21: A Beautiful painting

21

Lillian

All the strength drains from me the moment I reach Grot. My mission is complete and I can now peacefully give up. My leg falls into oblivion as I stumble down cavern stairs. Over a crumbling bridge for passage across knife sharp stalagmites. Empty spirit lights. Barren halls. Bustle of movement; life, voices, people.

The world quickens. Spins. Slippery walls, orange fire flashing, conversations raise. Shouts: Kutu njavale, where was she?; I thought someone chained her up, gave her medicine?; there was not any left, it is all my fault.

Feather brush of ginger curls. Glimmer of emeralds falling in chunks, patter cooly. Surrounded by brimstone, warmth. My tongue weighs a ton, hah, and I can’t tell them I’m ok, really. It’s just a scratch, or a few. I can’t tell them that my chest is burning, my arm is spasming; the one that isn’t there. It’s fine, really. Somehow, it’s beautiful. A kaleidoscope of pain. Kenneth would like that, he’d tell me to make it into a painting poem. What colours could I use? What words?

There are other colours now, ones that don’t exist here in Grotel. Ones I’ve never seen before.

Spirits, what a beautiful painting.

***

Waking is more painful that going to sleep, especially when a bundle of hair collides into me as soon as I lift myself from the soft sheets. This room is small, dug from the walls of the cave, and one that I have visited before. It was crafted with passionate intent and some level of skill owed to the architect who carefully planned out this space. To the left of this oval shaped room is a table carved from the limestone walls with a bumpy and chipped surface. It is worn from use and many spillages it has withstood. Twisting glass equipment balance on its rigged face, meant to be filled by the assortment of herbs and liquid solutions nestled in a deep nook at the right of the room. Amongst these ingredients are vials upon vials of medicine. Pieces of parchment are wrapped around their centre with details of what they are and who they are for. On the side of the room I find myself in are mismatched beds lined up in an unorganised manner to fit the disarrayed curvature of the wall. This is where Cedar spends her days, mixing and prescribing medicine for our outlawed community. A whirl of words pours from her thin, pink lips, muffled by tears and the bandage encasing my chest.

“Oh Gods, I am sorry, I am so sorry. This is all my fault. We only had rope and I ran out of the ingredients I need. I am sorry.” The voice I’ve grown to love more than any other sound chokes and breaks. My heart throbs, though that could also be from the pressure being applied to my wounds. A deeper rumble which has made me laugh and swoon simultaneously scorns,

“Cedar, give her some space. That’s got to hurt more than swimming in lava.” Cedar eases her hold on me and directs her light touch to my face, inspecting for any potential injuries as she likely has been for the last few hours. My brain swims in my skull as I turn to face the second person in the room.

Kenneth, owner of the rumbling voice, sits upon the only wooden table in the room. Its legs bend unsteadly and it wobbles whenever he moves. I’ve warned him hundreds of times that one of these days it's going to break from underneath him and he’ll be left with nothing but a smug ‘I told you so’. At this point, I’m anticipating that virtuous day. Sadly, he seems to remember my past cautions and hops off when our eyes lock. Not without a knowing smirk first. He creeps forward, his usually confident steps softened by worry, as if too mighty a tramp would break every bone in my body. 

“Those evening hikes are serving you well,” he jokes with a wary glimpse at my chest, “you look radiant as ever.”

“Hardy har.” The words come out in a scraping husk against my throat, “Aren’t you just the court jester.” Cedar checks under the bandages, then, grabs a salve off of a small stand beside the tiny bed. Kenneth, heeding no mind to this, darts over, nimble as a dancer, and nearly knocks Cedar off the bed as he pushes her aside for space. She glowers at him and resumes her work; peeling back the bandage to apply the stingy paste she curated.

“Seriously,” Kenneth begins and takes my hand in his, “Are you ok?” I shrug,

“As ok as an evening hike will do me.” I turn to Cedar, “Infection?” She bites her lip and her ears, identical to a deer and as soft as one too, droop. Her emotions, which have always been splayed clearly on her face, tell me everything I need to know, but she nods anyway. I had figured as much, which sucks as it means I’ll be longer on the mend, but as long as I’m in her care, I’ll be alright. She’s one of the best healers in Grot and she’s healed me enough to know my body better than I do. Despite this, if her confidence were ranked on a scale from one to ten, it would be below zero.

