All the Stars and Teeth(45)
Leaning over, the hood of my cloak looms over me, obscuring my vision. Somewhere behind me, Bastian groans as I push it back.
“Did you get these supplies from King Audric?” I ask.
Her hands slow as time adjusts around her, back to what I can keep up with. Her eyes are a bitter green that lift to inspect me before she barks a harsh laugh. “We have no king. Blarthe gives us these supplies.”
The hammer in my hand is so heavy I barely have the sense to lift it. My chest is tight, constricted, but I don’t look back at the others even as they loom behind me.
“They’re not from Kaven, then?” Ferrick keeps his voice quiet as he peers around at all the workers. Too many of them are children.
The woman’s jaw works as though she’s clenching something between her teeth. “Better not to speak that name around here. You never know who might be listening.”
“Then what about Blarthe?” Bastian presses. He crouches next to the woman, whose face is stern as she shoves a hammer hard into his chest. He grunts, and the young boy sniggers quietly. His hands have slowed to a stop, and sweat coats his peeling, sunburnt forehead.
“Why are your hands empty?” the woman huffs. “They look plenty capable to me. Perhaps if you use them, I might feel more inclined to answer your questions.”
Bastian scowls but drops to his knees all the same, and Ferrick eventually follows.
This woman and child are not the only ones interested in us. We’ve earned the attention of all those working to restore this building—a small shop, by the look of it. I grip the hammer, the anger between their brows and the tightness of their lips all the encouragement I need. Against Bastian’s advice, I shed my cloak and dig my knees into the ground for support.
I may not have the speed of the Kers, but angry determination constricts my throat and weighs my hands every time I pound the wooden planks, over and over again, until my skin is slick with sweat and my breath comes in pants.
Each strike of the hammer echoes my shame and anger. This is worse than anything I imagined. How could Father let this happen? Our people should be here, not dancing beneath torchlight and drums, or trading pearls for overpriced snapper as part of our kingdom suffers. How could he not even send them supplies?
Though the young boy doesn’t complain, his face is tight with pain as he hammers. His hands are chapped, the angry red flesh raised. I spy Ferrick watching him work.
“Hey,” Ferrick says gently, drawing the boy’s attention. “What’s your name?”
The boy hesitates, turning to seek permission from the woman who appears to be looking over him. When she says nothing, he turns back to Ferrick and says, “My name’s Armin.”
“Those hands look like they could use a break, Armin.” Ferrick shifts so that he’s closer to the boy, crouching before him. “Why don’t you let me help heal them for you? It’ll only take a minute.”
Again, Armin looks toward the woman. Her small nod is enough for him to drop his hammer and shove his hands into Ferrick’s chest with a grin.
Armin scrunches his nose as Ferrick works, making a face through the strange feelings that come with healing—always a quick flare of pain, and then an almost unsettling warmth.
Ferrick tries not to let on how exhausting his work is, but it’s in the tension between his brows and the tight line of his lips. It’s in the stiffness of his hands, which cast a faint orange glow onto the boy’s skin as he mends Armin’s hands.
“This is amazing!” The boy stares at his hands in awe when Ferrick falls back and wipes the sweat from his forehead. They look like the hands of a child—soft and no longer cracked or peeling.
People begin to cast looks at Ferrick and Armin from over their shoulders as they work, their interests piqued.
“I’m glad it feels better.” Ferrick smiles as he turns to the woman next to Armin. He extends a hand. “I can help yours, too,” he offers, but she bats his hand away with a huff.
“I’m in pain for a reason,” she grumbles. “And I always want to remember what that reason is. Help them, instead.” She points behind Ferrick, to a small group of people who have congregated.
“I have this catch in my shoulder,” one says at the same time another asks if he can get any relief for his aching neck.
Ferrick’s mouth slackens as he stares up at the hopeful faces. But he doesn’t hesitate. He ushers everyone to form a line and pats the ground in front of him. The first Ker sits and offers Ferrick his left ankle, and the healer promptly gets to work.
My attention is drawn away only when the woman beside us presses a hand against my back, and my body lurches. I don’t realize how quickly I’ve begun to move until my hands become a blur. Though the rest of the world is the same, I’m faster than ever, sped up so fiercely that my breaths come in sharp gasps as I try to adjust. The wall I work on goes up quickly, nail after nail, panel after panel, but with so few of us, it still takes too much time.
Bastian works silently beside me, hammering, lifting, grunting, with movements almost too quick to make out. I’ve no idea how long we’ve been going, but none of us try to stop the other. We work in a wordless understanding that, for now, this is the least we can do.
After everyone’s healed and the shop we’ve been hammering away at stands proud, the woman whisks sweat from her brow and leans back to take in a series of long, tired breaths. I try not to look at her, so wrinkled and aged beyond her years. She presses a hand to my shoulders again, and it’s as though all my energy is sapped out of me.