The Healer's Secret

by Helen Pryke

  The Healer’s Secret

  HELEN PRYKE

  © Helen Pryke 2017

  Pink Quill Books

  Cover by Francesco Valla

  All cover images are licensed under:

  © CC0 Public Domain

  Free for commercial use

  No attribution required

  Original title sketches by Helen Pryke

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happenings. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied form without written permission of the author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the author or under the United States Law of Fair Use.

  Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author assumes no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within.

  Other books by Helen Pryke

  Walls of Silence (ebook and paperback)

  getBook.at/Wallsofsilence

  Living in the mountains of Sicily, Maria has the perfect childhood until the tragic accident that changes her life forever. The events that follow will take her away from her home town to the streets of Milan, in an ever-increasing spiral of abuse and deception. Will she ever be able to trust anyone ever again? Set in turbulent 1960s Italy, Walls of Silence is the story of a girl who must find the courage and strength to survive her family’s betrayal and the prejudices of her country.

  5-star reviews for Walls of Silence:

  “The wonderfully written characters and the world in which they find themselves in, Italy in the sixties is captivating and superbly done.”

  “A very powerful novel that is filled with abuse, strength, sadness and love.”

  “This is a story which leaves you thinking at the end. Well done.”

  Autumn Sky (a free short story)

  getBook.at/AutumnSky

  The day Julia’s best friend Becky gives her a magazine article to read, her whole world falls apart. After years of emotional and psychological abuse, is Julia ready to face the truth about her perfect marriage to Simon or will she continue to hide her head in the sand? Autumn Sky is a short story of 7,000 words and includes the prologue of Walls of Silence, Helen Pryke's debut novel.

  Helen Pryke also writes children’s books under the pen name, Julia E. Clements

  Dreamland (ebook and paperback)

  getBook.at/Dreamland

  Daniel Green is a typical ten-year-old boy with just one difference – when he goes to sleep at night, he travels to Dreamland, a magical place where he can create amazing adventures using only his imagination.

  But he is not alone. An evil being follows him into his enchanted world and joins forces with Stregona, the powerful witch who reigns over the Dark Forest. Together they are determined to destroy Dreamland.

  Who is this dark entity, and what does he want with Danny?

  A magical story for children age 9-12.

  5-star reviews for Dreamland:

  “Dreamland is a riveting fairy tale for children, with their parents reading it to them, or for preteens who enjoying reading for themselves. This story is full of giants, dragons, witches, and unicorns, and even more, who live in a land where children can go only in their dreams.”

  “The story is great entertaining and very well written. What I found a big plus is how the author unfolded an important message in the book for children and adults. Sometimes we need to stand still and look at our guilty feelings, forgive ourselves as Danny did with the help of his friends.”

  “I loved the way this story took me back to my childhood days, where giants, dragons, and witches starred in the books I used to read.”

  For my mum, who always encouraged me to write

  No longer with us but never forgotten

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Prologue

  Tuscany, April 1348

  Agnes slipped quietly out of the house, taking care not to wake the rest of the household. Outside, the world was dark and still, the birds and insects asleep, resting in those final moments before dawn, when they would fill the air once more with their chaotic sounds and incessant movement.

  She made her way down through the garden, the dew on the grass soaking her thin slippers, sending cold chills up her feet. She pulled her gown tighter around her, and opened the gate to the fenced-off piece of ground that was her own private space. Stepping inside, she breathed in the rich aroma of freshly-dug earth. She’d planted the last herbs just the day before, and now her garden was complete.

  Yesterday, she’d proudly shown it to her husband, enjoying the look of amazement on his face as he’d gazed upon the work she’d done. From the beginning, he’d insisted she get the gardeners to do everything, telling her it wasn’t work for a noble woman. She’d let them plant the hedge and the large fruit trees, but she hadn’t trusted anyone else with her precious herbs.

  “What on earth?” he’d cried out as an insect flew near them, its wings vibrating with a low hum.

  “It’s just a dragonfly,” she’d replied, smiling. “It’s full of them here. Look.”

  He’d stared in wonder as he saw the insects all around them, on every plant and bush, their brightly-coloured bodies shining like jewels in the sun.

  “I’m going to call this place the Dragonfly Grove. What do you think?” She’d waited with bated breath for his answer, needing his benediction.

  “I think it’s perfect,” he’d replied, putting an arm around her.

  She’d looked down at the baby in her arms, held in a sling around her body so that she was free to move. “Now she’s sleeping,” she said softly. “Not like last night.”

  “She’s got a right pair of lungs, hasn’t she?” Riccardo had grumbled, rubbing a hand across his face. “Thank goodness we don’t live up at the main house, my parents would have thrown us out.”

  She smiled now at the memory, glad her daughter had passed a quieter night and they’d all managed to get some sleep. She moved quickly around the garden, having no need of light as she walked among the plants and picked the ingredients she required. She murmured an apology each time before she removed the leaves, caressing the plant before moving on to the next one.

