John sat down on the wooden bench, his head spinning and his arm throbbing. He'd made it outside; it was an achievement, he tried to tell himself, even though it didn't feel like much. He was determined to see more of the fort today, but thought he'd just sit and catch his breath for a bit first. He lifted his face to the sun and closed his eyes, breathing in the fresh morning air, grateful to be out of the dim smokiness of the hut. Vorra had set out clothes for him that morning, similar to Rodney's and had insisted, despite his protests, in helping him into them. He was glad in the end that she had; he felt like he'd run a marathon, not just got dressed. He hoped he would soon begin to recover more quickly from the effects of the blood loss and fever.
He leant back against the wall of the hut and surveyed his surroundings; small round huts, walls made of wattle and daub and roofs thatched, some standing alone, some in clusters sharing walls with their neighbours. He could see inside one or two; they were like the hut he'd lain in for the past couple of days. Or was it three days? It was all a bit of a blur. Each hut seemed to have a central hearth, but there didn't seem to be any chimneys, or even holes in the roof. The hut did smell of smoke inside, but it wasn't choking. The smoke must seep out through the thatch. Anyway, it was obviously a handy design feature; John had noticed that meat and fish were hung from cross-beams in the rafters to preserve in the smoke. Maybe Rodney would get his bacon after all.
Breesha sat down next to him and set a basket of clothes on the ground; his and Rodney's clothes, he realised, cleaned of bloodstains and other assorted marks. Breesha picked up his t-shirt, stroking the fabric reverently. John smiled; fine-knit cotton jersey must seem like a miracle when you're used to weaving all your own clothes with wool and linen, he thought.
Breesha indicated the long slash cutting through the seam of the shoulder and continuing down the sleeve. She unfolded a roll of cloth which contained her sewing kit and pointed to a selection of bone needles and skeins of thread. There was nothing fine or dark enough to match the t-shirt and the bone needles were functional but not nearly as slim as modern steel needles. Breesha's words sounded apologetic; she didn't want to ruin his fine clothes with poorly-matching repairs. She began taking out her finest needle and darkest thread. He put his hand on her arm. "Rodney!" he called, and waited for an answering, sharply irritable "What?" John looked at Breesha with a raised eyebrow and she rolled her eyes in response. Rodney was bored and was letting everyone know it, despite the language barrier. "Bring out the sewing kit from my vest," John called.
Rodney emerged, the small pouch in hand, grumbling, "What am I? Your personal servant?"
"Yes, if you can't think of anything better to do!" replied John, taking the kit. "Why don't you find something useful to do? There must be something you can help with."
"Well, in case you hadn't noticed, my skills are somewhat redundant in this technological desert," Rodney said. He looked at his watch and said with deep sarcasm, "Only, what... maybe two thousand years until the invention of the personal computer? That's if this lot ever get that far."
"Rodney," John interrupted the tirade. "Don't upset our friends, will you?" Breesha was shifting uncomfortably and looking worried. "She probably thinks you don't appreciate their hospitality."
"Oh." Rodney looked guilty. "Sorry, Breesha," he said. Then continued in a small voice, "I still don't have anything to do, though."
John looked around. He could see Rodney's point, but wished he had the strength to do anything. Even chopping wood or herding animals would be better then tottering around feeling like he was going to fall over every time he walked more than a few steps. He had an idea. "Why don't you have a look at their gates? See if you can design some kind of counterweight system to make them easier to move?"
Rodney looked doubtful. "Hmm... not much of an intellectual challenge... I suppose the logistics might be interesting..." He wandered off in the direction of the inner gate, muttering to himself.
John passed the sewing kit to Breesha and pointed to the zip tag, another thing he couldn't do with only one hand. Breesha worked it out and unzipped the kit, laying it flat like an open book. She gasped in surprised delight and called out to another woman who was walking past, a bucket of water in each hand. The woman stopped and set down her buckets and she and Breesha exclaimed and commented to John, pointing to the fine steel needles, the small, sharp scissors and the silky black thread. Soon a small crowd of women gathered, all marvelling over the contents of the kit.
