Stargate Atlantis: Emerald Isle

Chapter 8 - The Hillfort

The swaying of the stretcher was making Rodney feel sick again and it was fortunate that his face going faintly green and his hand clapping over his mouth was understood by the men. They stopped and someone helped support him on his side while he was sick. Then they continued. The journey seemed endless to Rodney and he could do nothing but endure. The light hurt his eyes and made his headache worse. The voices of the men and the sound of their tramping feet made his headache worse too. In fact, every sensation he was experiencing made his head feel like it was splitting; it felt like he could feel the thoughts moving in his head. He tried not to think.

For a while his head had been higher than his feet and he could hear the rough, panting breaths of the men carrying him. Then a wooden creak and he was level and in shadow. Another creak, another change of direction and brightness again. He risked opening his eyes a slit. He could see the gate he had just passed through, the rise of the earthworks either side of the gate, surmounted by a wooden palisade. He was being carried through a village of small, round huts and then finally, mercifully, into a dark, smoky interior and set down on the blessedly stable ground.

Somebody helped him sit, helped him over to a low cot and out of his clothes, leaving him in boxers and T-shirt. They offered him a drink, which he had a sip of; it tasted like weak beer, to Rodney's surprise. Then they offered him a strategically-placed pot, which would have been hugely embarrassing if his head hadn't hurt so very much. Then they covered him with a coarse woollen blanket and left him to sleep.

oOo

When Rodney woke he wasn't sure how much time had passed; enough for his headache to have reduced to manageable proportions at least. He opened his eyes, cautiously. The soft light of a glowing fire in the centre of the hut didn't hurt his eyes. There was a woman squatting by the fire, stirring something in a long-legged clay pot. She wore an ankle-length, roughly woven dress in a soft shade of green and her hair fell down her back in two long braids. There was no light coming in around the curtain which covered the door, so he guessed it was night-time. Rodney wondered if the contents of the pot was some kind of tasty stew, but was disappointed when the woman used her wooden spoon to lift out the soft, green contents and slop it onto a wooden board, over which was draped a piece of cloth. She folded the cloth over its contents and then carried the board over to the other side of the hut. Rodney's eyes followed her to where John lay, on a low cot the same as Rodney's. Even in the dim light Rodney could see the fever-flush on his cheeks and his restless movements. The woman folded back his blanket and removed a bandage from his shoulder and placed the new one over his wound.

Rodney realised that these people's primitive methods might not be enough; plenty of people died of infection before modern medicine, even if the whole field of medicine wasn't entirely scientific, in his opinion. He sat up slowly, his head swimming. The woman turned to him and began speaking in soft, scolding tones, gesturing him to lie down again.

"No," he said, waving her supporting hands away. He spotted their tac vests lying by the wall and pointed to them. "Bring me that!" he said, hoping a commanding tone would work, even if she didn't understand his words. It did. She picked up the vest and held it out to him. Rodney took it and sorted through the pockets bringing out the first aid kit. He gestured to the woman, holding out his arm and trying to rise, his head spinning. She looked mutinous, but lent him the support of her arm across the hut, grumbling in an 'on your head be it' kind of way.

"Yes, yes, I know," he said grumpily, "no need to get what passes for underwear on this world in a knot!"

He sank down on the floor next to John and looked at his friend. His skin was hot and dry and he shifted continually in his sleep. Rodney touched John's good shoulder and shook him gently. "Sheppard! Wake up!" He shook him again. John's eyes opened the barest slit. "Look," he held up one of the pre-loaded antibiotic syringes from the medical kit, "I'm going to give you this and some Tylenol."

John murmured something which might have been agreement. Rodney folded back the blanket, took out an antiseptic wipe and cleaned an area of John's thigh. He injected the contents of the syringe, wincing himself and hearing the woman's sharp intake of breath as he did so. John didn't stir. Then he made a drinking motion to the woman who brought a cup of the weak beer.

"Alcohol and medication," he shrugged, thinking of Jennifer's reaction.

Together they supported John and got him to swallow two Tylenol with the beer.

Then Rodney felt his strength ebbing and he allowed the woman to support him back to his own bed. As he lay down he tapped his chest and said, "Rodney," and looked at her questioningly.

She pointed to herself and said what sounded like, "Breesha". He said, "Goodnight Breesha," and relaxed once more into sleep.

oOo

The second time Rodney woke there was daylight coming in round the curtain and he felt much better. There was a different woman tending the fire, younger, wearing a brown dress and with her hair loose. She too was stirring something in the pot and Rodney sincerely hoped it was food this time.

She looked up, saw he was awake and smiled. She gestured over at John, who seemed to be sleeping peacefully and spoke some soft words. They sounded positive and Rodney hoped that meant John's condition had improved.

Rodney went through the whole my name/your name thing again. Her name sounded like Vorra, although he wasn't sure how she would spell it. In fact, he thought, she probably doesn't spell it at all.

Vorra ladled some food into a bowl and brought it over to Rodney who sat up eagerly and took the bowl. It proved to be a kind of porridge, but not made with oats. Rodney didn't care what it was made from; he was starving and it was filling. He rapidly ate it all and held out his bowl, hopefully, for more. Vorra had been eating from her own bowl, but put it down and refilled Rodney's with a laugh. She then added more water to the pot to make it thinner and continued stirring. She said something to Rodney, nodding her head in John's direction. It looked like he was getting his watered down.

Vorra left the hut for a few minutes and came back with a pile of clothes which she set down on the bed next to Rodney with a few words and a gesture in his direction. She also set a bucket on the floor near the door and spoke, looking a bit embarrassed. The bucket was rather stained and smelly and Rodney nodded his acknowledgement of its purpose. She left and he looked at the clothes she'd set out for him. A pale brown woolen tunic that looked like it would be about knee-length, some darker brown pants and a large plaid piece of fabric with a bronze pin in the corner; Rodney guessed he was supposed to wear that as a cape and tried to remember how the men wore theirs. Having availed himself of the bucket he changed his clothes. There was no underwear and the trousers were quite scratchy. He shifted uncomfortably. And this shirt-thing looked like a granny's nightdress. He spotted a belt; it looked better with the waist drawn in. Rodney was struggling with the cape when Vorra came back. She laughed behind her hand, straightened Rodney's clothes out a bit and helped him arrange the cape and pin it at his shoulder. She stepped back and nodded in satisfaction. Rodney turned around and swished the cape admiringly. If only there were a mirror, he thought.

Breesha came in then and looked Rodney over approvingly. She then gestured at John, still sleeping, and spoke, pointing to the food Vorra had prepared, and then to a bowl of warm water she'd brought in and some fresh bandages. Then she held back the door-curtain and ushered Rodney out. He went, happy to leave his friend in their hands.