Bones

“No. I’m beyond the reach of aspirin,” he said.

I counted the Keflex tablets. There were ten left. I wondered if I had given him too many, or not enough. Or if it would do any good at all. Maybe I was trying to put out a four-alarm fire with a squirt gun.

I called Bingle to my side. He came, but he brought David’s sweater with him. I turned out the light and lay down in my sleeping bag. I felt a rush of emotion, a sense of relief that made me want to cry. I stroked the dog’s fur, tried to calm down enough to sleep.

Outside, the stream was running stronger, and its rushing sound overpowered the sounds I had listened for earlier in the night. I tried to listen for Ben’s breathing, or Bingle’s snore, but the stream and the rain were too loud. I didn’t hear Ben crying out in delirium, though, or moving restlessly, so I thought he must have fallen asleep. I don’t know how much time had passed when I heard him say, “What was that story you were telling me?”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

I felt my face grow warm. “You knew what was happening? You could understand me?”

“Not always. It’s a little jumbled.”

“Parzival,” I said.

“What?”

“The story was Parzival the Grail Knight. He’s this kind-hearted young knight who often unwittingly causes harm where he means to do good — there are several versions of the tale, but I told you stories from the German poem, by Wolfram von Eschenbach.”

“You told me a story in English,” he said testily.

“Yes, of course — based on a translation—”

“Good grief. Don’t tell me Brenda Starr is a scholar of medieval poetry?”

I didn’t reply.

“Sorry,” he said.

After a long silence he said, “Why do you prefer the German version?”

“It’s the only one I know. That’s the one Jack gave me, that’s the one I read. Some scholar, huh?”

“Look, I said I was sorry.”

“So you did.”

After another silence, he tried again. “Who’s Jack?”

“Our neighbor. He’s — well, Jack isn’t easy to explain. But he’s big on mythology and folklore.”

“Tell it to me again,” he said. “I’ll listen better this time.”

“I won’t be able to do it justice. There are lots of complicated relationships and battles and characters whose names I don’t remember. I sort of faked my way through it tonight. You’d be better off reading it when we get back.”

“I’ll let you sleep, then,” he said, and it wasn’t until that moment that I heard what had probably been in his voice all along.

“Well, if you don’t mind an inferior version of it . . .”

“I don’t mind.”

So I tried to distract him from his pain by telling him of young Parzival, raised in ignorance of knights and chivalry by an overly protective mother. Of course, the first time Parzival encountered knights, he could think of nothing he’d rather do than become one, and set off to offer his services to King Arthur. Although embarrassingly naive and untutored, he had a natural talent for the work.

Ben fell asleep just as Parzival was about to visit Wild Mountain and meet the Fisher King.

It was just after dawn by then, and although it was still fairly dark in the tent, there was enough light for me to see Ben Sheridan’s pale and haggard features.

“What’s wrong, Ben?” I whispered, my mind still half caught up in Parzival’s tale.

It seemed to be a silly question, under the circumstances. Pain, weakness, severe injuries. Bad weather, hunger, a killer on the loose nearby. Easy to name what was wrong with him.

Or was it? I thought back to my last conversation with David, as I left for my walk with Bingle. David had hinted that Ben had troubles before we began our journey to these meadows. Whatever those troubles were, I supposed it would be a long time, if ever, before Ben Sheridan would confide in me.

When I woke up, Bingle was gone. Worried, I put on my boots and jacket. I had just stepped out into a misty morning when he returned, his fur damp and muddy, his mouth looking swollen.

Oh, hell, I thought, he’s met up with a porcupine. But as he drew closer, I saw that he was gently carrying something in his mouth.

Please don’t let it be something from the meadow, I prayed. He looked at me uncertainly, as if he expected me to do something. Not knowing what my part in this script was, I stayed still. He shifted his weight, looking anxious, then lay down at my feet. Very slowly and carefully, he opened his mouth, and, between my feet, deposited what he had been carrying.

Eggs.

Three small eggs.

Quail eggs. I hoped that he hadn’t taken every egg from the nest. Perhaps I should have scolded him, but