softly.

Then she turned toward her tent and crawled back inside.