So, finally, was the pain. He passed out
The face that formed before Caitland’s eyes was a woman’s, but not the one he’d been soundlessly dreaming of. The hair was gray, not blond; the face lined, not smooth; skin wrinkled and coarse hi the hollows instead of tear-polished; and the blouse was of red-plaid flannel instead of silk. Only the eyes bore any resemblance to the dream, eyes even bluer than those of the teasing sleep-wraith.
An aroma redolent of fresh bread and steaming meats impinged on his smelling apparatus. It made his mouth water so bad it hurt. At the same time a storm of memories came flooding back. He tried to sit up.
Something started playing a staccato tune on his ribs with a ball-peen hammer. Falling back, he clutched at a point on his left side. Gentle but firm hands exerted pressure there. He allowed them to remove his own, set them back at his sides.
The voice was strong but not deep. It shared more with those blue blue eyes than the parchment skin. “I’m glad you’re finally awake, young man. Though heaven knows you’ve no right to be. I’m afraid your machine is a total loss.”
She stood. A straight shape of average height, slim figure, eyes, and flowing gray hair down to her waist; the things anyone would notice first.
He couldn’t guess at her age. Well past sixty, though.
“Can you talk? Do you have a name? Or should I go ahead and splint your tongue along with your leg?” Caitland raised his head, moved the. blankets aside,
212
Ye Who Would Sing
and stared down at himself. His left leg was neatly splinted. It was complemented by numerous other signs of repair, most notably the acre of bandage that encircled his chest.