One
He gripped the roughly hewn table with both hands, forcing
himself to concentrate on the picturesque view of the Boronda Forest beyond his
kitchen window, as it faded in favor of the horrific scene.
Bloody soldiers lay scattered in his reminiscence like the
deadfall they were. My team of medics and
I can’t keep up with the gruesome injuries. Arrows are whizzing close to our
heads and roots are bursting from the ground to choke us. Body parts flung high
in trees, left to hang, and picked clean by scavengers.
He was safe. The horrific scenes were in his mind, exhumed
by his traumatized memory.
Sweat dampened his forehead. Rhycious fought the flashback’s
wave with even, regulated breaths. Gritted teeth unclenched one facial muscle
at a time, and his back straightened with determination, vertebrae by
vertebrae.
He didn’t start the battle that had lasted two centuries,
but the clashing mythics had damn well become his emotional baggage.
Rock music played from the boom box rigged to a solar
battery on the granite counter. Sliding notes of an electric guitar drove home
the time in which he lived.
Nowadays, turmoil imploded within the Centaur community, no
outside sources required. Senior herd leaders remained prejudiced against
Satyrs, Minotaurs, and other woodland races—Nymphs topped the list.
Upon declaring the end of the bloody, two hundred year
Centaur -Wood Nymph war, Queen Savella of the Centaurs dictated that all within
the immense forest live in harmony. Against bitter opposition from various
leaders, she and the reigning Wood Nymph king signed the Cessation of Enmity
into effect one hundred thirty years ago.
No longer were there severed appendages requiring him to
staunch the flow of blood. Lately, broken bones, babies, and illnesses made up
the repertoire of his remedy making.
Over his lifeless body, and those who supported the Queen,
would the old days return. War and hatred killed Centaur and other species
alike. Death never discriminated.
After another cleansing breath, he used his sleeve to wipe
his forehead and forced himself to settle down.
A second glance revealed the hour—almost 10:00 p.m., past
time to begin mixing herbs for the pregnant Centaur who relied on his remedies.
In her equine form, she was unable to vomit, tying her guts up in knots. Colic
was a life-threatening condition for his race.
Depending upon
the time of day a Centaur was born, and the gravitation pull of the moon, his
or her transitional phase differed. Never at one time would all be in human or
equine forms, which came in handy for defense purposes and blending in with the
modern world.
Festival of the Trees was several weeks away. It was a time
of great fertility for all Bacchus’s woodland creatures. Eleven months after
the celebration, Rhycious’s obstetrician skills would be put to the test.
The thought dropped his stomach to the floor while his
anger took an elevator up. There would be more female Centaurs requesting a
simple diagnosis for ailments easily attended to by other healers. This year,
he would refer those cases away, leaving him with the emergency patients.
The less everyone bothered him, the better. His tail gave a
vicious swish and slapped the pot-bellied stove behind him.
“Got to get my ass in gear here,” he mumbled.
Turning to the worktable, he shook off the last of the
residual effects of his most recent episode of posttraumatic stress disorder.
This incident had been mild compared to others he ’d experienced.
Something he needed at the moment.
He grabbed another baggie and a dry flag of raspberry.
Muted sounds of twigs cracking outside brought his head around.
“What the hell now?” He strode a few hoofsteps to peer out
the front window.
Between the mini blind’s metal slats, the familiar sight of
Samuel Beiler’s horse and black Amish buggy came into view. The draped window
at chest level concealed his lower body from view, and Rhycious released the
blinds with a vicious snap. Outside in the dark was the only human to know him
as a Centaur. For the safety of his people, it would stay that way.
He rested his hands on his hips and gazed down, fighting a
wave of anger with a pawing hoof. Irritation swept through him for the
unannounced interruption, especially at this time of night. If he had
electricity, he would have turned the front porch light off—if he had a porch light, that is.
Samuel’s your
friend, asshole. What the hell’s the matter with you? Experience reminded that mental flogging would get him
nowhere.
Better to face his points of stress head-on.
