Page 2 of Rise of a Fallen Man

Ever since that day, she’d stopped bringing me to the market or letting me play outside. As much as I loved spending time with Father, sitting at home got boring sometimes. It didn’t help that I didn’t even understand the reasons for Mother’s worries. How could girls mean trouble for me? Boys were more likely to start a fight.

A peal of girly laughter trickled from the road into the yard. It tugged at something inside me. I wished I could be playingwith the others out there, but the pull was deeper than that, like a twist of longing for something I couldn’t name.

“How was the market?” I tied the horse to a hitching post.

“Good, good.” Mother ran a hand over her face. “I sold a lot. There isn’t much left to unload. Leave it for your father to deal with.” She waved a dismissive hand at the horse and the wagon. “Make me some tea instead, will you?”

“Sure.” I ran back into the house ahead of her.

As she entered with slow, heavy steps, I filled a metal pot with water and set it on the fire to boil, then grabbed a porcelain tea set from the glass cabinet. The set was a part of Father’s dowry and had Mother’s favorite teacup that we didn’t take out very often. I hoped it’d cheer her up to drink from it tonight.

“Father told me to fetch some wine too.” I made a move toward the trapdoor to the cellar dug under the floor, but she stopped me.

“Leave the wine for now, my boy. Tea is great.” She folded her tall frame into the armchair at the head of the table.

Mother was a large woman—tall, strong, and solid. She lifted the crates with heavy swords as easily as any man I knew. I once saw her stop a running horse in its tracks.

The last time she’d slapped me, it was for dropping a pot on her foot. My hands were covered in flour after kneading the dough. The pot slipped from my fingers and hit her foot. She swore and swatted me aside as if I were a fly. Propelled by the impact of her blow, I’d hit our kitchen table and shoved it all the way to the wall.

“Watch it, boy,” she’d growled, limping out into the yard.

That limp was gone the next day. Mother was strong as a bear and healthy as an ox. Until just a few weeks ago, she’d unload the wagon and tend to the horse all by herself after spending the entire day at the market. Today, she slumped in her chair,waiting for me to get her tea ready. She breathed heavily, as if lifting an anvil, even as she just sat there, not moving a limb.

Father came in, wiping his hands on a clean cloth.

He hugged Mother’s shoulders and kissed her cheek. “How did it go?”

“Good.” She patted his hand before reaching into the pocket of her skirt. “Here.” She dropped a leather purse on the table. It landed heavily, thick with coins clinking inside. “They really liked those hunting knives you made. The arrow heads sold well, too, like always. There isn’t much to unload, but the horse needs to be tended to.”

“I’ll do it,” he said, heading out into the yard.

“Your tea, Mother.” I filled her cup. “The meat pie is ready if you’re hungry. Or do you want some sweets and cookies with your tea instead?”

Her asking for tea at dinnertime confused me. She usually had it after work in the afternoon, often when other women from the village came to visit or her friends from the Blacksmith Guild dropped by. Then I served them tea with cookies, jams, and meat sandwiches. For dinner, we usually had a stew, a roast, or a meat pie. Now, I wasn’t sure what to serve her.

“No. Just tea for now, Salas. Tea is good.” She leaned back in the chair and stretched her legs in front of her. “Help me take these boots off, will you? My head spins when I bend down.”

I kneeled by her feet and pulled her short, worn boots off one by one.

“Ahh,” she exhaled, as I gave her feet a quick rub to relax her a little. “You’re a good boy, Salas. Strong. Hardworking. Kind. All you need is a good woman who would appreciate everything you have to offer.” She sighed heavily. “If only—” A rough, coarse cough cut off her words.

She bent over, coughing so hard, as if trying to hack a passage in her throat for her next breath. Her shaking hand rummagedin the pocket of her skirt before pulling out a handkerchief and pressing it to her lips.

“Mother...” My voice came out small. I wasn’t used to seeing her weak like this.

Fear wormed its way into my chest. Mother had always been the epitome of strength to me. Father might be slightly taller and considerably wider in shoulders than her, but he was softer at heart. He would often keep quiet, while Mother was never afraid to speak up.

“Mother?” I placed a hand on her shoulder, wishing I could stop her body from shaking from her chest-ripping cough. “What can I do to help? More tea?”

I moved the cup a little closer to her.

She waved a hand at me between the bouts of convulsions.

“Go—” she squeezed out in an altered, strangled voice. “Go, boy... Help your father outside.”

I took a step toward the door, torn between the need to obey her and the fear of leaving her alone like that.

“I...”

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