I called on a young woman recently delivered, with much difficulty, of twin daughters. I had assisted the village women through the long night of this birth, and was keeping a close eye on the mother, making sure she took the herbal teas I had provided to tighten the womb and bring on the milk. I chose a bad time to make my departure, for the clouds opened as I was halfway home, drenching me to the skin and quickly coating my feet in liquid mud. I struggled on; the rumble of thunder deafened me to the squeak of cart wheels approaching, and suddenly there was Father Brien alongside me, an old sack over his head and shoulders. The horse stood stolid in the rain, ears back.
“Jump on,” shouted the father over the din of the storm, and stretched out a hand to haul me up onto the seat beside him.
“Thanks,” I managed. There wasn’t much point in talking against the roaring of the elements, so I sat quietly and pulled my cloak closer about me. There was a place where the track passed briefly into a grove of old pines, whose lower branches had been trimmed away. Once we reached this semishelter, Father Brien slowed the horse right down; the needled canopy filtered the worst of the rain off us, and the noise faded to a dull, distant rumbling.
“I need your help, Sorcha,” said Father Brien, relaxing his hold on the reins and letting the old horse lower his head to search for something to graze on.
I looked at him, taken aback. “You came down here to find me?”
“Indeed, and must travel home today. I would not venture out in such weather without a good reason. I have a patient who is beyond my power to heal; God knows I have tried, and made some ground. But he needs something now which I cannot give him.”
“You want me to help? To make an infusion, a decoction?”
Father Brien sighed, looking down at his hands.
“I wish it were so simple,” he said. “Brews and potions I have tried, some with good effect. I have employed many elements you have taught me, and some of my own. I have prayed, and talked, and counseled. I can do no more, and he is slipping away from me.”
I did not need to ask who this patient was.
“I’ll help, of course. But I don’t know if I’ll be much use. My skills are mainly with medicines. You make it sound as if something more is needed?”
There was no way I was going to ask him directly what was wrong with the boy; this was dangerous ground. I had no idea how much he knew, or what I was supposed to tell him.
“You will see for yourself,” he said, picking up the reins. “In any event, we must go straight back, once you collect your things. I’ve given him a sleeping draft, and that will keep him quiet for most of today, but we must be there when he wakes, or he may do himself ill.”
“I’m not sure Conor will let me go,” I said.
“Why don’t we ask him now?” said Father Brien.
We found Conor alone, writing. There was no mention of Britons, nor of escaped prisoners; Father Brien explained simply that he needed to consult me about a patient, and Conor showed a remarkable lack of curiosity as to the details. He seemed almost to have expected the request, and agreed on the condition that it was only for a few days, and that I would come home as soon as he sent Finbar to collect me. I left the two of them talking, and went to pack a small bundle, wondering as I scanned the stillroom shelves what we might be dealing with: burns, bruises, fever, shock? Father Brien had not been very specific. I took some clothing for myself and small necessities, enough for a few days. I left my wet cloak steaming gently before the kitchen fires. I took a larger one belonging to one of the boys. Regretfully, I was forced to admit that the onset of autumn required me to go shod outdoors, and I thrust my cold feet into a pair of boots that were somewhat too big for them. It was handy being the youngest, and smallest.
“A few days only, mind,” Conor was saying as I made my way back to the cart. “I’ll send Finbar up for her. And take care on the road; it’ll be slick going up that last hill.”
Father Brien was already seated, and despite the brevity of the stop, there was a basket from our kitchens, with bread and cheese and vegetables, tucked in behind him. He gave my brother a grave nod. Conor lifted me up, none too gently, and we were away before I could say a word.
The rain slowly abated to a drizzle. We made our way under bare-branched willows, between the first outcrops of rock, beside the bleakly gray waters of the lake, where not a bird could be seen.
“You know who this boy is, I take it?” said Father Brien casually, never taking his eyes off the track ahead.
“I know what he is,” I corrected cautiously. “Not who. I have an idea of what happened to him. What I don’t know is what I’m supposed to do for him. You’d better tell me that before we get there, if I’m to be of some use.”