John grinned at their enthusiasm until he realised that at least as many women were exclaiming and commenting over him as were admiring his sewing kit, especially the younger ones, some of them giggling and blushing shyly, but others with bold, admiring eyes, giving him the full 'once over'.
"Typical!" came a voice through the crowd. "I leave you alone for ten minutes and they're like moths to a candle flame. Kirk strikes again!"
"They're only admiring my sewing kit, Rodney!" said John, innocently.
"I bet they are," said Rodney, flapping his hands at the crowd. "Go on! Shoo!" he said. "Scientist at work here; give me some space!"
The women moved off, some smiling at John as they left and waving.
"So," began Rodney, "this is all I could find to write on." He held out a thin sheet of slate, already covered in sketched designs, scratched with a small shard of stone. He showed John his plans. "I came across a forge this morning, so I'll need to get the smith to make what I need, which is mainly thick chain and the counterweights themselves, of course."
"You need to show it to Coll first, McKay," warned John. "Don't get carried away before he agrees."
"Oh, he'll agree!" Rodney stated confidently. "How could he not when he sees the efficiency of my design? I'm going to find him now!" He bustled off, importantly.
Breesha had started work on sewing up the rent in John's t-shirt. She smiled to herself as she set her stitches, such delicate work that she'd never been able to do before; the repair would be practically invisible.
John stretched out his long legs and closed his eyes. It was pleasant sitting in the sun and even more pleasant not to feel under threat of some kind. These people were friendly and had looked after Rodney and himself very well. Their kindness had gone some way toward repairing the damage the rebel Genii had done. John felt more distanced from his capture and torture; he wouldn't forget it, but he no longer felt he had to work hard to prevent his thoughts drifting down dark paths.
Breesha made a dissatisfied noise and he opened his eyes to see her examining the cut in his leather jacket. She held a needle threaded with the black cotton in her hand and when she caught John's eye she waved the needle and thread and spoke doubtfully.
"No," he said, "I see what you mean. I don't think it's going to look great no matter what you do." He made the mistake of shrugging his shoulders then and sharply became aware that the pain in his arm had been building slowly for the past half hour or so and he'd just made it worse. He sat up away from the hut wall and cradled his arm in its sling. He was also tired again, a dragging, unnatural feeling as if his head were too heavy to support.
Breesha set down her sewing and solicitously held out her arm and guided John's shaky steps into the hut and over to the cot. She unpinned his cloak and helped him to lie down, patting him on his good shoulder and murmuring soft words. Then she left him to sleep.
oOo
There was meat for dinner that night. Proper meat, cooked on a heavy iron griddle, some small steaks and some liver. Breesha seemed determined that John would eat at least his share, if not more, due to his lost blood, he guessed. Rodney looked mutinous when he realised John's portion was bigger than his own, but was pacified by the solid barley bread he was given and even happier when Vorra entered with a small pot and drizzled his bread with honey. John guessed they were being given food that the two women would rarely get to eat. He set down his wooden plate and reaching over to Breesha, took her hand and looked into her eyes. "Thank you," he said, simply. She smiled back, nodding her head in acknowledgement.
"We need to do something to help these people," John said, chewing on his steak. "They've done so much for us."
"I'm working on their gate," said Rodney, honey dripping down his chin. "I think I've bonded with the smith now," he said thoughtfully. "Name's Edda, or Eddie or something. Anyway, there were a couple of ... moments. He has some fierce-looking tools in that forge! But I think we've reached an understanding, now he realises the true genius of my ideas."
"So, you think he won't actually hit you with a hammer," said John, grinning.
"No, we've made it through the most trying stage of our relationship. He recognises his intellectual superior!"
"Right," John drawled slowly. "Well, anyway, I think we need to do something more. Something that will make a difference to their lives; it isn't like we don't have time."
"I will apply my intellect to the matter," promised Rodney grandly. He paused and said, tentatively, "they will come, won't they? The Daedalus, I mean."
"They'll come, Rodney," said John firmly.