18

At the Threshold

Peter limped wearily home from the wedding.

He had decided that Sultan needed a rest, and had walked all the way, along the forest path that led home. The trees crowded in on him, silent but strong, and once again Peter had the sense of being watched. He shook his head free from the feeling; he had more pressing things to worry about. His side and back still hurt from the blows he’d taken.

He staggered across the bridge, and let Sultan find his own way to his stable.

As soon as he crossed the threshold he knew things were wrong. Tomas lay on the floor of the hut, his eyes open.

“Father!”

Peter rushed to him.

“What happened?”

He smelt the drink that clung to his father’s clothes, to his breath. A smashed stone jar of slivovitz lay nearby, its dregs oozing into the earthen floor.

“I can’t move my arm,” Tomas said, “or my leg.”

He nodded his head at his left side, on which he was lying. His eyes looked at Peter wildly, like those of a frightened dog.

Peter was scared, and what scared him the most was seeing that his father was afraid. It was not something he had thought possible.

“Help me up,” Tomas said.

His father was very heavy, and his being a dead weight, unable to move two of his limbs, made it hard to lift him properly. Despite his strength, it was all Peter could manage to drag his father to his bed and haul him onto it.

“The drink,” Peter said as gently as he could, though he felt angry inside. “The drink did that to you.”

“Nonsense,” Tomas spluttered out. “I had a fall.”

Peter said nothing. Tomas did not have falls. But then, his hands never used to shake either.

He didn’t believe his father, but he didn’t want to fight him. He needed to keep things simple. Practical.

“Are you in pain?” he asked.

“A little,” Tomas said. “Nothing serious. Just can’t move my damn arm.”

Peter pulled the covers from under his father, and put them over him. Then he went and stoked the stove, and made some soup. By the time he had done that, Tomas seemed slightly better.

“I think I can move my fingers,” Tomas said. “Yes? Are they moving?”

Peter wondered why Tomas couldn’t tell for himself. He didn’t want to think about what it meant. He looked at his father’s hands, but could see no movement at all.

“Yes, Father,” he said, “I think they are moving.”

With that, Tomas had exhausted himself. He fell asleep, but even in his sleep he tried to move his fingers, as if to close them around something, something like the hilt of a sword.

Dreams rode like wild horses through Tomas’s sleep, dreams in which he himself was riding, and riding hard.

Riding out for a reason, for a cause.

A good cause.