He glanced at me sideways, apparently amused.
“Fair enough,” he said. “The boy had some injuries. Serious injuries. He’d likely have died, if your brother hadn’t got him away.”
“With a bit of help from me,” I said, somewhat miffed that my part in the rescue was forgotten already.
“Yes, I heard about that,” said the learned father. “Took a bit of a risk, didn’t you?”
“I know my dosages,” I said.
“You do, better than most of us, Sorcha. But as I said, this patient has been dosed, and anointed, and prayed over. He was—he had a number of hurts, and these I have attended to as well as I could. Although he will never be quite as he was, his body is healing well enough. His mind is another matter.”
“You mean—he went crazy because of what they did to him? Like that man that used to work in the mill, Fergal his name was—he turned very odd after the little people had him overnight. Is that what you mean?” I remembered the miller, slack-mouthed, trembling, crouched by the hearth covered in dirt.
Father Brien sighed. “Crazy—no, not quite. This one is of stronger fabric than the Fergals of this world. He may be young, but he is a warrior; it’s in his nature to fight back. He resisted his tormentors all through that long night, and I don’t doubt that not one word escaped his lips. He’s been very sick. He had a raging fever, and some of his injuries might have killed a weaker man outright. He fought death hard, and for a while I thought he had won. But his next battle is the hardest; the battle against himself. He is, after all, not much more than a boy, and the strongest of men suffers damage when his own kind turns against him in evil. The lad will not admit that he is hurt and frightened; instead, he turns his anguish inward and torments himself.”
I tried to get my mind around this.
“You mean he wants to die?”
“I don’t think he knows what he wants. What he needs is peace of mind, a space of time without hate, to put body and spirit together again. I thought to send him to the brothers in the west; but he is too weak to be moved, and cannot yet be trusted in other hands.”
There was quiet for a time, save for the gentle thudding of hooves and a sigh of wind among the rocks. We were getting closer now. The track grew narrow and steep, and the trees closed in. Up here there were great oaks, their upper reaches bare of leaves, but shawled with goldenwood, and the depths of the forest were dark with ancient growth. The old horse knew his way, and ambled steadily on.
“Father, if you couldn’t heal this boy, I’m sure I can’t. As my brothers keep telling me, I’m only a child. Maybe I can fix a wheezy chest, or a case of nettle rash, but this—I hardly know where to start.”
The cart jolted over a stone, and Father Brien’s hand shot out to steady me.
“Nonetheless,” he said in his measured way, “if you cannot, none here can. Conor was sure you were the one to help me. I believe you will know what to do, when you see him. I also believe he will not fear you as he does me. And fear is a great barrier to healing.”
“Conor was sure?” I said, taken aback. “Conor knew about the boy? But—”
“You need not trouble yourself about Conor,” said Father Brien. “He will not betray your secret.”
We turned
under a rock wall and he drew the horse to an abrupt halt. He swung himself down and reached to help me.
“I hope, while you are here, that we can talk of a number of things. But let us tend to this boy, first of all. And you can decide for yourself what you can do, and what you cannot.”
The air inside the cave was heavy with the smell of curative herbs. My nose told me he’d been burning a mixture to keep the boy longer in the peace of an oblivious sleep; calamint for protection and courage, thyme to keep night terrors away. Also, harder to detect, the spores of a plant we called wolf’s claw, and I wondered how he’d known about that one, the use of which was extremely dangerous. A person could not be left under its influence for too long. Wake the sleeper must, and confront his fears, or risk being lost in the dark places of the mind forever.
The outer cave was cool and dry, with openings high in the rock walls. This was Father Brien’s healing place. There were many shelves, crowded with dried herbs and spices, bowls and jars and neat piles of folded cloth. A pair of huge oak planks, supported by great stones, served as a working table. An inner chamber opened off this orderly space, and here there was a straw pallet on which lay his charge, rolled deep in a blanket and curled up on himself in protection. Father Brien himself ate and slept in the tiny stone cottage, little more than a cell, nestled under rowan trees not far from the cave mouth. He looked as if he hadn’t had much sleep recently; his eyes were deeply shadowed.
