by Sandra Waugh
Only Laurent was missing. It cut then, hard, how badly I wanted to see him. I’d left him dust-worn and wounded. I remembered my last night with him, understanding how precious those hours—that we might never again feel so free of threat…of burden. And I wished he could know there was a place still free, wished we could share in the White Healer’s peaceful little world.
“You look unhappy, my dear.”
I shook my head. In the corner I heard Salva murmur, “Not to mind. She misses someone.”
The White Healer considered me for a moment, his eyebrows twitching. He said a little sternly, “You understand of course that your mind must be clear of all concerns as you craft a potion.”
I looked away, nodded.
“Good. Then you might wish to answer the door,” he said.
“I’m sorry?” I asked. But the old man only gestured toward the door. I looked at Salva, who hunched over her stocking murmuring, “She misses.” I put the shell back in the satchel, shouldered it, and got up. The knock only came as I lifted the latch.
I know that I glanced back at the White Healer, as if to say, How…?
But that is the beauty of magic. It didn’t matter how. I had everything I wanted. I was in the Rider’s arms.
“A SERIOUS TASK, you understand. You must give over to the process with whole heart. And presence of mind.”
I stood with the White Healer in the herb shed, eyeing the shelves of ingredients. Energy burned through my body so intensely that I trembled. Happiness, excitement, things I could barely contain. I’d tried not to show it before my host—he’d been reminding me since we left the cottage: “Dedication begins with focus. How you fare with this work shall determine the success of the cure. Show that your intention is sincere.”
Dame Gringer had said that. I remembered thinking that when I prepared the Insight spell. I shivered deeper.
“See? Your mind strays.” The old man sighed. “I should not wonder. You are very young.”
Hadn’t I felt so very old recently? I took a breath, then squared my shoulders to look taller. “I am ready.”
He gave his crinkled smile. “Well. You have potential.”
There were a multitude of ingredients to collect. The old man bade me take the ladder, to climb to the top shelves to search. I ran my fingers over the labels, naming as swiftly as I could, bringing down whatever he called out. Mostly the shelves were lined with herbs, but I spied jars with dried carcasses of reptiles and claws of birds—things I remembered seeing in Dame Gringer’s books. They all seemed to merge after a while; I was up and down the rungs of the ladder, breathless, placing glass bottles in the willow basket we’d brought from his cottage without really acknowledging what I’d gathered.
“So many ingredients,” I said a little helplessly. I reached for an item from the basket. The tabby cat, who prowled around the basket like a surly guard, hissed at me, so I pulled my hand back.
“This takes serious effort to create,” the White Healer admonished. “Be patient.” But then he added brightly, “I think we’ve enough. Let us return and begin preparation.”
“Not here?” I asked. Grandmama never worked her concoctions in our cottage.
The old man sniffed and turned. “So much to learn…”
We were back in the lovely sunshine. Laurent was walking Arro over the far grass. The two redheaded children were playing by the well in the square. The woman in the buttercup apron stood at her door, waving. I waved back again, happily, wondering if she lived alone, wondering if she crafted spells inside of her cottage. Then I spied the White Healer far ahead of me. He’d moved fast. Was it but a moment ago we’d been in the herb shed? And neither of us had brought the basket—
“Here, mistress!”
I turned and promptly jumped. Salva was directly behind me, holding up the basket of ingredients, and then spilling it in reflex to my reaction. She immediately scrabbled to pack it back together before I could help her. “Not to mind. I will carry this.” And the servant hurried along to the cottage, the White Healer just ahead of her, the hem of his robe dragging in the dust. I dusted my own hands on my skirts, shaking my head a little and thinking what an odd pair. But then Laurent was there and I ran to hug him before racing on to the cottage, thinking then I should be happy to grow old here like Salva.
The White Healer was unpacking the basket, lining up the little bottles on the table. “Now then, shall we begin?”
I went over to study what I’d collected for him. “All dark,” I murmured. It was an obvious description. These were black herbs, little bits of leaf and twig each the color of night.
“True. Do you understand why?”
I shook my head.
“Dark for light,” he answered. “When all the dark colors are combined you will see how ’twill be brilliantly lit.”
I picked out a few of the names I recognized. “Nightshade, oxalis, poison sedge.” I looked at him. “Dark and toxic.”
He nodded. “Poison of one thing can erase the poison of another.”
“Even the deadly ones?” I picked up one of the vials. “This is yew.”
“Hukon is more deadly. Return that to the table, my dear.”
“I—” I was picturing the little island in Rood Marsh, the wisps….
“Pay attention!”
I flinched, confessing, “I made a spell with yew before I should have. Before I was ready. I’ve brought so much trouble upon everyone because of it.”
The White Healer looked thoughtful. Then he nodded once more and gently reached to take the yew from my hand. “But here you are, so perhaps it was a good thing to have done.”
I considered that for a moment, watching him rearrange the bottles, lift their tops and sniff, testing for freshness. “If I had not done the spell,” I murmured finally, “I might have accomplished my task without incident. I might have already reached my destination.”
“What destination, my dear?”
“I would have made it to Tarnec. I would be with the Rider.” That came out of me so sudden, so certain—and so contrary.