“Yes, I am so sorry.” Her emerald eyes shimmer, broken only by horizontal pupils in their centre, “I swear I will have the potion ready next time, there was not enough moon crystals.” She rubs a freckled palm along her cheek, smearing the tears that have flowed there. Her sadness stings my eyes but I ward it away by bringing a soft smile to my lips. 

“Hey, I know you will,” I say gently. I release my hold on Kenneth’s calloused hand to cup Cedar’s lightly fluffed face, “Come here.” I plant a tender kiss on her cheek and scrub the tears from her face with my thumb. A whisper of a smile brushes across her features. She turns away quickly before the all-consuming blush rushes to the surface of her skin. Kenneth pokes my leg.

“What about me?” he whines sarcastically. I roll my eyes to match his attitude and work past the sicking spin my head takes.

“What about you?” I mock, but a look at his heavy, angular features turned into a stupid pout bursts a laugh from me. The bubbling feeling is almost pleasant enough the ignore the wounds that stretch with my stomach. I grasp his chin in my hand.

“You oaf.” His lips press into mine for a second before I pull him away, “ Happy?”

“I s’pose.” He smirks with a glint in his dark resin eyes. The sound of rock grating against rock snaps us out of our squabbles. Cedar scoots onto the bed and takes Kenneth’s place with a powerful bump of her hip.

“Do not work her up too much. I have work to do,” she demands authoritatively, an artist at her craft. In her hands, she holds a pestle and mortar which she grinds dry violet petals and other green plants into an aromatic cluster. I hope this will be one of her more tasty potions. I slump back into the poorly stuffed pillow behind me and shoo Kenneth away with a lazy wave of my hand.

“Yeah, get outta here. Go hit sloppy metals with rocks or whatever it is you do.” He straightens into a military like stance; hands firmly to his sides and eyes straight ahead. Ready to defend his family’s profession, as always.

“Ma’am, I’ll have you know my ‘metals’ and ‘rocks’, as you diligently say, are being smuggled to important figures worldwide to fight in the war. They are the reason we are alive today,” he reports with a short harrumph towards the end.

“Pshhh,” is my response to this valiant claim, “Metals and rocks.” He flashes me a grin, the gap between his front teeth on full display, and dashes out of the room. I fall into the reluctant comfort of the bed and let the tension drain from my torso. Cedar massages another balm into my shoulder, I close my eyes as it prickles. Her herby concoction steams over a fire lit in a carved arch. Minutes pass in tranquil unity. She pours the broth into a ceramic mug and brings it towards me. As soon as its scent hits my nose, a jolt of excitement raises me.

“Holy mother of cheese and crackers, is this just tea? I swore I wouldn’t taste tea again as soon as fish grew knuckles,” I ramble, my tongue alight and alive. Cedar peers at her creation quizzically.

“Um, we did not have such thing in my tribe. We call this an su modhleaba.” Despite her assertion, I am inclined to disagree. The water is so perfectly brown and murky and smells like a field overdosing on rose petals. What else can it be? It’s tea.

“No. You’ve just reinvented tea, Cedar. You’re a genius.” I reach eagerly for the mug. She begins to protest, but allows me to take it after she attempts to inform me of why her tribe called this drink whatever they called it. Whatever, her tribe are fish-smellers anyway. I lift the mug to my lips and allow the scalding liquid to burn my throat. The taste is a blossom of natural tones and warm hints.

“Not so fast!” Cedar shouts but the drink is already alighting in my stomach and causing tuyilong dances to leap contagiously through my blood cells. Once I have the taste, I can’t stop. It’s addictive. Cedar swipes the mug away but the world is already becoming hazy. It fades, coalesces and drips like watercolour. My mouth feels numb and my lips huge as my fingers roam across my face. I fall onto the pillow and slip into gouache splattered dreams.