A hand gestures out from under the blankets, pointing. I spot a wooden bucket, and when I lean over it, I can see there’s already water in it…and a gross-looking film on top.
“Well water,” Kalos says in a low voice. I didn’t realize he’d followed me inside. “Something probably died in it.”
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, bracing myself. I ignore the urge to shriek (and alternately dig them a new well). If this is the water they’re working with, we need to at least sterilize it. “I’m going to boil your water first, ma’am,” I say. “You need to do this every time. It gets rid of any microbes or pathogens.”
“What?” she asks, and it’s clear she doesn’t know what those are.
“It gets rid of the Vulture God’s foul touch,” Kalos offers. “He’s cursed the water here.”
I shoot him a look.
Kalos shrugs.
I try to pick up the heavy cauldron by the handle, but it’s like trying to heft a boulder. Jesus, when did I become so weak? I start to drag it across the floor before a hand touches my back, stopping me. Kalos takes it with one hand, lifting it to the hook atop the fireplace. He squats down next to it and taps a finger on the wood left there, and it instantly bursts into flame.
Isneeze.
“The…Vulture…God…has cursed us?” the woman asks as she sits up. I can see a wild array of gray tangles around her head, and her face is heavily lined. The dark circles under her eyes are so pronounced they look like bruises.
“Not you,” Kalos continues, taking the bucket of water and pouring it into the cauldron. “Just your well.”
“But…why?” she asks.
“Who can say what the gods are thinking?” he comments blandly.
I touch his hand to thank him for the assistance. I’m sweating already, and the room feels stifling hot. Probably a touch of fever thanks to him using his magic. “We’re going to boil your water and you’re going to want to do that every time from now on,” I tell her. “Understand?”
Wordless, she nods. Then her face contorts, and she reaches for the bowl next to the bed. I turn away, wincing, as she’s sick, and Kalos moves to my side. He puts an arm around my shoulders, pulling me in close, and leans in to whisper against my ear. “Check the root cellar. She’s eating something that’s bad.”
More than just the water? I nod, trying to focus. It’s difficult when his lips are practically brushing against my earlobe.
The woman in the bed dry heaves, and that ruins the moment.
I turn around, eyeing the floor. “Where’s your root cellar?”
“Don’t steal my food! It’s all I’ve got to eat!”
This is going to be trickier than I thought. “Trust me, I don’t want your food,” I say as nicely as I can. I remind myself that to this woman, I barged into her house and started going through her things. She doesn’t know that I’mnothere to steal from her. I spot a woven rug with a depression under it and flip it back. The moment I do, the sour stinkhits me like a wall. Choking, I step back and go outside for a breath of fresh air, my eyes streaming.
I pull my dress up over my mouth and nose and re-enter the house. “What do you have down there?”
“Pickles,” she says.
“Do they always smell this terrible?” I flip the rug back again and there’s a wooden trap door in the floor. When I lift it, I see a pit a few feet deep, and inside it is jar after jar of what must be canned vegetables. I lift one into the air to get a good look at it and it’s cloudy inside. Bad choices, indeed.
“Just this batch,” she says, panting. “But I don’t have anything else to eat.”
Poor woman. I give Kalos a helpless look.
He shrugs, holding his hands out as if to say, what do you expect me to do?
“We’re going to get you something decent to eat,” I promise her. “But don’t eat these. Feed them to your pig.” I hesitate, because I don’t want her to poison her pig, either. “Actually, don’t do that. Let me think.”
Would burying them solve the problem? Pouring them out and re-using the jars sounds like it would create a toxic mess. I rub my forehead, thinking, but the noxious smell is getting to me. Covering my mouth, I fight the urge to dry heave myself.
Kalos sighs heavily, as if he’s incredibly put out. “You owe me a favor,” he mutters to me and takes the jar from my hands and stares at it. As I watch, the cloudy contents become clear, showcasing what look like pickled turnips inside.
I sneeze violently again, three times in a row. Then, three times more, until my head is throbbing. He hands the jar back to me and I point at the rest of the woman’s cache. “Can you do all of them?”
