Remedy Maker

by Sheri Fredricks

  Remedy Maker

  Sheri Fredricks

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Publishers Note:

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is entirely coincidental.

  © 2012 Sheri Fredricks

  http://www.sherifredricks.com

  Temple Publishing LLC © 2012

  DEDICATION

  To my husband who knew before I did, my CPs who believed in what I wrote, Naughty Leanore who knows the value of polish, and Brendan–who invented new words.

  One

  Screams of the terrified echoed through the corridors of Rhycious’s mind. Shouts from warriors and cries of agony ebbed away. The pounding of his heart decreased.

  He gripped the roughly hewn table with both hands, forcing himself to concentrate on the picturesque view of the Boronda Forest beyond his kitchen window, as it faded in favor of the horrific scene.

  Bloody soldiers lay scattered in his reminiscence like the deadfall they were. My team of medics and I can’t keep up with the gruesome injuries. Arrows are whizzing close to our heads and roots are bursting from the ground to choke us. Body parts flung high in trees, left to hang, and picked clean by scavengers.

  Rhy shook his head and blew a hard breath. Night had fallen hours ago and no Wood Nymphs attacked his fellow herdsmen. No such war existed between races any longer.

  He was safe. The horrific scenes were in his mind, exhumed by his traumatized memory.

  Sweat dampened his forehead. Rhycious fought the flashback’s wave with even, regulated breaths. Gritted teeth unclenched one facial muscle at a time, and his back straightened with determination, vertebrae by vertebrae.

  He didn’t start the battle that had lasted two centuries, but the clashing mythics had damn well become his emotional baggage.

  Rhycious relaxed the anchoring grasp of one hand and raised his wrist to see the time. The tremble in his arm caused the digital numbers to dance before his eyes. Pan, help me. The god who reigned over terror and panic must be having a good laugh on his account.

  Rock music played from the boom box rigged to a solar battery on the granite counter. Sliding notes of an electric guitar drove home the time in which he lived.

  Nowadays, turmoil imploded within the Centaur community, no outside sources required. Senior herd leaders remained prejudiced against Satyrs, Minotaurs, and other woodland races—Nymphs topped the list.

  Upon declaring the end of the bloody, two hundred year Centaur-Wood Nymph war, Queen Savella of the Centaurs dictated that all within the immense forest live in harmony. Against bitter opposition from various leaders, she and the reigning Wood Nymph king signed the Cessation of Enmity into effect one hundred thirty years ago.

  No longer were there severed appendages requiring him to staunch the flow of blood. Lately, broken bones, babies, and illnesses made up the repertoire of his remedy making.

  Rhy tore the elastic band from his hair and gathered the mass into a fist. Securing it back again, he thought of the growing pockets of fascist Centaurs. Youths brought up on biased stories retold by veterans, demanding the traditional ways brought back.

  Over his lifeless body, and those who supported the Queen, would the old days return. War and hatred killed Centaur and other species alike. Death never discriminated.

  After another cleansing breath, he used his sleeve to wipe his forehead and forced himself to settle down.

  A second glance revealed the hour—almost 10:00 p.m., past time to begin mixing herbs for the pregnant Centaur who relied on his remedies. In her equine form, she was unable to vomit, tying her guts up in knots. Colic was a life-threatening condition for his race.

  Depending upon the time of day a Centaur was born, and the gravitation pull of the moon, his or her transitional phase differed. Never at one time would all be in human or equine forms, which came in handy for defense purposes and blending in with the modern world.

  Festival of the Trees was several weeks away. It was a time of great fertility for all Bacchus’s woodland creatures. Eleven months after the celebration, Rhycious’s obstetrician skills would be put to the test.

  The thought dropped his stomach to the floor while his anger took an elevator up. There would be more female Centaurs requesting a simple diagnosis for ailments easily attended to by other healers. This year, he would refer those cases away, leaving him with the emergency patients.

  The less everyone bothered him, the better. His tail gave a vicious swish and slapped the pot-bellied stove behind him.

  “Got to get my ass in gear here,” he mumbled.

  Turning to the worktable, he shook off the last of the residual effects of his most recent episode of posttraumatic stress disorder. This incident had been mild compared to others he’d experienced.

  Rhycious selected dried herbs from various containers lining the apothecary cabinet. Peppermint leaves were dropped into a plastic zip bag and he pinched it closed. A fresh aroma wafted up and he couldn’t resist a deep inhale. Aromatherapy—the plant smelled particularly nice and gave the recipient feelings of happiness.

  Something he needed at the moment.

  He grabbed another baggie and a dry flag of raspberry. Muted sounds of twigs cracking outside brought his head around.

