Song of Oestend (33 page)

not overly so. She grabbed his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. “He won’t break his promise,” she said. “He told you true.”

He hoped she was right, but at the same time he knew there was no point in worrying

about it. Olsa, on the other hand? He decided it made sense to worry about her.

“It’s too cold in here,” he said to Tama. “Do you have warming pans?”

“Of course.”

“That’s what she needs. And more blankets. And…” He tried to think what they’d done

for boys at the boarding school. “Make a mixture of lemon juice, warm honey and whisky.

That will help with her cough.”

Tama shook her head in confusion. “What’s lemon juice?”

Aren cursed. He hadn’t seen a citrus fruit since leaving the continent. “Use water,” he told her. “Water, honey and whisky. Don’t get that rotgut from Red either. If there’s no good whisky in the house, you can go get mine.”

So began Aren’s vigil.

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He stayed in the chair by her bed all day and all night, giving her the honey mixture. It did seem to cut down on her coughing and although her fever didn’t break it didn’t seem to get any worse, either.

By the second day, she seemed to be better. Tama brought beef broth with barley in it, and Olsa managed to eat a bit. She coughed less, and she had regained some of her usual orneriness.

“Go home!” she snapped at Aren that evening. “Having you hovering over me won’t

make me better!”

Although he felt he should stay, his aching back begged otherwise. The idea of another night sleeping in the chair didn’t sound appealing. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” he told her.

“I’ll be up and ready to take my spoon to you.” But she was wrong.

Tama was banging on his door as soon as the sun was up. “She’s worse,” she said when

he opened the door. “Much worse.”

Olsa was no longer coughing. She seemed barely conscious, and Aren could tell before

he even touched her that her fever was higher than ever. She shivered under the covers, although sweat beaded her brow.

“This is bad,” he said to Tama. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Deacon,” Olsa croaked. Her hand clamped down on Aren’s wrist, and he noticed her

grip was far weaker than it had been two days before. “Need Deacon.”

“He’s not here,” Aren said, taking her hand and holding it between his. “He went to

town. He’ll be back tomorrow. Just hang on—”

“No.” She shook her head. “Not tomorrow. The rain.”

Those few words seemed to exhaust her, and she closed her eyes, breathing hard.

“Don’t worry,” Aren told her. “You need to rest. I’ll bring Deacon to you as soon as he gets home.”

She slept fitfully for most of the day. Shortly before dark, her wrinkled hand found his again. “Aolo’ui,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Aren said. “I don’t know that word.”

“Tell Deacon, aolo’ui.”

“Oh-lo-hu-ee?”

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“Aoilo’ui.”

“Ah-lo-hue-eye?” It was frustrating. Their language was so different. The vowel sounds seemed different than any he’d ever heard, somehow longer, and with completely new inflections. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t seem to mimic them.

“He’ll say it won’t work,” she said. “Tell him to try.”

“I will,” he assured her. “But you have to rest.”

The next morning, he awoke to thunder. Even down in the basement, in Olsa’s tiny

room, he heard it. He left her side and wandered upstairs to the kitchen. It was a journey he’d made many times in the previous days, but this time the trip seemed ominous. He could hear a dull roar ahead of him, behind him, all around him.

He made it to the kitchen and stood looking out of the door, stunned and horrified. It was like no rain he’d ever seen. It was a river pouring from the sky. The water barrel on the roof of the barracks was already running over. The courtyard was nearly two inches deep in water. Lightning seemed to crackle constantly and the thunder no longer boomed. It was a steady, low rumble, ever-present, buried just beneath the sound of the driving rain.

“Holy Saints!” Aren said. “What the blessed hell is going on?”

“Monsoon,” Daisy said behind him. “We only get them a couple of times a year, but

they make up for it when they’re here.”

“Will it last all day?”

“Not like this,” she said. “Another hour or two and it’ll die down, but yeah, probably won’t stop until around supper.”

Aren’s heart sank. This was the day Deacon was due home, but he knew there was no

way he and Red would force the horses to travel in such weather. He was probably holed up in the McAllen barn. Aren found at that moment that he didn’t even care whether or not Deacon had one of the maids for company. All he knew was, Olsa needed him. By the time Deacon made it home, Aren feared it would be too late.