He opened the front door and stuck his head out. “Evening,
Samuel. What brings you out at this time?”
“Guten abend,
Rhycious. I’m sorry to disturb you so late. I found an unconscious English in
the woods on my way home.” Tucking the reins off to the side, Samuel jumped
down from the front seat.
He found a human?
What was he thinking bringing it here?
Sam hurried to the rear of the buggy. “You’re the closest
thing to a doctor I can take her to.” He removed a covering from the object in
the bed. “Not like either of us can phone 911, now is it?”
True enough. Residents in the little town of Willow Bay
thought him to be a recluse who lived somewhere out in the forest. Day trips to
pickup supplies from the hardware and grocery stores, or sell his herbal
remedies at the health food market, had laid the foundation for his human
identity.
He could imagine the grocery clerk’s reaction upon
discovering a Centaur living amongst humans.
“Oh, shit! You weren’t kidding.” He leapt off the porch and
all four hooves pounded the ground. Then he trotted to Samuel and clasped his
shoulder. “Let me help.” At the disgusted look sent his way, he hastened to
add, “Four legs are better than two.”
His arms slid under the young lady and he lifted her with
care. “Do you know what happened?”
“No,” Samuel said. “Ol ’ Bert saw her before I did. I’d have
run over the poor thing.”
Irritation prickled at the still form in his arms, and he
forced the feeling back. He’d known for some time his PTSD symptoms were
worsening. All the classic signs were there, a need for absolute privacy being
one of them.
Samuel carried the kitchen lantern and followed while Rhy
made sure the woman seemed comfortable on the bed. She was very pretty, with
long dark hair, a pale olive complexion, and thin build. A mole dotted the end
of her brow, opposite the nasty bruise forming on her forehead. That one
promised to hurt in the morning.
She’d need a thyme and tea tree oil compress.
“You ever see her before?”
“No, I haven’t.” Rhy ran his hands down both bare legs and
a slender exposed arm. He checked for broken bones, noting her supple skin and
a clean woodsy scent.
Her blouse had an unusual design, made of homespun fibers.
It had a diagonal cut neckline with tiny puff sleeves, pink and soft. Created
from the same material, a short skirt flared, and was embroidered with
spring-green leaves.
A tickle teased his neck again, but not from annoyance this
time. He repeated the examination of her other arm. Tension curled tighter in
his gut, suspicion spread like spilled wine.
Tilting her head with care, he pushed her dark brown hair
from her smooth décolletage, sucked in a short breath, and froze.
“What is it? Snake bite?” Samuel raised the brass lantern
higher and leaned over for a better view.
The words choked out of him. There was no use trying to
hide his revulsion. “Wood Nymph.” He nodded toward the spot. “See the tree bark
pattern?”
“A Wood Nymph? For a certainty?” Samuel’s gaze fell across
the telling mark, and he turned open-mouthed to Rhy. “And I thought meeting a
Centaur was unbelievable.”
“She can’t stay here, Sam.”
Samuel lowered the lantern. His wide brimmed hat hid his
features, but Rhy could tell his human friend remained confused. The low crown
volleyed between patient and remedy maker.
“Why? You can’t help her?”
“She’s Nymph, I’m Centaur. ‘Nuff said.” He folded his arms
over his chest and backed away two steps.
Samuel straightened, standing tall. His two legs mimicked
Rhy’s stiff stance of four. “I’ve never known you to turn someone away.” He
gestured toward the female with his free arm. “She’s injured and needs your
help. I can’t do it!”
Pan help me, I don’t
want to be immature about this. But how in
the hell could he play doctor with a pixie? Star-quality beautiful , he’d grant
her that. However, thoughts of nursing her back to health turned his stomach
sour.
“Look at me, Rhy.” Samuel extended both arms out. “Ee hopp neh . I
have no beard yet, you know what that means. I’m a single man in an Amish
community. I cannot have this young woman under my roof!” The last word
punctuated in a pitch lifted higher than his brows.
Samuel threw both his hands up in exasperation. “Scheissdreck ! You’re a healer, the very
best of your kind. Help this young lady. With all that you are, how could you
turn her away?”