“The burns are healing well,” said Father Brien softly. “He had some internal injuries; with those I did what I could. They’ll mend well enough in time. The fever was bad, but I brought it down with sponging and white oak infusions. At the height of it, he spoke much, and revealed more of himself than he would have perhaps wished. But he understands where he is now, and keeps his mouth shut most of the time, even when I speak to him in his own tongue. He does not take kindly to my prayers, or to my good advice. And twice I have stopped him from seeking some instrument to destroy himself, or me. He is still very weak, but not so weak that he could not do some harm, given the opportunity.” He stifled a huge yawn. “You may like to rest until he wakes; then we shall see.”
I scrutinized the hermit’s serene face, now pallid with tiredness.
“He won’t wake for a while yet,” I said, glancing at the cocooned figure. “Let me sit here with him, and you go and get some sleep.”
“You should not be alone with him,” he said. “He’s unpredictable, and though I need your help, I’m under strict orders not to put you at any risk, Sorcha.”
“Nonsense,” I replied, settling down on the three-legged stool at the rear of the chamber. “There’s your little bell there; and I have a loud voice. Besides, haven’t I six brothers to keep in line? Be off with you; a short sleep at least, or you’ll be precious little use to anyone.”
Father Brien smiled ruefully, for indeed he was near dropping from exhaustion. “Very well,” he said, “but make sure you call me immediately he wakes. Those brothers of yours were very firm.”
He’d said I would know what to do, when I saw the boy. Well, there he was, and a sorry sight to be sure, curled up like a chastised dog, sleeping the dead sleep of one punished almost beyond endurance. His lids were heavy, and there wasn’t a lot of spring left in the sunny curls. I tried to imagine him waking; maybe staring at me with the vacant eyes of an idiot, or the mad ones of a wild creature cornered; but all that came into my mind was one of the old stories, and the picture of the hero, Culhan the Venturer, stepping through the woods silent as a deer. I leaned my back against the rock wall and rehearsed his tale quietly to myself. This was a story often told, one of those tales which have a tendency to grow and change from one telling to the next. Culhan had a lot of adventures; he endured many trials to win his lady and regain his honor. It took a while to tell them all out loud, and the boy slept on.
I got up to the part where Culhan must cross the bridge of spears to reach the magical island where his love is imprisoned. While he has faith in his ability, his feet can tread the needle-sharp span of the bridge without harm. But let any seed of doubt take root in his heart, and the spears will slice his feet in two.
“So Culhan took a step, and another. His eyes were like a blue fire, and he fixed them on the distant shore. Before him, the bridge rose in a single, glittering span, and the rays of the sun, catching the spear points, dazzled his sight.”
I was drowsy myself, with the fumes from Father Brien’s tiny brazier; in its lidded compartment, the small supply of soporific herbs must be nearly gone, and the air was starting to clear.
“From her high window, the lady Edan watched the step of his bare feet as they moved with sure and steady grace over the bridge. Then the sun was blotted out as a huge bird of prey swooped down toward the hero.”
I was not so absorbed in my story as to miss the faintest of movements from the pallet beside me. His eyes were firmly closed, but he was awake. I went on, conscious only then in what tongue I had been speaking.
“Shrieking with rage, the enchanter, Brieden, in birdlike form, struck out at Culhan again and again with talons of iron, with cruel beak and venomous will. For but an instant, the hero faltered, and three drops of bright blood fell from his foot into the swirling waters of the lake. Instantly, they changed into the form of three red fishes, that darted away among the reeds. The bird gave a harsh cry of triumph. But Culhan drew a deep breath and, never looking down, moved on across the span; and the great bird, shrieking with despair, plunged into the water itself. What became of the enchanter Brieden nobody knows; but in that lake it is rumored a huge fish lives, of unspeakably foul appearance and exceptional strength. So Culhan came across the bridge of spears, and took back the lady Edan. But ever after, his right foot bore the scar, deep along the length of it, of his moment of doubt. And in his children, and his children’s children, this mark can still be found.”