A stillness passed over the old man. I worried what he was thinking, that he would tell me to leave off the spell making because I could not focus. But after a moment he smiled his merry smile. “Was it not your original destination to become a White Healer? And here you are, learning the craft, even if your mind is not where it should be. Perhaps this way you accomplish both missions?
“But now to task, my dear, this task.” The old man pulled my attention back to the table. “Take three pinches from this one”—he indicated the sedge—“and crush the bits between your palms.” He watched me carefully draw the appropriate amount from the jar. “Very good. Rub hard, make a fine powder.”
A harsh smell, the sedge. Darkly pungent.
“Now spread it clockwise on the table.”
My hand tingled as I smoothed the powder, staining the wood a dark metal color. I paused for a moment to study the pattern. “How is it that a poison lays the base?”
“Poison oft protects the pure,” he replied, and he bade me repeat the step with three other poisons, all staining the wood.
“Does it work in the opposite,” I asked, “that you would take what was pure to make something foul?”
“ ’Tis curiosity that fouls work.”
Curiosity cracked like a little switch. I pressed both hands to the table; the black stained them as well.
“There now, that was quickly done.” The White Healer was pleased. “Clever girl! Now you shall craft the container.” He pulled a little blade from his pocket. “Just beyond our hamlet is a grove of sweet wood. Find the willow tree there and cut twelve whips the length of half your height. From them you will braid four plaits and then bring them here.”
I nodded. The blade disconcerted me; it reminded me of Lill. But then, I’d also—finally—been complimented, so I dared not mention another memory since he would consider it a distraction. I waited politely.
“Go
on, then,” he nudged. “Your Rider can assist you.”
I turned and left, almost tripping in haste. Salva bent over her stocking and murmured, “Not to mind, mistress.” The tabby hissed.
Laurent rode me out of the village. I wanted to say that Arro should still be recovering, that we should walk, but somehow we were already seated on the horse, Laurent behind me. Neither of us spoke—reminiscent of the first time I rode with the Rider.
And yet hardly. That was when suspicion was ripe between us. Now I was happy to sit so close. I leaned back against his warm chest, wondering how he’d tracked me here, how he knew the direction for the willow, and then wondering why I should care. Then the grove was just ahead and I forgot to ask anyway.
“The willow will be inside,” Laurent said when I dismounted, “beyond that clump of trees.”
“You do not go with me?” I asked. It was that same sting of disappointment as at Hooded Falls.
He took my hands. “You will come back safe, Evie. I will look to the horse.”
He waved and turned Arro, then trotted off a ways leaving me standing in a field of hip-high grass. I watched him, feeling a little strange, a little empty. Then I shook myself. Attention to task. Laurent was right to leave me, or I’d be fixed upon him instead. I turned and walked into the grove.
It was dark and cool within, bare earth beneath my feet, a heavy canopy above. I reached up and touched the leaves—leaves of all shapes and meanings splintering the light.
There was the pointed oval of the slippery elm—it stopped the voice. ’Twould be why the grove was so quiet. There was the dragon’s blood tree of stiff bristles—its red sap stopped digestion. ’Twas a tree for arid lands and had no business growing in this verdant spot. And there grew the black locust, clumped with fragrant blossom on thorny branches. It could stop the heart.
A collection of trees to wither a soul. Hardly sweet wood as the White Healer called them. But perhaps, like the spell, poisonous trees together created a positive force that protected the pure….
For there, in the center of these dark trees, stood the willow.
Steep the bark in heated water; bring them back their ceded laughter. A bit of Healer verse floated into memory. The willow: a tree encompassing love, protection, healing, and even a guide to passage for those who were dying, a tree that was earthbound yet sought water. It was a tree for both the Guardian of Life and of Death. And I thought with relief: I am here; I am nearly done.
I approached the willow and sat down a little way from it, thinking that I should pay respect before I cut its branches. My fingers brushed over the bare ground, feeling little stubs of something. I looked down; my hand was resting on sprouts of minion. I stared at them, confused—I’d not noticed them before; it made no sense for minion to be growing next to a weeping willow—two healing plants did not need to share space. And minion grew in sun, not this dark shade. I touched a finger to one of them; my hand shimmered, white beneath the shadows. I brushed them again, and again my hand shimmered, white under what seemed so very black.
Attention to task.
The White Healer’s words jumped out, bold and stern. I stood, wiped my hands on my frock, and went to the tree. I slipped the blade from my pocket and sliced off the twelve whips, measuring as required, then sat back down by the tree to braid the four plaits. They were sharp, making fine little slices along my fingertips; beads of blood smeared a pattern, reminding me of when I pulled the satchel from the rack—
Attention to task! came the order. I made it a little song. To task, to task…
It might have been why I didn’t hear him, or perhaps he made no sound. But I felt a presence behind me, a sensation that I was being watched. I said, without turning around, “I am nearly done, Laurent.” And then, because there was no answer, I did turn around—
And I said something else:
“Raif.”
