Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [228]
Bec tried to answer, but he couldn’t string three words together before there was another question. Momma noticed that the cut on his forehead was bleeding again. She called for cloth and water and latched on to her son’s ear—not gently at all—to get a better look. He told her that the cut didn’t hurt nearly as much as the welts on his chest where the man they called Strangle had struck him with a long, nasty whip.
Those words were no sooner out of Bec’s mouth than everyone wanted to see the marks, and Momma was trying to pull him out of Poppa’s arms. It was Momma tugging on Bec’s arms and he did know everyone in the yard—except for the stout woman holding on to Soldt’s dog. Still, the tugging hurt, and all those voices, hands, and faces getting too close were frightening; and Bec had used up all his bravery. He did what he hadn’t dared do underground: He closed his eyes and screamed.
Suddenly, Poppa was shaking sideways, like a baited bear, shouting at Momma and everyone else to back off. That only panicked Bec more. He couldn’t think outside his terror until, after many long, black moments, he heard Poppa’s voice saying:
“Easy. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you. No one.”
Bec stopped screaming. He opened his eyes and found himself in Poppa’s lap, in the kitchen, with Momma on her knees beside the chair and nobody—absolutely nobody else nearby. Momma had a mug of cider in one hand and a strip of linen in the other. She’d stopped crying, but her cheeks remained shiny wet. Bec took the mug when Momma offered it. He flinched when she touched his forehead with the damp linen.
“Patience, wife! Let the boy breathe. Do you want to start him off again?”
Momma started to cry again. Between sobs, she said, “My baby’s hurt … my baby’s hurt …” and neither Bec nor Poppa could stop her from daubing away the soot on his arms.
The water was cold because the hearth was cold. In all his life Bec had never known his mother to let the kitchen hearth go stone cold. He knew then that Momma had been as scared as he and gave her a hug, before wiggling out of Poppa’s lap. Standing on his own two feet, Bec told them that he had to get to the ruins straightaway.
“Cauvin said Grandfather’s dead. I’ve got to know—” Bec couldn’t finish his thought. “I’ve got to go out there.”
Momma said, “Cauvin. Cauvin! Lying again!” in her angriest voice, but fell quiet when Poppa snarled at her.
“Cauvin’s been gone since yesterday, Bec, but Lord Torchholder’s up in the loft. After the storm, when you hadn’t come home, Cauvin took me out to the ruins. We were looking for you, but I brought Lord Torchholder here—”
Bec lunged for the door. Poppa caught him by the belt. Bec struggled, but there was no getting away from Poppa.
“Lord Torchholder’s at death’s doorstep. He didn’t wake up when I looked in on him at sunrise and, son, it’s not likely that he will wake up again. Cauvin told you the truth—”
“No-o-o-o,” Bec wailed and stopped struggling. “He lied. He lied about everything. He had to.”
“The Torch was a very old man, Bec—he was an old man when I was your age.”
Bec slipped toward blind fear again. If Grandfather was dead, then Grandfather had lied when he’d promised that “Nothing’s wrong. There’s nothing to fear” right before Bec sneaked off to find a hiding place. Bec had known, of course, that something was wrong when he was hauled out of his bramble-bush hiding place, but Momma and Poppa both said that sometimes a thing had to get worse before it got better, so he’d held on to his belief in Grandfather’s words. Until now.
“It’s not fair!”
“Not many things are, Bec,” Poppa said, and relaxed his grip on Bec’s belt.
That was all the wriggle room