The Long Road

I hold my breath as the doctor leans over my mother, Florashy. What will he say? Can she be cured? The doctor straightens and looks me squarely in the eyes.

He clears his throat and says, "I'm afraid I don't know what is ailing her. Whatever it is though, will, by my reckoning, kill her in a month. I'm sorry." With that he hurredly packs up his things and hastily retreats out the front door.

I stand by my mother's bed for a moment, thinking about the doctors words. My mouth feels dry. Only a month? I swallow, hard, and glance down at my mother's sleeping form. Her long hair in spread out on the pillow in knotted disorder. The long, dark lashes are closed, but not peacefully. There is an unsettled look to them and her.

A month . . . if she dies, I think, then I'll be orphaned. I chew on my lip. Orphaned . . . Even the word itself seems cold, ominous and frightening.

A determined thought comes to my mind. Orphaned? Not in your life! I will NOT be orphaned! I feel uplifted, joyous even. When I made my mind up about something, it always makes me feel better. Mother said that I got that from father. Father . . . No, don't think of that, I tell myself.

I glance out the window. Already the sun seems to be shining brighter and the world a happier place. Almost. I look back at Mother. She's still on the brink of death. I start at the thought. Then what was I waiting for? Not a moment could be lost!

I flee from the room and enter my bedroom. As I grab a leather sack feverishly start filling it, I mentally plan out my quest. First, I'd go the end of town and grab a stagecoach. I'd travel to Earthville and find the wizard that was said to live there. I pause. Come to think of it, she was the same woman that came to Earthville telling the residents about Camelot's plight. After the dragons had been driven away(and after my father had been killed), she had moved to Earthville, along with her assitant, Sam? Seth? Spik? Skike. No, Spike.

Anyway, the wizard(What was her name? Tasha?) would certainly know a cure. I fling the bag over my shoulder and return to my mother's room. I kiss her on the forehead. How beautiful she looks . . . and so sad. I glance up at the wall. There, hanging on two wooden pegs, is my father's batteling axe. It isn't rusted because I clean it everyday. It's huge, with a large double-sided head and a long wooden handle. I won't be cleaning it anymore.

I blink back tears and retreat out the back door, without looking back. Maybe I'm being way too hasty with normal circumstances, but my mother's life is at stake so I can't take any chances.