  She went back to the house and stirred up the ashes in the grate so she could start boiling the leaves. Young Matteo’s wound was serious, and she needed to prepare the herbs for his poultice. They had brought the boy to her a few days earlier, a deep cut in his leg. She’d cleaned it and stitched him up while he told her how the scythe he’d been using had slipped out of his grip and embedded itself in his flesh, so deeply that he’d thought for a moment they’d have to amputate it. She’d laughed and reassured him that as long as she was looking
after him, there’d be no need for that.

  The leaves simmering gently in a pot, she went down the corridor to the pantry. She lit a candle and held it in front of her, proud of what she had achieved in so little time – the shelves were full of earthenware jars and glass bottles containing chopped, dried herbs, ready-made salves, and every type of lotion she might need for every ailment she could think of.

  I’ll have to write down the recipes, she suddenly thought. So I don’t forget them, so I can make notes of what works and what doesn’t, the right amounts…

  She was rudely awakened from her thoughts by a loud banging at the back door. She grabbed the candle and hurried to the kitchen. One of the servants had already opened the door to their visitor, an old man with a worried look on his weathered face. He started as she entered the room.

  The knocking woke up everyone else. Riccardo was in his usual place at the kitchen table, while Betta the scullery maid sat on a wooden stool beside the fireplace, yawning widely as she tossed sticks onto the fire. A couple of other servants stood in the corridor, nudging each other and whispering. Agnes remained standing, waiting for the old man in front of them to speak. She heard her daughter’s faint wails coming from upstairs, and hoped he would hurry up before she started bawling.

  He cleared his throat, twisting his cap nervously in his hands. She recognised him as one of the gardeners; Giacomo, if she remembered rightly.

  “Please, tell us what you have to say,” she said gently.

  “It’s… ahem… well, Matteo.” He stopped.

  “Yes?” She tried to keep calm, knowing that any sign of impatience would make him clam up immediately.

  “He-he… oh, to hell with it!” The old man looked mortified at his slip of tongue in front of the lady of the house. “He died this morning, just half an hour ago, ma’am.”

  She felt her head spin and swayed as her legs threatened to give way. “No,” she whispered. “No, it’s not possible.”

  Riccardo reached her in two strides and took hold of her outstretched hands, clasping them in his. “These hands can heal, Agnes, but they can’t do miracles,” he told her, understanding her turmoil. “You can’t defeat death.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, tears escaping from beneath her lashes. She fell against his chest, sobbing uncontrollably, scenes of death and destruction flashing before her, the sickly stench of rotting carcasses filling her senses. She was vaguely aware of her daughter’s cries in the distance, but all she could hear were her husband’s words echoing around her head: You can’t defeat death, Agnes, you can’t defeat death.

  Jennifer

  2017

  Chapter One

  Sitting on a plane wedged between two other passengers, I wondered how on earth I’d got myself into this situation. Here I was, hurtling through the sky towards Italy, England’s grey shores far behind me by now. The well-built man to my right was fast asleep, snoring softly with his head right up against the window, his enormous beard and wild, matted hair blocking my view completely. The woman on the other side had taken a book out of her handbag as soon as she’d sat down and buried her nose in it right away, making it patently obvious that any conversation was out of the question.

  I reclined my seat, pretending not to hear the muted comment from the annoyed person behind me, and tried to ignore the ever-increasing pressure on my bladder. I glanced over at my neighbour, and instantly cast aside any idea of attempting to push my way past her in the two-inch gap between her knees and the seat in front, imagining her librarian-style tutting and fierce stare. My own book was in the overhead locker; I hadn’t been as prepared as Antisocial Bookworm.

  Bearded Guy’s snoring grew louder, competing with the rumble of the plane’s engines. I desperately wished I had some earplugs or the nerve to dig him in the side with my elbow. I glanced at my phone and saw that there was at least another half hour to go. The usual irritation started to build up in me, so I concentrated on my breathing to calm down. Closing my eyes, I focused on each breath, in, out, in, out, until the moment passed and I was in control once more.

  Mum had managed to convince me that this break in Italy was exactly what I needed. After losing my husband and my job, and all the other problems I’d been through, we’d talked for hours before coming up with a solution. I frowned, remembering that fateful day just a month and a half earlier.

  We were sitting in the kitchen. Mum had her hands clasped together, twisting her fingers round and round as if unsure how to begin. “I’ve had an idea. It’s a bit drastic, but it might work.” I raised my eyebrows. “You remember Grandma Luisa?”

