Hitting the Books

His head hurt. His back hurt. Everything hurt. He couldn’t see through the mask of blood drying on his face, but he could still hear. Hear Ellen tearfully beseeching any saint who would listen. Hear Rob using words he wasn’t supposed to know yet. And he could hear Aunt Jo weeping as that devil half-carried, half-dragged her to his wagon. A too-loud slap and her crying stopped abruptly. Then the wagon rumbled into the distance.

He tried to move, but his body wouldn’t obey. So he lay there in sticky blindness and repeated Rob’s curses under his breath until Ellen and Rob came down off the porch and helped him inside.

Within a fortnight the news trickled back from Baltimore. Aunt Jo was dead. The baby had come too soon and the doctor couldn’t save either of them. But Travis knew better. Her drunken beast of a husband had killed his beloved Aunt Jo, as certain as if he had shot her.

That night Travis snuck downstairs and out into the moonlight, his da’s dress sword clasped tightly to his chest. He would have preferred to use Great-grandfather’s huge claymore, but it was mounted far too high for a boy of eight to reach, not without making enough noise to rouse the house.

He stopped behind the stable, carefully drew the sword from its sheath, and looked at it doubtfully. What now? His books always spoke of knights swearing oaths on their swords, but never of what the proper words and actions might be. He’d have to make something up. He could do that–imagination was not something Travis was short of.

He sat down in the dirt, cross-legged, and lay the sword across his knees. He stared at the moon-silvered steel for a few minutes, then placed his hands on the hilt, just as the stories said to do. Closing his eyes he said, “I, Travis Samuel Black, swear upon my father’s sword and upon my honor always to act when a lady needs help.”

Not fancy, but to the point. He hesitated–what about blood? He’d better be careful cutting himself, or else Mum would ask questions. But he figured if he was going to take an oath, he ought to do it properly. Taking a deep breath, he ran a finger lightly along the edge of the blade, squeezed a few drops into the dust, then hurriedly stuck the finger in his mouth.

Somehow he managed to sheathe the sword and get it back in the house without getting blood everywhere. Once back in bed he lay there staring into the darkness, thinking. His finger felt on fire, and the still-healing wound on his forehead burned too.

Travis tried to be manly and ignore the pain by focusing on his promise. When he was grown up, he would never again be helpless like he had been that day. Never. And he’d make certain that no woman had bruises and scars, and those awful, empty eyes like Aunt Jo had had, not so long as he could do anything about it.

“I swear it,” he whispered fiercely into the silent room.