Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(14)

“What the— Do you intend to drink that?” he demanded.

“Any reason why not?”

“Liver fluke? Dead newts? It’s not a working well; heaven knows what the water’s like.”

“Indeed. I think you’ll find it clean.” Glyde pulled up the cup, brim-full. From the length of the string, it appeared the water was no more than four feet down; Saul was baffled he hadn’t seen it. “Here. Have a drink.”

The water in the cup looked clear, and contained no obvious amphibians, but this was still ridiculous, and enraging when Saul had been gearing up for a fight. “I don’t think so.”

“Drink it,” Glyde said, the words close to an order.

“Why the devil should I?”

“Because either you’ll find it refreshing or I’ll find it informative.”

“All right, that’s enough. I’ve had my fill of nonsensical remarks.”

“Well, you chose to work for Peabody.” Glyde’s eyes were the colour of woodland: light brown, green-dappled, gold-flecked, fascinating. Compelling. “You want to drink. You need to drink. The water is good and pure, Mr. Lazenby. The question is, are you?”

Saul had a vague feeling he should object to that but he was still looking at Glyde’s eyes, he couldn’t look away, and he could feel the tin cup being pressed into his fingers even as the hat was twitched from his head. He could smell the water, cool and fresh, could feel how deliciously it would sluice a throat parched by heat and sun and the red dust of ancient pottery.

He raised the cup to his lips and drank.

The water slid down his throat, into his chest, and spread through him, cool and soothing, leaving a trail of tingles behind it. There were only a few swallows in the tin mug, but he relished each as he had never relished water before, and when he took the cup from his lips he felt replete, refreshed, and as though he’d been drinking for a very long time.

He blinked.

“Good?” Glyde enquired, plucking the mug from his fingers.

“Excellent.” Saul’s mouth felt rather odd. That must be the cold.

“No violent cramps, urge to vomit black bile, or bleeding from eyes, ears, or nose?”

“Not more than usual, thank you. It’s delicious. Are you not going to drink?” Somehow his anger with Glyde seemed to have been washed away with the water.

“Not my time.” Glyde shook out the moisture from the mug and stowed it in his satchel. “Well. Well, well. You puzzle me, Mr. Lazenby, you really do. What were you doing with the cloutie tree?”

“The—?”

Glyde indicated the rag-strewn tree. Saul shrugged. “Looking at it and wondering about the rags. What did you say it was called?”

“A cloutie tree. Cloutie, meaning cloths in some dialects. It’s for healing.”

“The Major said something about a superstition of a holy well.”

“Did he indeed. Yes. Where a tree grows by a holy well, one may dip a rag in the water and use it to wash the afflicted part. Tie the rag to the tree and the affliction rots away with the cloth.” Glyde gave him a glinting smile. “If you believe in that sort of twaddle, of course.”

“It’s a tempting idea. I can see why people come here.” Saul glanced over the tree, estimating perhaps forty visible rags. How many people had tried to wash away their pain and desperation on this peaceful islet? The thought stung his eyes, and he found himself blurting, “Does it work for everything?”

“You mean, can it minister to a mind diseased?”

“Broken minds, broken hearts.” Saul tried to say it lightly, but he felt his throat tighten.

Glyde met his eyes again, but not with the intense, compelling look of before. Saul might almost have called his expression sympathetic. “Yes, they need healing as much as legs and arms, don’t they, even if the injuries are less visible. Ah... I think one might simply wash one’s face, you know. The water knows its business. Have you a handkerchief?”

Saul pulled it from his pocket. Glyde knelt by the well on the mossy stone, careless of his beautiful suit, and leaned in, stretching downward. His long arms were not remotely long enough to reach water four feet down, but when he straightened, the handkerchief was soaked and dripping.

Saul stood, helpless. Glyde stepped close, eyes intent and full of something Saul couldn’t understand. He reached out and carefully, tenderly, wiped the wet cloth over Saul’s cheek.

It was so cold. Far colder than when he’d drunk, searingly cold, so cold that it felt hot. It burned his skin, and he gasped and shuddered under the touch, but he didn’t pull away. Glyde ran the handkerchief along his cheekbone, down to his jaw, then up, over his eyebrows and his forehead, until every part of Saul’s face was quivering under cold water that blazed like flame. He shut his eyes as the cloth skimmed his eyelids and thought he heard Glyde whisper something, then the cloth was lifted away.

Glyde held out the handkerchief. Saul took it and, because there was nothing else he could or should do, he tied it to the tree that grew by the well and thought, Please take it away, please take the pain away.

And there they stood, he and Glyde, looking at one another.

“Clean,” Glyde said, with a flicker of a smile. He reached out to run a finger down Saul’s damp jawline, and his touch wasn’t priestly any more. Saul sucked in a sharp breath and saw the response in the fractional widening of Glyde’s eyes.