Shadows of Consequence - 8. Chapter 8

Pain flared in Sam’s wounded shoulder, sharpening with every thrust of his shovel into the earth. He didn’t care. It was the only thing keeping him lucid, keeping his mind on the task. There were brief periods, however, when he forgot why he was digging, only for a bloody memory to break loose and show itself. Flashes of Mum and Pa, lifeless in their bed, made him grit his teeth and dig harder. There was nothing to gain by keeping those images in his mind. They served no purpose except to cause pain and anguish.

There came a point, though, where his muscles were failing him. They screamed for a break. With reluctance, he obeyed their cry, clambering out of the hole to assess his work. He’d never dug a grave before, let alone two side by side. He wasn’t sure how deep they should be, but the more he shovelled, the harder the dirt became. The depth was nearly up to his chest. Surely, that was enough to keep animals at bay.

Glancing up at the sun in the blue sky, he estimated it was early afternoon. The day had warmed remarkably. By the farmhouse, an ever-growing crowd of villagers had gathered. Graeme, now clad in his armour, acted as a bulwark between them and Sam up on the hill. Someone had broken through, however, presumably with Graeme’s permission. Judging by their gait, it was an older woman. She carried a satchel. It wasn’t until she began climbing the hill that he recognised her. It was Janna, Reabury’s healer.

“That’s quite the man you’ve befriended,” she called out. “A knight-errant here? That’s a first, as long as I’ve lived.”

Sam gave an empty smile as she approached.

“Theron told me you were hurt,” she continued, winded from the climb.

It was rare to hear the blacksmith’s first name spoken. Sam always knew him as Mr Kent. That was how he’d addressed the man as a child, but even as an adult, it felt wrong to call him anything else.

“It’s fine. Ser Graeme patched me up.”

“He believes otherwise. Said it was temporary. Sit down, show me.”

Knowing it was pointless to resist, Sam complied with the request. Janna took no guff from her patients, and if they fought against her wishes, she’d employ the help of others to get her way. When it came to treating others’ ailments, her experience and know-how were near legendary. She could diagnose infirmities merely with a glance, a touch, a discerning sniff, or by placing an ear to their chest. But despite her gruff attitude, everyone knew she cared deeply for the welfare of the villagers.

Sam pulled his arm free from his shirt sleeve and loosened the bandage looped around his shoulder and armpit. Considering how active he’d been digging the two graves, he wasn’t surprised to find the linen soaked through with blood. Janna clucked disapprovingly at the wound. The edges had grown an angry red. Opening her satchel, she dug into its contents and pulled out a jar containing a brown creamy substance.

“This will burn,” she stated as she applied it to the wound.

Sam yelped in pain, flinching away involuntarily. “That really hurts!”

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you. The burning means it’s working. Now hold still.”

After the initial shock, the pain subsided rapidly, much to his surprise. She rubbed it into the wound, then spread a liberal coating over the whole area. The scent, while pungent, was more pleasant than the sting it brought. She laid clean gauze over the wound, then bound it tightly with a bandage.

“There you go,” she said, gesturing to don his shirt.

“Thanks.”

After rummaging in her satchel again, she pulled out a small leather bag. “Open your hand,” she said.

Sam did so, and she dropped eight dried petals onto his palm.

“Eat one of these every few hours,” she said.

He sniffed the petals, but they granted no odour. “What are they?”

“They help with infection. Eat one now.”

Tentatively, he placed a petal in his mouth and chewed. To his amazement, it wasn’t bitter or sour, it was almost sweet. He tucked the remaining petals in his trouser pocket.

With her attention so focused on Sam, only now did she notice the two graves nearby. Her demeanour shifted—the gruffness was gone, replaced by a tender gaze with knitted brows. Taking Sam’s hands into hers, she said, “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

The delicate compassion threw Sam off guard, and the pain—emotional this time—burst through. As much as he tried to hold back his tears, they welled up, blurring his vision.

Janna embraced him. “Don’t fight it, Sam. It’s okay to cry.”

He let go, allowing the torrent of hurt and pain to flow through him. A stifled groan escaped his lips, punctuated by choking sobs. She held him tightly, rubbing his back, patiently coaxing him to continue. He hated that it felt so good. He’d always thought men shouldn’t cry. It was a sign of weakness. But he allowed himself to do what felt right. Janna was a healer. She knew best. Sometimes bloodletting was a cure. Perhaps she was allowing him to bleed the frothing agony from his heart.

After a time, the tears let up. He felt empty—exhausted—yet better than before. Strength began to return, like drops gathering in an empty pool deep within himself, but the time needed to fill it was uncertain. Sensing his tension ease, Janna pulled back and offered a consoling smile, exaggerating the wrinkled corners of her eyes.

“The pain’s sharp now, but it’ll dull with time.”

Sam pulled in a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay.”

He made no attempt to hide his doubt. He couldn’t fathom being able to put aside the pain of his parents’ violent end. At least the bandit hadn’t escaped this time. A sliver of abhorrent pride echoed in his mind as he realised he’d been the executioner, yet he couldn’t deny that the violence disturbed him. Witnessing Graeme kill those bandits in the Lÿmian ruins had affected him, but to commit the act himself was so much worse.