By afternoon, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, and Olsa fought for every breath. Aren could hear the rattle deep in her chest.

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“Hold on,” he begged as he held her hand. “Hold on. Just one more day.”

He nearly wept with relief when the sun rose the next morning and Olsa’s laboured

breathing hadn’t stopped. He stayed by her side all morning, but after the dinner bell, he broke his vigil to eat. Afterwards, he went to the barn, where he found Ronin and Frances doing chores. He pulled Frances aside.

“Their horses will be tired,” Aren told him. “You have a fresh one ready. As soon as

you see him, you run it out to him and tell him to get here as fast as the blessed animal can carry him. Understand?”

“Of course.”

“Tell him it’s Olsa, and to come straight to her room.”

“You got it, boss,” Frances said.

Aren was halfway back to Olsa’s room before he realised Frances had called him ‘boss’.

At any other time he might have found it amusing, but now it only served to underline the fact that the real boss wasn’t around.

He held on to Olsa’s hand over the next few hours. He listened to her breathing as it became even shallower. It felt like an eternity, but finally he heard footsteps running down the stairs.

“He’s coming,” Tama said, bursting into the room.

“You hear that?” Aren said to Olsa. “He’s coming. Don’t you die yet!”

He would have known it was Deacon coming down the stairs even if Tama hadn’t told

him. He knew the weight and the cadence of his footfalls. “What is it?” he asked, coming into her room.

As soon as his eyes landed on her, he moaned. Aren moved quickly out of his way so

Deacon could take his chair at her side. “Olsa?” he said, his voice soft. There was no response. He turned to Aren. “How long?”

“Since you left,” Aren told him, “but it wasn’t this bad until the day before last.”

He saw the understanding in Deacon’s eyes. If it were the first day, there might be

hope, but now it seemed they could only wait for the end.

Deacon turned back to her. He picked up her tiny, withered hand and held it in

between his own large ones. “I should have been here sooner,” he said. “I should have come through the rain.”

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“There’s no way you could have known,” Aren said. “Even if you’d been here, there’s

nothing you could have done.” Even as he said it, though, he found himself thinking about what Olsa had told him. Maybe there
was
something Deacon could do. “She said to tell you, ool-oh-uly.” He knew the sounds weren’t right, even before Deacon turned to look at him in obvious confusion. “Owl-ole-yu-li,” he tried again.

It still wasn’t right, but he saw the understanding dawn in Deacon’s eyes. “Aolo’ui?”

“Yes!” Aren said with relief.

Deacon shook his head. “It won’t work.”

“She said you’d say that. She said to try.”

Deacon still had her hand between his, and he put his head down on them, breathing

deeply. “It won’t work,” he whispered. “It’s folk tales. It can’t help.”

Aren put his hand on Deacon’s back, imagining he could somehow pour strength and

belief into Deacon. “Does it hurt to try?”

It took Deacon a moment to answer. He stayed where he was, his head down. Finally,

he took a deep breath. He sat up and looked at Olsa.

“Laa’ha ma aolo’ui?” he whispered.

And Olsa heard! Although she hadn’t reacted to anything else in two days, there was

no doubt she heard his voice. Her head turned towards him. Her eyes didn’t open, and she said, “Ai’loma.” Her voice wasn’t even a whisper, only a tiny, shallow breath, but Deacon sagged with relief. He leaned over and kissed her forehead before jumping up so fast he startled Aren.

Deacon strode to one of the cabinets in Olsa’s room and pulled it open. He searched

through it, finally pulling out a small bowl and pestle, and a tiny corked bottle. He turned and handed them to Aren.

“Get ash from the hearth,” he said. “Not any hearth, either. The one she cooks at.” He pointed to the bottle. “Mix in some of that, so it’s a paste. Then add enough water to thin it down. It needs to be like paint.”

“I will,” Aren promised, and rushed to do as he’d been told. He didn’t know why

Deacon needed paint made from ash, but he didn’t care. Anything was better than sitting and watching Olsa die.

