That was the hardest emotion to admit: not wanting to not say goodbye—purposefully clouding that up with double negatives. I didn’t know what I wanted, but I knew I didn’t want any of the things that were back there, which presented themselves now like phantoms of what I had never had.
I coughed.
I let myself not miss my mother only because a part of me believed there was a version of me who was still back there. The me who hadn’t slipped through time. If a part of her was still back there standing in the kitchen, counting to ten, then a part of me had to be back there too. No need to do anything about that.
I kept coughing and when I breathed, I tasted acid, pure smoke. Something was really wrong. I rubbed my eyes and they stung. The tears I was crying weren’t from memories, they were from smoke. I opened my eyes and suddenly the land was awash with it. Long tentacles of smoke wrapped through the trees of the surrounding woodland and for a moment I was completely blinded by it. A thick fog enveloped me—clearly from a fire somewhere—but there was a chemical flavor to it, it didn’t smell like regular smoke, like firewood or burning rubbish. It mademe stop thinking about Mum at least. I got a grip. I ran to the house—it wasn’t on fire, thankfully. I ran to the animals and considered letting them out of their pens in case there was a forest fire or something. I scanned the treeline, looking for flames, but saw none. Then somehow, as huge as it was, the wave of smoke passed and the air began to clear out. The toxic cloud continued moving across the landscape. I tried to think of a scientific explanation, something about weather inversions, trapped emissions, maybe the environment here was actually worse off than it would be in the future. The smoke moved like a sentient being, crossing through neighboring fields, pressing through hedgerows until it was completely out of sight.
I walked back to my digging site and counted my breaths with each step. The air cleared up. I thought about those dragons no one seemed to be able to form a consensus on. They existed, they didn’t, they were huge, they were tiny, they spoke English, they spoke Welsh, they were in Yorkshire, they were in Scotland. No one seemed to have actually seen one because of course no one ever lived to tell the tale—convenient. It was always someone’s cousin, or in Simon’s case, his uncle.
A dragon had landed on him, squashed him to death. And these rumors came from people in town—in Scarborough, in York, or down the coast in Filey—silly, inconsequential people. I shouldn’t think like that. What a modern form of judgment to have. I wished I could commit to something. Did I want to live out here or not? I thought about my mum one more time and waited for any lingering emotions to come blaring back. They never did and I scolded myself for thinking dumb, modern thoughts of grief and family. My cough never came back and I continued my work without interruption.
I saw Simon’s torch ten minutes before he was anywhere near me. I watched it squiggle its way through the woods. He pulled a gray donkey behind him, and strapped to the donkey were bags of food—grains, roots, some leafy greens, seeds, and bundles of herbs. Most of this would have come from neighboring tenants within our manor on his return trip (selling goods on his way, buying goods on the return, netting an even, feudal zero), with the more rare and bulk commodities like salt, herbs, and the donkey coming from Scarborough.
“I got you a nettle and yarrow salve for your cough.” He showed me a little ceramic jar. “It’s supposed to work better than the mullein but you have to apply it directly to the back of your throat.”
I looked at him questionably but said nothing.
“You’ll be compliant,” he said with a mock seriousness. “I heard you coughing all the way down the hill.”
I waved him off. He complimented me on the trench. I didn’t ask if he had seen or smelled the smoke from earlier and maybe I should have, but truthfully it was completely out of my mind, I was too exhausted from the day and happy he was back, eager to laugh and get the news of the day, to think up names for the new donkey (Steven, Maurice, Donkey Kong) as we walked back to the house together.
For dinner we ate the rest of a bone marrow we had been cooking off for three days. The fat slipped warm and buttery down my throat, soothing it. A tight grip squeezed its way through my arteries, little bubbles of energy burning off, warming me up. To be so aware of the world working within and without was a thrill and so much of my day was occupied with this, the simple study of sensation. I couldn’t help but smile.
Later, when we were getting ready for bed, Simon came to me with the opened jar of gloopy herbs he had bought.
“I’m not eating that,” I said.
“You’re not eating it. You’re coating your throat with it.” He sat me down on the bed and sat in front of me cross-legged. “Open up.”
“I’m fine now, honestly. Can I drink it as a tea or something tomorrow? I don’t want that right before bed. My cough is gone.”
“George. I’m your doctor.” Simon smiled. “You just put it in the back of your throat, leave it for a minute, then wash it down. Here’s some water. The lady at the apothecary said if you gag, that’s good, that’s what’s supposed to happen.”
“Fine. I’ll be compliant,” I said in a mocking tone. Simon stayed in front of me and watched as I took the mixture and gathered a scoop of it with one finger. Carefully, I stuck it in the back of my mouth, which was hard to do without gagging or involuntarily swallowing it all. I caught a taste of it off the back of my tongue—an acidic, tart pepperiness—and winced and choked on it. It went down worse than the bone marrow. The beeswax used to thicken the salve stuck to my tongue. I reached for the water.
“Here—” Simon took the mixture and moved closer. I resisted but he leaned in, close enough that I froze, defenseless. “Keep your mouth open and don’t move.” He peered down my throat, dipped his finger in the jar, then slowly put it inside my mouth. I flinched but didn’t pull away. His finger was steady enough that no part of it touched me until it was all the way at the back and I felt a warm, single impression on the back of my throat.
“Slow...” he said. He held it there. My eyes watered.
“It’s supposed to sting a bit,” he said, but I felt the opposite. A numbing coolness radiated slowly from where he was pressing. My breath warmed the rest of his fingers, which touched against my lips. We locked eyes with each other. We were used to physically tending to each other—like monkeys picking fleas from each other—but never quite like this. There was such a calming vulnerability, a delicate invitation, an entrance.
Something unlocked inside me, something I had been meaning to say—something that was more than anything I’d have been able to say if Simon’s hand hadn’t been inside my mouth. A silent address passed between us. Seconds of chance, doubt, and hope ticked by. The smallest of smiles was on Simon’s face and that was all I needed to ease into one daring, blind leap, and slowly close my lips over his finger. Our movements were symphonic: my mouth closing around his finger, lips puckering and sucking as he gently pulled it out. I tasted the herbs again and finally got their notes of sweetness. Tip of finger touched tip of tongue. Simon’s mouth was open in awe. We said nothing. Only continued to stare at each other. Two locked sets of eyes. Simon broke away first, he looked down.
“Here,” he said, handing me the water. I took it and drank slowly. My throat felt chilled and I closed my eyes. I couldn’t believe what I had just done. When I opened them, Simon was looking at me again.
Looked away.
Looked back.
Took the cup, set it aside.
Looked again.
“Let me see again,” he said. I opened my mouth and gave an exaggeratedahhhlike a patient. Simon inspected and nodded,content with what he saw. “Good boy,” he said and gently patted my cheek, then caught himself, as if this was a step too far, and looked away. He quickly added with a chuckle, “This makes up for the last time I had my hand in your mouth.”
“What?” I said.
He froze. His smile twisted and turned. He hesitated and frowned. “Come on,” he said. “I shouldn’t need to remind you.” He made a fist with his hand and held it up to me. He watched me nervously and immediately I knew, I remembered. A vale of shame went over his face. That first day. The men who had beat me, tied me up, and taken me in. He and Wulfric. Simon had been the one who shoved his fist in my mouth. The way I had choked, bit down, fought back, and been hammered in return. My jaw was sprained and stung for days. I still felt a pop every now and then where something had been dislocated and healed strangely.