Wasn’t her fault Sam brought her here,
he told himself. Boot heels sounded on the wooden floor, echoed by his hoof
beats seconds later.
The lantern on
the apothecary table reminded him he had business to finish. He spoke in a low
voice to Sam, who stood gazing out the front window with his arms crossed.
“I don’t choose
to carry these feelings of prejudice, but they’re part of who I am. Two hundred
years I fought the Wood Nymphs. That’s a long time, Samuel.” He inhaled a deep
breath. “I wish this scar on my face was the only evidence I carried from war.
But it isn’t. I lost my family, along with more friends and relatives than I
can name. And you ask me to help her?”
Wide shoulders turned toward him, and a few steps brought
the man into his personal space. Samuel ignored the white elephant in the room
for the benefit of both. Each knew his surface scar was nothing compared to the
subcutaneous damage Rhy carried.
Sam removed his hat and looked him in the eye, almost nose
to nose. “Through turmoil and strife, persecution and condemnation, love
conquers all.” Never breaking eye contact, he stepped back and put on his hat.
His voice deepened. “Do you suppose it’s easy being Amish in a modern world,
Rhycious? Everyone looks at me as if I’m a sideshow freak. We don’t always get
what we want in life, but we do have to live the one God gives us. Even you, my
friend. Especially you.”
The scar began to tick, much to Rhy’s annoyance. “Our
families have been allies for many years. You’ve been my close friend all your
life. But know this, Sam. I’m going to kick your ass if that little Wood Nymph
drives me to drinking .”
The notorious habit told throughout the ages remained true.
Centaurs loved to consume alcohol. He chose to abstain since liquor exacerbated
his anxiety attacks.
Samuel’s lips pressed together, fighting his grin with a
losing battle. “You’ll be all right. A fine strapping man like yourself can’t
be undone by a twig of a girl. If she doesn’t wake until morning, she’ll see
you as a human and never know she slept in the enemy’s den.” His smile went
full-blown. “The enemy’s bed for that matter.” Chuckling, he turned toward the
door. The sound of harness leather jangled outside.
“It’s a good thing I live in an area where hoof prints and
hoof beats are a common occurrence,” Rhy said begrudgingly. Anger subsiding, he
mellowed and followed Sam to the door. Leaning against the jam, his tail
flicked back and forth, dispersing extra energy. “‘Tis necessary when one
travels as a man by day and beast by night,” he said, turning on the old-world
Centaur inflection.
Samuel stepped down from the porch and walked to his
horse, Bert. “Your grandfather started the tradition
of our families helping each other during that cursed war of yours.” He checked
the bit and headstall. “I need your help now with the young Nymph. Your secret
will always be safe with me. You know that.”
Once he was satisfied the bridle was secure, Samuel climbed
up to the buggy seat and picked up the reins. “Guten abend, Rhycious.” He clucked to his horse.
As they passed, Rhy nickered to Bert, who blew softly
through his nose and tossed his head. When Samuel gave a jaunty salute
with his hat, Rhy grinned and slung back, “Screw you.”
Closing the front door, the jangles of Bert’s harness and
the damned Amish man’s laughter floated to him. He slid the bolt home and took
a deep breath. Why did he have the feeling his work had only just begun?
After checking his undesirable patient—yeah, who am I kidding? It’s like having a Victoria’s Secret supermodel
in my bed—he returned to filling remedies for delivery in the morning. When
he finished, he’d make the poultice for her injury. The lump would be purple by
then.
Maybe he should just cut off her head to make the bruise go
away. No brain, no pain.
Stop! He chastised himself for going there.
Samuel had a point. He had to live the life his gods gave
him. Why Pan and Bacchus had dumped the sexy little Nymph on him, he didn’t
know. Of all places in the Boronda Forest for her to be found, fate led her to
his cabin’s door. The gods must know something.
And when did he started seeing her as sexy? He shrugged and rested a hind leg.
Whatever. Bring it
on.
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