And still the moon howled over the twisted trees of Drearwood-or was it a Vulg howling on the wind?-as Tipperton fell screaming down the sheer stone above Nord-lake and into waters below, while a forlorn hooting sounded within the fog.
"What is it?" asked Tip.
Rynna smiled and gestured at a basket. "Come and see."
Tip stepped to the damman, and there asleep in a rumple of blanket was a "Oh!" Tip startled awake.
It was dark, and still a blizzard howled outside the mouth of the cavity. Tip was shuddering with cold. He managed to struggle his bandaged left arm back into the sleeve of his jacket and wrap his cloak around ere swooning again.
The next time he awakened, night had gone, but the blizzard had not, for the wind yet howled and ice yet hurtled across the low opening of the cavity, a drift covering fully half of the breach.
Terribly thirsty, Tip fished under his jacket to his right hip and pulled out his waterskin, looped on a thong over his head and across his chest. Drinking, drinking, it seemed as if his parched throat would never be satisfied. Finally he stopped, his thirst yet burning, but he was too exhausted to hold the container aloft. And then he retched and retched again, vomit spewing out, the buccan barely turning aside in time to keep from soiling himself. He slumped back against the stone, and even as he swiped his sleeve across his mouth, he lost consciousness.
Tipperton's own screaming wrenched him awake. "The Gargon! The Gargon! Eeee…!" Confused, he thrashed about. "Where… where am…?"
Outside in darkness the savage blizzard howled.
Oh, the cave. I'm still in the cave. I, I wonder what day…? 1 wonder what…? Tip's muddled mind could not complete the thought.
Thirsty.
"But I threw up," he said aloud. He fumbled among the stones alongside. "Gwynthyme. Mint. Settle my stomach."
Locating a sprig, Tip began to chew, the juice of the golden plant eking forth a bit of saliva.
"I could eat snow," he told the dark shapes hidden in the blackness. Their answers were lost in the howl of the wind
"Eat snow… but wait, Beau said not. 'It'll just steal our heat, and we've no food to replenish it,' he said." Tip looked about, still chewing. "Didn't you say that in Drear-wood, Beau?" But Tip couldn't find his friend, and so he spoke 'round his mouthful of gwynthyme to the surrounding dark, while outside the yawling blizzard raged. "That's what he said. But I have some crue in my saddlebag. And more gwynthyme. I could eat crue and gwynthyme and maybe even silverroot."
The juice of the mint now gone, Tip managed to swallow the pulp. After a moment he took up the waterskin and drained it dry. This time he kept the water down.
In the stillness he heard a tink and then another. What th-? tink
Water? tink
Tip opened his eyes. In the snow-laden mouth of the tiny cave light shone through the small gap between the top of the drift and the stone above it. tink
But wait. I hear a drip and not a howl. How can…? Oh. The blizzard. It's blown itself out.
Struggling, Tip tried to lean forward to crawl to the opening. He managed to catch himself before he fell on his face. Pushing back, Tip leaned against the wall once more. Too weak. I've got to eat. tink
Tip dragged the saddlebags to him and fumbled with the buckles of the yet unopened side, finally managing to free the straps. Exhausted, he rested awhile before extracting a biscuit of crue. tink
To his right along the back wall, in one of the small crevices water dripped. Tip fished into his saddlebags and found his tin cup. It just barely managed to fit in the cranny under the drip.
Tip fell asleep while waiting.
A thundering rumble awakened the buccan, and he opened his eyes to see whiteness roaring past the entry.
What th-?
Snow boiled inward, toward the buccan Avalanche!
– and blackness fell within the tiny cave as dense snow blocked all light, but the thunder rumbled on… and on… and finally fell to silence. plip
In total darkness, drips fell into a cup of water.
Tip found the crevice and the cup and drank all the water within, then slid the cup back under the drip and took a bite of crue.
I'll dig out when I've the strength.
Tip could not tell how long he had been asleep or whether it was night or day outside. After drinking another cup of water and setting the tin back under the drip, in the darkness he carefully unwrapped his wounded arm. The flesh was terribly hot, the arm sore to the touch. Wincing, he cleaned the remains of the poultice away and took up the last two sprigs from the opened bundle of gwynthyme, and once again he chewed and spat the juice onto the damaged flesh. And he made a poultice out of the resulting pulp.
Of the two bundles of gwynthyme you took, bucco, you've only one bundle left. Oh, and the silverroot, too.
Calling out in the dark, he said, "Beau, should I ration the gwynthyme or should instead I use it at need?"
Only the plip of water dripping into the cup answered his query.
Muttering aloud-"I had three days of crue and jerky with me in my saddlebags."-Oh Adon, Auly is dead-"If I ration my food carefully, I might be able to make it stretch for days. But if I do that, then how will I gain the strength to dig my way clear of the slide. Oh, I wish I had taken my pony's sack of grain… but then, weak as I was, I would never have made it to this place. Lor', lor', it was a choice between being slain by Vulgs or getting in here and being trapped by a slide."
Wait just a moment, bucco, you can't blame yourself for being trapped by a slide.
Tip drank the water in the cup and slid the little container back into the crevice. link
"Hoy, Beau, where do you suggest we pee?" Tip called out and laughed, remembering. "No cliff here to dribble over." He patted the stone behind. "No way back into the woods, either. And for that matter, after eating, where do you suggest I-"
From somewhere outside and muffled by the snow there sounded a prolonged howl.
Tip's heart skipped a beat. Damned Vulgs. They killed Auly, and now they search for me.
Tip had no way to know the passage of time. If I were an Elf… but I'm not.
"Hey, Beau. How many days have passed?"
Sitting in the dark for long, long candlemarks, Tip had thought of an elaborate scheme to gauge the passage of time. First he would count heartbeats while the more or less regular drips of water slowly filled the cup. Then he would cipher out how many candlemarks that might be. Next, he would set his waterskin under the drip and wait until it was full, and then measure it in cupfuls, and that would give him a gauge as to how long it took the skin to fill. And then he could use that from then on to measure time: it would be a waterclock of sorts. But when he tried to put the plan into effect, he found he could fit the mouth of his waterskin into the crevice such that the drips went in, but the bulk of the skin was upslope, hence it would never fill. And without a large container collecting drips even as he slept, the scheme wouldn't work at all.
In trying to determine how long he had been in the cave, he seemed to recall that the blizzard had lasted two or three days… but because he had drifted in and out of delirium, of this he wasn't certain at all. And then the slide, the avalanche, came, and that was on the third day, perhaps, or mayhap it was the fourth. And his food had lasted the following three days, assuming he ate more or less on schedule, though again that may or may not have been true. He had eaten all of his food trying to regain the strength to dig his way free, but had not recovered sufficiently to do so. And his food had run out two days past, and now he was on the verge of fainting.
His mind drifted, wandered, roamed the darkness, spinning the same thoughts over and again, though occasionally ranging into new territory.