Janna turned to survey the area, smiling again. “You chose a beautiful place to lay them to rest.”

Not wanting to test his voice, Sam only nodded his thanks.

She gestured toward the busy villagers milling around the house. “They’ve taken care of everything. The room has been cleaned, the floor scrubbed. The bedclothes were ruined, so we removed them.”

Sam didn’t want to envision the room. They might’ve cleaned it up, but the heart-piercing memory remained etched in his mind.

“They’ve prepared your parents for burial,” she continued. “Is there anything you’d like to do before we begin?”

“I . . . I don’t know. What should I do?”

Laying a hand on his shoulder, she said, “There’s no rules. Whatever feels right. If that means you’re ready now, then we can begin.”

“What about the bandit?”

“Don’t worry about him. They’ll bury him elsewhere. Deep in the forest, I reckon. He’ll be lost and forgotten.”

Sam clenched his teeth. “I want him to rot in the open air. He doesn’t deserve anything more.” The bitter ire in his voice surprised him, and he took another breath. Those remorseless words felt foreign on his tongue—as if a stranger had spoken them.

“That’d attract vermin, Sam. I know you’re angry, but that man has caused us enough trouble while he was alive. Why should he continue to bring trouble in death?”

Sam thought vermin was a small price to pay, but nodded his understanding. “Then I guess I’m ready—well, I think I am.”

She led him down the hill toward the house. Spotting their arrival, the villagers hushed and waited expectantly. Susanna and Russel stood near the front of the group—their eyes filled with sympathetic concern. Graeme positioned himself away from the others, standing still as a statue, yet his visor always faced Sam—watching him vigilantly. Sunlight glinted on his steel-clad frame. Others might’ve found his impassive demeanour unnerving, but to Sam, he was beautiful.

Tearing his gaze from the knight, Sam turned his attention to the group. All eyes were on him, causing him to feel terribly self-conscious.

“Uhm, Janna told me what you’ve done to help. I can’t thank you enough.”

The village chief, Mr Newham, took a few steps forward as he spoke. “You know we take care of our own. You proved that fact just yesterday, risking your life”—he gestured to Graeme—“you both did, and Rebekah is home safe. We’re all sorry that your selflessness was repaid in such a terrible way.”

Villagers murmured their agreement.

“Sam is ready,” Janna said, pointing to the oak tree.

The chief fell into action, softly asking the men to bear the bodies. Meanwhile, Susanna approached and stood by his side.

“There’s nothing I can say that really expresses how I feel for you, Sam. You don’t deserve this.”

He accepted her open arms, allowing the embrace to soothe him. But his eyes shifted toward the knight again. Graeme remained stationary, yet gave him a subtle nod. For Sam, that simple gesture did more to assuage his pain than any words or hugs could. Right now, all he sought was Graeme’s quiet company, and perhaps to glean some of his fortitude.

The men emerged from the house carrying two litters. Mum and Pa were wrapped in layers of clean, soft linen. Breath caught in Sam’s throat, and he looked away. He didn’t want to remember them this way. He didn’t want more images to haunt him.

The procession began with the pallbearers leading, followed by Sam and the villagers. He couldn’t deny the day was idyllic, and he turned his attention toward it in an attempt to distract himself. It felt more like summer than late autumn, except the trees were bare. That made the welcoming oak—with its leaves still intact—all the more important to Sam.

Upon reaching the graves, Sam glanced around searching for Graeme. The knight had followed them up the hill, but remained far in the distance, standing in the grass as a lone sentry.

Sam watched from the corner of his eye as the bodies were gently laid into their final resting place. Once they were out of sight, he let himself fully take in the scene before him. The chief thanked the men for their work and then addressed the crowd.

“We stand here today to say goodbye to two friends. A couple whose love and kindness touched everyone in Reabury—we lucky few who had the privilege of knowing them. In defiance of the senseless act that took them, we instead choose to celebrate the remarkable individuals they were and the impact they had on our lives.

“Joefre was a man of integrity and grit, yet his laugh could brighten the darkest of days. He lived life with a quiet strength and a heart full of love. Sophie, with her radiant smile and gentle spirit, brought warmth and joy to everyone around her. She had an uncanny ability to see beauty in the simplest of things and shared it with those around her.

“As we say farewell, let us remember Joefre and Sophie not for the tragedy that took them, but for the admirable lives they lived, and for the fine, brave son they raised. Let us carry forward their legacy of love, kindness, and compassion, and let their memory be a guiding light in our own lives.”

Sam choked on a sob, wiping his eyes with his sleeve as the chief’s voice ebbed away on the wind. As a child, he’d attended a funeral for someone who’d died from old age. He couldn’t remember their name, but he did recall Mr Newham giving a speech. Only now could he fully appreciate the words Mr Newham had spoken during that time. That the chief could speak from the heart so eloquently where others could not—it was a gift. Sam caught the man’s eye and offered a grateful bow of the head in thanks.