rubble and found-'Is it my blanket ro-? No, no. This is leather.'
He managed to drag the pouches to him and after a long, one-handed struggle succeeded in unbuckling one side. 'I hope this is the bag I put it in, for I haven't the strength to-' With the fire burning atop Beacontor in the distance, Tip's hand fell across a cloth bundle, and he pulled it free of the pouch. Gripping the bundle and using his teeth, he loosened the twine and rolled open the cloth to free the sprigs inside.
Yet lying on the cold rocks, Tip called out, 'But I can't make gwynthyme tea, Beau; what'll I do?'
Only the howl of the blizzard answered the buccan, beautiful, exotic, unveiled Chakia singing in the wind.
Answering his own question-'Well, there's nothing for it, bucco, you'll just have to make do with what you have'-Tip began chewing on one of the sprigs, his bare bit of saliva mixing with the juice of the golden mint as Hyrinian riders galloped across the Plains of Valon.
'Should I swallow it, Beau? Should I swallow? It's not tea, but it's the best I can do.' Tip laughed in fevered hysteria and looked up to see DelfLord Borl. 'Hoy, Lord Borl, I'm eating precious gwynthyme; will you have some? Your son and I crawled all over that mountain to get this yellow weed, and surely you- I say, Loric, here we have a most rare treat, and I do mean rare.'
Tipperton took up another sprig and began to chew, and the heartening fragrance of mint filled his mouth and nostrils. As Borl and Loric faded, Tip managed to shove himself upright, looking about the Dwarvenholt to see where they went. But Phais lay abed before him, pale in countenance. Tip began weeping. 'Oh, Phais, you are sorely wounded by a poisoned black shaft. Don't die as my Rynna did. Here, we need to put a gwynthyme poultice on your arrow wound.' But Phais vanished even as he reached for her.
Struggling, giggling, weeping, raging, Tip managed to free his wounded arm from the left sleeve of his jacket. And he unbuttoned and slid the sleeve of his jerkin up to his elbow, exposing the jagged wound. 'No tea, Beau, no tea,' he shouted above the roar of Bellon Falls.
Tip took up another sprig and shoved the whole of it into his mouth. And he chewed and spat upon the ripped flesh of his forearm time and again, until juice and saliva and blood slathered over all. And while sitting on the ramparts of Caer Lindor he wept and watched the bordering woods for Rynna to appear, and he placed the chewed pulp over the gashes, but it did not cover all. Tip took up another sprig and chewed and spat and swallowed some of the juice and chewed more and spat more and finally added the pulp of this sprig to that of the other. He fumbled about on the floor of his mill, shoving aside coins with holes in them until he found the cloth the gwynthyme had been wrapped in and used it to bind his wound and hold the poultice against the deep slashes.
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
