A HENRY STORY 2: Trials Of The Fallen Prince

XIX. Astray

As the boy gradually regained awareness, he could not tell how much time had elapsed. His senses were first drawn to the fabric beneath his head and the blanket that had been draped over him. He pulled at it feebly, feeling excessively dry and hot.

As he withdrew his hand from beneath the covers, his elbow collided with something, and he discerned that the damp contents of his backpack had been scattered beside him. It was only then that he noticed the hot, steaming crates in the center of the cave.

"I was beginning to wonder how much longer it would be until you woke," a voice snarled from his right. The boy's echolocation revealed who it was, and his head twitched in that direction, meeting Kismet at the entrance to the cave . . . the highest layer of her cave; he recognized it at once. He did not even need to look at the large rock dividing the cooled water from the hot spring.

For a moment that stretched into infinity, he stared at her, then an intense fury surged through him. "You should have stayed away," he hissed, tossing the blanket aside. But as he tried to stand, his head pulsed with pain and his vision went dark, causing him to collapse back down and groan in agony.

"Easy." Kismet crept closer.

The boy glared at her, defiantly raising his hand to shove the blanket aside, but froze when he discovered his hand tightly wrapped in bandages.

"Not only have you a concussion . . ." Kismet took the blanket from him and folded it before placing it in a corner. "That hand of yours doesn't look well either. It had shown signs of infection yesterday; you even came down with a fever."

She looked down at him with an expression of deep concern, and the boy instinctively raised his left hand to his forehead. As soon as he touched his skin, he sensed the dry heat and released a shaky breath.

"A pair of pinchers claimed that you seemed to have been caught in that flood and washed down the waterfall." She looked at him like she wanted to ask more—especially why he was alone. The boy silently pleaded with her not to. He knew not whether she understood . . . how much she understood. But all she said was: "I could not wake you for more than a day."

"More than a . . ."

"Drink," Kismet cut him off, shoving his water bag toward him. "You need hydration after such a long unconsciousness."

The boy's eye moved slowly downward, meeting the water bag, before he disregarded it and sank back onto his sheet, closing his eye. A cry of surprise escaped his mouth as his uninjured arm was forcefully tugged upward. "I said drink," hissed Kismet, brandishing the water bag in front of his face. "Lest I shove this entire thing down your throat!"

After staring at her for a solid five seconds, he wordlessly grabbed the bag. Once he tasted the initial drop, he couldn't stop until he had emptied the entire bag.

"Good," said Kismet. "And now rest. The concussion should take care of itself shortly if you do not overly strain yourself. About the fever . . ." Something else hit Henry's leg. "There is medicine in that thing, no? I could not administer anything to you while unconscious, so take it yourself."

The boy wanted to tell her that there was no point, but he hadn't the spirit to argue. He did what she said and unclasped the waterproof container that had once again done its job well enough. As he grasped the bottle of antipyretic he had stored at the very bottom, the realization struck him that she had retrieved it all from the lake. Despite the limited functionality of his right hand and the trembling of his left, he managed to take a sip without dropping the bottle.

Sealing the lid. Lowering the medicine into its container. Adjusting the clasps securely. He focused on the simplistic tasks as if they were meticulous challenges, so as to not leave his mind time to wander.