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When it was done, he took the bowl back to her room. He stopped short in the

doorway, in surprise. Deacon was drawing signs on the walls, singing as he did. All around the room, all over the walls, was the same symbol over and over again. It wasn’t the same as the wards or the mark on Aren’s cellar door, but it was similar—a circle with a strange series of lines inside.

Deacon’s song stopped when he saw Aren in the doorway. He put down his chalk and

turned to take the bowl of paint. “In the same cabinet, there’s a paintbrush,” he said.

It didn’t take long for Aren to find it. It was a crude brush, made by binding horse tail hairs to a stick. Deacon had brushed her hair off her forehead and unlaced the top of her nightgown, gently pushing it aside to expose the top of her chest.

Deacon took the brush from Aren, and he began to sing again. It was like the song Olsa had sung over his cellar in that it seemed to be only a few words repeated over and over, but Aren knew it wasn’t the same song. This one sounded sweeter. And as Deacon sang, he painted. He painted a mark on her forehead, and on the back of each hand, and on her chest.

It was the same symbol he’d drawn on the walls of her room.

“Le’ama aolo’ui, eye’nay lao’ola. Le’ama aolo’ui, eye’nay lao’ola. Le’ama aolo’ui,

eye’nay lao’ola,” Deacon sang, over and over again. Even after the symbols were done, he sang. He sat at her side, holding her hand carefully so as not to disturb the sign he’d painted, and he sang on. Whether he believed it would help or not, Aren didn’t know, but he seemed to find strength in having something to do. “Le’ama aolo’ui, eye’nay lao’ola. Le’ama aolo’ui, eye’nay lao’ola.”

Aren sat down on the floor. He leant back against the door with a tired sigh, and he

drifted off to sleep.

Aren awoke an indeterminable time later, when the door he was leaning against

opened a crack.

“I’m sorry,” Tama whispered. “I thought you could use a break.”

“We could,” Aren confessed.

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He looked over at Olsa and Deacon. Deacon had moved from the chair. He was sitting

on the floor next to the bed, his head resting next to Olsa’s hand. He was still singing, although his voice was little more than a rasp. “Le’ama aolo’ui, eye’nay lao’ola. Le’ama aolo’ui, eye’nay lao’ola.”

Aren stood up, stretching his cramped and aching muscles. His back was killing him.

He couldn’t even remember what a real bed felt like anymore. Deacon didn’t move. He

seemed to be half asleep, although his singing went on. “Le’ama aolo’ui, eye’nay lao’ola.

Le’ama aolo’ui, eye’nay lao’ola.”

Aren moved as quietly as he could to look down on Olsa. Her chest still rose and fell.

Not only that, Aren heard no rattle. He put his hand on her forehead. It was warm still, but nothing like it had been before.

It seemed like Deacon’s song had worked, but Aren didn’t want to assume too much.

She’d seemed to get better once before, too.

Aren put his hand gently on Deacon’s back, and Deacon’s head popped up. His words

died away. He looked up at Aren with eyes full of grief. “Is she dead?” he asked.

“No. She’s asleep.” He reached down and took Deacon’s arm, pulling him to his feet.

“Come on. Let’s go home where we can sleep in a real bed.”

“Can’t,” Deacon said, although his voice was mostly gone. “Dark.”

“How do you know?” Aren asked. There were no windows in the basement. Aren had

no idea what time it was.

“Generator,” Deacon rasped.

Once he listened, he could hear it. He’d grown so used to its incessant whine, he barely noticed it anymore. He looked over at Tama.

“Is there an extra room?”

“Yes,” she said. “Upstairs—”

“I won’t leave her!”

“Deacon,” Aren said, thinking to reason with him, but Tama interrupted him.

“The next room down was Gordon’s,” she said. “It’s closer, but there’s only one bed.”

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Aren said. “It’s not like I have the option of going home.”

“But—” Deacon started to protest.

“I’ll wake you if anything changes,” Tama said. “Aren’s right. You should sleep.”

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The fight seemed to have gone out of Deacon. Aren took one of the candles with him,

and Deacon allowed himself to be led down the short hallway to the only other room in the basement. It was small, but the bed looked clean. It wasn’t as big as Aren’s bed at his house, but it was big enough for them both if they didn’t move too much.