HE WAS STANDING a little behind me. Whole, unwounded, and wearing the same clothes as when I’d last seen him, a cambric shirt and dark trousers. They were the clothes I’d dressed him in for burial. I stared, eyes my only anchor. I was falling, spiraling somewhere, I was sure, even if I’d not moved.
“Are you a dream?” I asked, maybe in a whisper, or maybe not at all. I fought the dizziness, fumbled my way to standing—the willow plaits were spilling from my lap; I was stepping to him, throat-choked and breathless. But then I stopped. Raif’s expression was so solemn, uninviting.
I reached out my hand, uncertain. “Do I truly see you?”
“You see me.”
He remained where he was, the space yawning wider between us. My hand fell back at my side, useless. I should be wild with happiness, but his face, his distance was catching the feeling, squeezing my heart with it. And then I could only ask, “How are you here?”
“You, Evie,” he said softly. “You brought me.”
I shook my head.
Raif did not argue; he rarely would. He simply shifted his gaze, looked about. “A pretty place. The little cottages, this grove.”
“It’s beautiful.” My voice was husky.
Raif caught my gaze again, his eyes sad. This seemed all wrong. We were awkward. Strangers. “Evie,” he said softly, “don’t do this.”
“Do this?” I echoed, and my fingers, disconnected, were somehow gesturing at the braids of willow. “It’s for Lark.”
He watched me; those eyes making me ache, and then I was somehow defending: “I’m saving her, Raif. I found the White Healer—he’s showing me how.” I told him this as if he’d been with me all along, as if he knew the story. Or maybe I was challenging him to know it; I was no longer looking on his sudden appearance in wonder…for it wasn’t quite wonder anymore, but doubt.
Raif said, “What is this Healer?”
What, not who. I frowned. “I don’t remember his name.” What if Raif’s appearance was meant as another distraction, my own challenge? Attention to task—what I was supposed to be doing.
“Evie.” Raif was softly insistent. “You never asked it.”
“Why? Why does it matter? Look at them, I’m nearly done—I’m healing Lark. We’ll go to Castle Tarnec, return the amulet. Then we’ll come back here where it’s safe and sound…and beautiful.” I was protesting, trying to prove my intentions. I should return to the cottage. I bent to pick up the plaits.
The faintest smile lightened Raif’s voice. “We.”
I gave a tiny nod. There was silence in response. And then the plaits and the White Healer fell back in significance, for I could not let Raif be so slighted. I straightened, meeting his eyes once more. They were no longer sad but warm. Kind. It hurt to hurt him.
And he said it since I could not: “You love another.”
The grove was so quiet. The withering trees so very dark and still. I nodded again. The barest motion.
“Evie,” Raif said gently. “He does not belong here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes, you do,” he whispered. “This is not the Rider’s place. This is where I belong.”
“Don’t.” I stopped him. “Please. Don’t.” Sorrow was filling my throat. I was catching breaths like hiccups. “You gave me leave.”
“But you did not leave.”
“Not true! I love Laurent!” Painful silence—I shut my eyes and tried to say it evenly: “You died, Raif. I had to leave you.” Then I shook my head. “Nay. You left me.”
And suddenly the memory of losing Raif welled up, tearing into my body with needles of want. “You left. You let me go!” My hands pressed against my cheeks, my temples, trying to push back the hurt and longing, but it came out anyway. “It was supposed to be so sweet, our life! It was supposed to be unharmed! The cottage by the orchard where the apple blossoms drift and sprinkle the thatch like snow, Grandmama, and Lark, and market day, and happy babies—and you coming home to me each night.”
“Evie…” His voice bared his own regrets. “ ’Tis as you say: that is the life I belong to, not
the Rider. That life, that time is gone—and that is not this place.”
“But it can be,” I whispered, desolate.
“Open your eyes, sweet girl. You can neither bring those days back nor force another into that picture.”
“No!” It sounded so loud. “Laurent told me he was happy here! There is nothing forced.”
“This is your dream, Evie. Wake up. Think. Some part of you knows something’s wrong—you’ve brought me back because you want the truth.”
I slumped down on my knees. “Truth for what?” I asked hoarsely.
Raif smiled—the old smile, the one I used to fall asleep picturing was meant for me. The ache of loss burned through my chest, stealing breath, purpose. He said, “Do you know what I love about you? How curious you were about everything. You would not just look at the apple blossoms; you would want to know why they shaded from pink to white. How the mordant fixed Semel Lewen’s dyes.” He looked at me keenly, then looked at my hands. “You must make your own choices. I can only warn you to see what is, not what you want.” He put out a finger to almost touch the white little bit of my knuckle, then dropped it, whispering, “Where is your curiosity now, Evie Carew?”
I looked down at my hands too. They were pale and clean—as they should be. “My curiosity brought this upon us,” I said, husky. “I’m here because I have to fix it.”
“If curiosity brought you here, then yearning makes you stay.”
Where are you weak, young girl? They will strike you where you are weak….Words from a memory I couldn’t place.
“Yearning, Evie,” Raif said. “Do you not wonder why this is all just as you wish? The pretty square and pretty flowers and the innocent—”
“Why is that wrong?” I pleaded, “Can’t there be a haven where there is no brutality, no threat?”
