In that moment of recognition, I came closer to breaking my silence than at any point so far. For there was no movement, no sound save for the trickle of small pebbles, of pockets of soil as they settled and moved. I sank my teeth into my lower lip, to stop myself screaming, John! John! Where are you? Somehow, I managed to wrench my foot free of the rock that pinned it, aware that I had done myself worse damaged, but not caring. Somehow, I scrambled up and over the rockfall, seeking the place I thought closest to where he had been, dashing the dust from my eyes, forcing myself to move despite the pain. Behind me, at last, there were sounds. The man posted to watch at the tree line came running back up the hill, his face sheet white. Of the other, who had guarded the upper margin, there was no sign.

It was a desperate search, with no tools for the task, clawing away at stones, using bare hands to scoop out soil, the two of us gasping for breath, not even knowing if the place where we dug was right or not. There was no way to move the bigger rocks, though we tried; by the time you had what you needed, which was ropes and draft horses and eight or nine strong men, it would be far too late.

We found John, finally. A hand, an arm. After struggling, aching labor, an opening to where he lay, all but crushed by an immense boulder that pinned his body from chest to feet. He still breathed, and was yet conscious, for a narrow triangle between delicately balanced stones had left him a tiny pocket of air. There was nothing more we could move; no way we could free him.

I sent the man back for help. There was no sign of the other, no way to tell where he lay beneath these tumbled stones. The horses were tethered lower down, under the trees. It would not take so very long to ride to Harrowfield, to fetch men and ropes and tackle. Not so very long. Still, too long.

I sat very still on the rough stones, for a wrong movement might bring more down around him, might cause the weight to settle more heavily on his body. John’s face was gray under the dusting of soil, and a small but steady trickle of blood made a crimson line on his cheek and pooled on the rock beneath his head. I listened to the sound of his breathing, and felt the weight of the rocks in my own chest. I did not weep for this was beyond tears.

“Jen—” he was trying to speak. I gestured, no, no talk. Breathe. Just breathe.

“No,” he managed, and his eyes already held the shadow of farewell. “Say—tell—”

Each word needed a breath. Each breath bore the agony of that crushing load, the earth slowly squeezing the life out of him. “Red,” he said. “Right thing…right choice…right…you…say yes…” For a few moments he closed his eyes, and when he forced them open again, with a shuddering, rattling gasp for air, I saw the film of death clouding their steadfast honesty. He was bleeding from the nose as well now, bright droplets that became a little stream and then a steady flow. He tried to clear his throat, but could not; a terrible sound came out instead, a cruel, heartbreaking sound. I held his hand, stroked his brow, longed for words. It is terrible to be a healer, and to know that there is nothing, nothing at all, that you can do.