The tale was finished, until its next telling. I got up for the pitcher of water from the table, and saw him watching me from slitted eyes, deep blue and hostile. There was still the faintest shadow of the defiant fury he’d shown in my father’s hall, but his skin was pallid and his eyes sunken. I didn’t like the look of him much at all.
“Drink,” I said in his own tongue, kneeling down beside the pallet and holding out the cup I’d filled. It was plain water this time; he would just have to live with the consequences, for I knew the signs of one who had been too long under the drugging influence of certain herbs, and I must at least taper off the dosage. He stared at me, silent.
“Drink it,” I repeated. “You’ve been asleep a long time; your body needs this. It’s just water.”
I took a sip myself, to reassure him. He must be intensely thirsty, there was no doubt of it, after the best part of a day’s sleep with the brazier burning; but his only movement was to edge a little away from me, never taking his eyes off my face. I held the cup out toward his lips, my hand brushing his arm as I did so. He started violently, clutching the blanket tightly around him and pressing back hard against the wall, as far away from me as he could get. I could smell the fear and feel the fine vibration that ran through every part of his body. It was like the trembling of a high-bred horse that has been mistreated.
My hand was still steady; I hadn’t spilled a drop, though my heart was pounding. I put the cup down by the bed and retreated to my stool.
“Well then, drink it when you’re ready,” I said, settling down and folding my hands in my lap. “Did you ever hear the story of the cup of Isha now? It was a strange one indeed, for when Bryn found it, after he bested the three-headed giant and entered the castle of fire, it spoke to him as he reached out to take it, dazzled by the emeralds and silver ornaments on it. He who is pure of heart may drink from me, it said in a voice that was small but terrible. And Bryn was afraid then to take it, but the voice fell silent, and he took the cup and hid it deep in his cloak.”
I watched him carefully as I spoke; he was still hunched, half si
tting, against the far wall, hugging the blanket around him.
“It wasn’t until much later that Bryn came to a little stream and, remembering the cup, took it out to get himself a drink. But strangely, when he drew the goblet from his cloak, it was already full with clear water. He set it on the ground, wondering much, and before he could stop it, his horse bent down its neck and took a long drink. Stranger still, no matter how deep the beast drank, the cup of Isha remained full to the brim. There seemed to be no ill effect on the horse; still, Bryn himself did not use the cup, but dipped his hands into the stream and quenched his thirst that way. For, he reasoned, a dumb animal must be pure of heart, for it knows no different, but plainly this cup is deeply enchanted and must be meant for the greatest man on earth, and I am but a lowly traveler. How could I be worthy enough to drink from such a magical vessel?”
The boy moved one hand; his fingers made a weak semblance of the sign used to ward off evil. I’d seen it sometimes, when travelers passed through, but never before directed at myself.
“I’m no sorceress,” I said. “I’m a healer; and I’m here to help you get better. That might be hard for you to believe, but it’s the truth. I don’t lie. There’s no reason to be afraid of me, or of Father Brien. We mean you no harm.”
The boy coughed, and tried to moisten his lips with a parched tongue.
“Playing games,” he managed, and the bitterness of his slurred speech was shocking. “Cat and mouse. Why not just finish me off?”
He had to force the words out, and I could hardly understand him. Still, the fact that he spoke at all was something.
“Does it take so long to learn I won’t talk? Just finish it, damn you.”
This seemed to exhaust him, and he lay back on the bed, staring up at nothing, the blanket still clutched around him. I chose my words carefully.
“It’s men that play games,” I said, “and men that did this to you. But I’m not asking you to tell any secrets, or do anything but get well. This is no cup of Isha; drink from it and you get only what your body needs. Anyway, it was one of my brothers that rescued you, and I helped him. Why would I want to harm you, after that?”
Daughter of the Forest Page 6