  I nodded, smiling. I had heard all about Grandma Luisa, my maternal great-grandmother, while I was growing up. Her countryside cottage was nestled in the mountains of Gallicano, Tuscany. Mum had visited her when she was little, and often told me how much she’d loved picking the fresh vegetables for their lunch, or helping her work in the garden. Grandma lived off the land; she grew all the food she needed and kept a few chickens and goats for eggs, milk and meat. Mum said it had been fun staying there for a short holiday in the summer, but she’d often wondered how Grandma coped in the winter without any central heating and only an outdoor toilet. It seemed I was about to find out.

  “Well, after she died a couple of years ago, I inherited her house.”

  “Really? You never told me.” I felt a little bit irritated at being left out yet again.

  “I did, but you probably don’t remember.”

  “Harsh,” I muttered.

  “Anyway, I went to the funeral and then to the lawyer’s office for the reading of the will. She only had the cottage and the land. Apparently, she wanted to leave it to me and not the rest of the family. I went to see it… it’s a bit more run-down now, it needs some work, but in my opinion, it’s liveable. What do you think?”

  “I-I don’t understand,” I replied, my heart racing. “You want me to go to Italy?”

  “Why not? You’d be away from everything, a complete break, just you and the countryside. It could be just what you need.”

  “Why not? Maybe because I wouldn’t have a clue how to get there, where to buy food or how to get on with the locals. And it doesn’t even have a bathroom,” I shrieked.

  “It’s been revamped since I went there, it’s probably got an indoor bathroom by now,” Mum said calmly.

  “But you’re not certain,” I grumbled. She ignored me.

  “You already speak Italian. Granted it’s a bit rusty, but you’ll soon pick it up again. We can print out some maps so you know how to get there, and see where the nearest shops are. And anyway, there are some aunts, uncles and cousins who live in the village, they’ll help you. I think it will be character-building.”

  “Character-building my…” I slammed my fist on the table and stood up. “I’m not going, and that’s final. What the hell am I going to do in Italy, in a place I’ve never been before, surrounded by people I don’t even know? What good is that going to do me?” I leaned on the table, panting heavily, my throat sore from all the yelling. I was overwhelmed by the emotions running through me, fear making me tremble.

  “Sit down, Jennifer.” Mum’s tone was cold, and I knew I was making her angry. I was past caring. I remained where I was, glaring defiantly at her.

  “I’m not going to force you, neither am I going to shout at you. I haven’t got the energy any more for that. You’ve lost your job, your husband’s given up on you, and the drink’s taken what little dignity you had left.” I opened my mouth to reply but she interrupted me. “Do you really think you can sort your life out here? With all this temptation around you? I think you’ve proved already that you can’t.” She took a deep breath. “As I see it, you’ve got two choices. You can take this opportunity to turn your life around, with something new to focus on that might take your mind off all your problems here. Or you can wait until something catastrophic happens and I have to pick up the pieces. Again. Except maybe this time there won’t be anything
left to pick up… you’ll have gone too far.”

  “Oh, stop being a drama queen,” I yelled. “You always think the worst of me, you never trust me to do the right thing. You want me to go to Italy just so you can get rid of me. Don’t you? You can’t cope with me any more, so now I have to go.” I stopped when I saw the look on her face.

  “You stupid girl.” There were two red blotches on her cheeks, and her voice shook with emotion. “You think I enjoy worrying about you? Wondering if you’re going to come home or whether I’ll get a phone call from the police. Of course I don’t want to send you away. I want to keep you here, so I can look after you and make sure you’re all right. But I can’t do that, can I? I can’t keep you a prisoner in this house, and every time you go out, you’re just one step away from destroying yourself. Think about it, Jen. Go to Italy, where you’ll be away from everything that reminds you of the past. It could be a clean start for you. Time to think, grieve, and then find the strength to carry on. Who knows, maybe you won’t want to come back.”

  I laughed bitterly. “Yeah right, I can just see myself wanting to spend the rest of my life in a run-down cottage that’s full of damp and mould, and probably having to go out in the garden in the middle of the night if I need to pee. Does the toilet even flush? Do you remember if it flushes?” I sat down heavily, my legs suddenly wobbly as I realised the enormity of the decision I had to make.

  Mum laughed. “Yes, it flushes. Stop being so dramatic, Jennifer. Try it. If you hate it, you can come back home again whenever you want. If you like it, stay as long as you like. There’s no time limit. I put some money away for you after your dad died, now’s probably the right time to use it.”

  “But what if I relapse?” I said.

  “You won’t,” Mum replied. “You’re going to get through this, Jen, and Grandma Luisa’s house is the place to do it. My mum said there was magic there, and even though she left when she was twenty-one to marry your grandad and come to England, she always felt its pull. That’s why she taught me to speak Italian, and she encouraged me to do the same with you. She told me so many stories of that cottage… stories that you’d laugh at today, but I always believed them, and I still do. When I went back there a couple of years ago, I felt… something. I can’t explain what it is, but it seems to me it’s centred around the cottage. Go, see if you can feel it too or if it’s just your old mother’s imagination.”