The Magic Mirror

The Illness of Mr. Lout

Mrs. Plow had baked another pie. She was standing outside of Mr. Lout's door debating her next move carefully. Of course the last visit with Mr. Lout hadn't exactly been comfortable. That strange little pantry with the doll sized bed and the scratch marks had thrown her off completely yet here she was again. Mr. Lout intrigued her and the poor man was all alone. Wind blew through the farming valley and crawled up the hill to lean into the side of the discolored house before her. The weather was fair these days but there was a chill to the wind that reminded Mrs. Plow that the leaves would soon turn red and Mr. Lout would soon be on this hill with out his son to care for him.

The door was open, the hinge so undone that it would be a feat to keep it shut.

"Mr. Lout?" she called, opening it carefully. "Mr. Lout, I've baked another pie, may I come inside?"

The one response she got was a wet cough from down the hall. She stepped inside, followed the peeling walls to the kitchen and nearly dropped the pie when she came inside.

"Mr. Lout!" she exclaimed.

The man was face down on the floor in a pool of water from the tea kettle that had dropped with him. He was shivering weakly. Mrs. Plow had never seen a man so pale! She quickly placed the pie on the counter and knelt down beside him.

"You are absolutely freezing! How long have you been like this?!" she asked.

He shuddered but he was barely conscious and couldn't even seem to lift his own head. Mrs. Plow was a strong woman, it came from hard living and seven children, and Mr. Lout was not a very big man. She walked around him, planted her big mud boots on the floor, bent her knees and wrapped her arms around his torso. With a grunt she hauled him up and dragged him to a chair by the table.

"There now," she huffed as his head leaned against the table cloth pathetically. "It'll do for now."

She leaned before him and unbuttoned his shirt efficiently.

"Don't you worry about modesty, Mr. Lout," She said. "I've raised four boys. I've seen it all."

Mr. Lout was in such a state that modesty was probably the least of his concerns, but Mrs. Plow firmly believed that all work was done better with conversation.

As she removed Mr. Lout's shirt she was astonished to find vicious scars sprawled across his torso, tiny scratch marks just like the ones on the pantry wall. Some seemed newer than others, scabbed and pink. Others sat beneath these, almost faded away.

"Oh my..." her voice left her and she glanced at his arms which were still bandaged. "Mr. Lout, what have you done?"

She spent the next hour coaxing a fire to warm the kitchen and finding dry clothes and blankets for Mr. Lout. He shook and shivered and occasionally words would slip down his tongue in delirious muttering. He mostly repeated the name Fritz and again. The most curious thing, to Mrs. Plow, was that no matter how close she scooted Mr. Lout to the fire or how many blankets she piled upon his shoulders his skin remained cold to the touch, like she was pressing a hand against a window pane on a winters night and not a sick man's forehead. She rubbed his arms and legs quickly to move blood, and forced hot broth down his throat as well but he stayed ashen and chilled as a dead man. In all the fevers, belly aches, and injuries she had seen to (and with seven children it was quite a number) she had never seen anything so strange!

Before the sun was down her son Eber came to the door. He wrinkled the freckles over his nose and scratched at his straw hair as he muttered something about an empty table and no bread. Mrs. Plow loved her son dearly but he was slower than a snail race some days, he took after his father. She explained the circumstances five times over to him, just to be sure he had it, before she sent her son galumphing back down the hill with the pie in hand. She would stay until Mr. Lout was well. It was the neighborly thing to do, after all.

It was late into the evening, as Mrs. Plow was adding another log to the fire, that she heard Mr. Lout come out of his sick, mumbling daze.

The embers of the fire had just flown up when he said, Do I smell pie?

She turned around to find Mr. Lout watching her, his head still leaned against the table- or rather the pillow Mrs. Plow had thought to put between his head and table- but his eyes were open and watching her.

I sent it home with my son, Eber, she said. You need soup far more than you need pie, Mr. Lout.

He closed his eyes with a small, pained groan.

My boy.. my Fritz, he said, and a tear ran down his hollow cheek. He's dying now... he's so cold, Mrs. Plow...

I think you're mistaken, she sighed. You are the cold one. I'm sure Fritz is safe and sound.

Mr. Lout took in a rasping breath that might have been a sob. Mrs. Plow wasn't used to weepy men. The men of this area were surly, hardworking and matter of fact, much like herself. But one tear was followed by another on Mr. Lout's cheeks. What could Mrs. Plow do but take his bandaged hand and wait it out?

I've been a horrible father, he continued. A terrible, horrible father. I didn't mean to be. I did everything for him out of love but this is not love... what I've done to him is worse than what he had.

"You don't know what you're saying," she assured him. "You've had a bad dream, from being ill- I'm sure Fritz is fine!"

"No!" Suddenly Mr. Lout's fingers grasped her hand tightly, so hard that Mrs. Plow half thought he was trying to remove it! "Will you listen to me, Mrs. Plow? Will you hear what I have to say before we are dead?"

"What are you talking about?" she asked, breathlessly. "Mr. Lout-"

"Please... let me confess," he pleaded. "I've held on to this for too long..."

Mrs. Plow searched his face, expecting to find a mad man, but as she studied his gaze she saw her own face in those watery eyes and found an earnest desperation.

"Tell me everything," she said. "I will listen."

---Meanwhile---

Naros had waited patiently before the tree of lore the entire day. As soon as the sun had fallen beyond the world's edge he leapt off of his branch and began to circle the enormous tree trunk as he had the night before.

"Around and around and around I go..." he said to himself. "..ten times, around and around and around... in the nightly hours.. around and around and around.."

He began to drag his shadowy clawed feet across the ground as he circled the base of the tree's trunk.

"I wonder what I'll conjure now?" he asked, hoarsely. "Something big, something poisonous... something painful.. yes, painful for the man who stabbed you Haviers...."

Of course there was no answer. Haviers was still a pile of dead crows on the field beyond the Bravest Knight's Haven. But Naros was past that now. He was well and past it.

"I'll gut him, Haviers... and when I get the stone from that little girl I'll gut her too- and I'll laugh, Haviers... won't that be nice?"

He let out a cackle.

"

Five times done, five to come. How I'll laugh to make them run. -Is that true, Haviers? -There is only one truth, Naros.."

He laughed again.

"

What is that, Haviers? What is that truth?- The truth is Graves- Graves is the truth?- Graves is the one who sent us there, remember?"

The symbols along the tree began to light up as they had before, the tree seemed to stretch further out into the world.

"

Graves..." Naros hissed. "Graves is lonely, Graves is sad and when I'm through Graves will be dead!- why Naros, when did YOU become a poet? - thank you, Haviers, I learned from the best."

The bark parted to the fiery pit and Naros felt his feathers rise.

"

Something sly and poisonous," he told the tree. "It must make the knight hurt."

A silent mass crept out of the door way and Naros spread his wings in this accomplishment. Haviers did you see? Haven't I done well?"