But Thorn’s hands were not like Duun’s. His skin was not. And Thorn had begun to take alarm, suspecting imbalance in the world.
Duun gathered him close, as he had done when Thorn was smaller, rolled him into his lap and poked him in the belly, which Thorn resisted for a moment, and writhed, and finally gave way to, in squeals and laughter and abortive attempts to retaliate in kind. Duun let him have that victory, sprawled backward on the sand before the fire, belly heaving under Thorn’s slight weight, in laughter which was not reflexive, like Thorn’s. To be touched on throat or belly went against instinct. There was a sense of peril in that abandonment.
But a child had to win. Sometimes. And lose sometimes. There was strength in both.
“Follow, follow,” he urged the child, looking downhill. The rocky incline was a great trial for small legs, and Duun’s stride was long. Thorn stood with legs apart, arms hanging, and staggered a few more knock-kneed steps. “Keep climbing,” Duun said. “You can.”
A few more steps. Thorn fell and cried, a weak, breathless sobbing. “I can’t.”
“You have breath left to cry, you have breath to get up. Come on. Up! Shall I be ashamed?”
“I hurt my knee!” Thorn sat up, clutching it and rocking.
“I hurt my hand once. Get up and come on. Someone is chasing us.”
Thorn caught his breath and looked downtrail, still hiccuping.
“Perhaps it will eat us,” Duun said. “Get up. Come on.”
Thorn let go his reddened knee. Limbs struggled. Thorn got to his feet, wobbled, and came on desperately.
“I lied,” said Duun. “But so did you. You could get up. Come on.”
Sobs and snuffles. Wails of rage. Thorn kept walking. Duun walked with shorter strides, as if the way had gotten steeper for him as well.
“Again.” Duun gave Thorn another small stone. Thorn threw. It hit a rock not so high up the cliffs as before. “Not so good. Again.”
“You do it.”
Duun threw. It sailed up and up and struck near the top of the sheer face. The child’s mouth stayed open in dismay.
“That is what I can do,” Duun said. “Match that.”
“I can’t.”
“My ears are bad. Something said can’t.”
Thorn took the rock. Tears welled up in his eyes. He threw. The stone fell ignominiously awry and lost itself among the rocks at the bottom of the cliff.
“Ah. I have frightened you. Thorn is scared. I hear can’t again.”
“I hate you!”
“Throw at me, then. I’m closer. Perhaps you can hit me.” Duun gave Thorn another stone.
Thorn’s face was red. His eyes watered and his lips trembled. He whirled and threw it at the cliff instead.
So.
“That was your highest yet,” Duun said.
* * *
* * *
III
The meds came back. Ellud was with them. “Ellud,” Duun said.
“You look well,” Ellud said, with one long searching look. With a furtive sliding of the eyes toward Thorn, who stood his ground in the main hall of the house, where the hated meds prepared their discomforts. Thorn scowled. The sun had turned his naked skin a golden brown. His hair, which Duun cut to a length that did not catch twigs or blind him when he worked, was a clean and shining earth color. His eyes were as much white as blue. His nose had gotten more prominent, his teeth were strong, if blunt. He stood still. His poor ears could not move. Only the regular flaring of his nostrils betrayed his dislike.
“Thorn,” Duun said. “Come here. This is Ellud. Be polite, Thorn.”
“Is he a med?” Thorn asked suspiciously.
Ellud’s ears sank. A rock might have spoken to him in plain accents and shocked him no less. He looked at Duun. Said nothing.
“No.” said Duun. “A friend. Many years ago.”
Thorn looked up and blinked. A med came and got him and prepared to take his pulse.
“Come back to town,” Ellud said. “Duun, come back.”
“Is that a request or an order?”
“Duun-”
“I’d remind you that you promised me anything. Not yet, Ellud.”
That evening Thorn was silent, gloomy, thoughtful. He did not ask about Ellud. Did not discuss the meds.