  “What the hell now?” He strode a few hoofsteps to peer out the front window.

  Between the mini blind’s metal slats, the familiar sight of Samuel Beiler’s horse and black Amish buggy came into view. The draped window at chest level concealed his lower body from view, and Rhycious released the blinds with a vicious snap. Outside in the dark was the only human to know him as a Centaur. For the safety of his people, it would stay that way.

  He rested his hands on his hips and gazed down, fighting a wave of anger with a pawing hoof. Irritation swept through him for the unannounced interruption, especially at this time of night. If he had electricity, he would have turned the front porch light off—if he had a porch light, that is.

  Samuel’s your friend, asshole. What the hell’s the matter with you? Experience reminded that mental flogging would get him nowhere.

  Better to face his points of stress head-on.

  He opened the front door and stuck his head out. “Evening, Samuel. What brings you out at this time?”

  “Guten abend, Rhycious. I’m sorry to disturb you so late. I found an unconscious English in the woods on my way home.” Tucking the reins off to the side, Samuel jumped down from the front seat.

  He found a human? What was he thinking bringing it here?

  Sam hurried to the rear of the buggy. “You’re the closest thing to a doctor I can take her to.” He removed a covering from the object in the bed. “Not like either of us can phone 911, now is it?”

  True enough. Residents in the little town of Willow Bay thought him to be a recluse who lived somewhere out in the forest. Day trips to pickup supplies from the hardware and grocery stores, or sell his herbal remedies at the health food market, had laid the foundation for his human identity.

  He could imagine the grocery clerk’s reaction upon discovering a Centaur living amongst humans.

  Rhy opened the door wider, scanned the dark forest around them, and then stepped out onto the veranda. Moonlight filtered between branches and shined on Samuel struggling with a large object.

  “Oh, shit! You weren’t kidding.” He leapt off the porch and all four hoov
es pounded the ground. Then he trotted to Samuel and clasped his shoulder. “Let me help.” At the disgusted look sent his way, he hastened to add, “Four legs are better than two.”

  His arms slid under the young lady and he lifted her with care. “Do you know what happened?”

  “No,” Samuel said. “Ol’ Bert saw her before I did. I’d have run over the poor thing.”

  Rhy carried her inside and headed for the bedroom. His other sleeping quarters, a stallroom, was setup for Centaurs.

  Irritation prickled at the still form in his arms, and he forced the feeling back. He’d known for some time his PTSD symptoms were worsening. All the classic signs were there, a need for absolute privacy being one of them.

  Samuel carried the kitchen lantern and followed while Rhy made sure the woman seemed comfortable on the bed. She was very pretty, with long dark hair, a pale olive complexion, and thin build. A mole dotted the end of her brow, opposite the nasty bruise forming on her forehead. That one promised to hurt in the morning.

  She’d need a thyme and tea tree oil compress.

  “You ever see her before?”

  “No, I haven’t.” Rhy ran his hands down both bare legs and a slender exposed arm. He checked for broken bones, noting her supple skin and a clean woodsy scent.

  Her blouse had an unusual design, made of homespun fibers. It had a diagonal cut neckline with tiny puff sleeves, pink and soft. Created from the same material, a short skirt flared, and was embroidered with spring-green leaves.

  A tickle teased his neck again, but not from annoyance this time. He repeated the examination of her other arm. Tension curled tighter in his gut, suspicion spread like spilled wine.

  Tilting her head with care, he pushed her dark brown hair from her smooth décolletage, sucked in a short breath, and froze.

  “What is it? Snake bite?” Samuel raised the brass lantern higher and leaned over for a better view.

  Rhy tapped his thumb against her neck. Designs a few shades darker than her natural color marred the creamy complexion. The millennia old skin formation carved its way into his painful memories. It started behind her ear, an inch wide at the hairline, and extended to the other side.

  The words choked out of him. There was no use trying to hide his revulsion. “Wood Nymph.” He nodded toward the spot. “See the tree bark pattern?”

  “A Wood Nymph? For a certainty?” Samuel’s gaze fell across the telling mark, and he turned open-mouthed to Rhy. “And I thought meeting a Centaur was unbelievable.”

  Rhycious swung his tail and cocked a hind leg; he felt like kicking the antique dresser next to him. A pixie, not only in my house, but in my bed.

  “She can’t stay here, Sam.”

  Samuel lowered the lantern. His wide brimmed hat hid his features, but Rhy could tell his human friend remained confused. The low crown volleyed between patient and remedy maker.

  “Why? You can’t help her?”

  “She’s Nymph, I’m Centaur. ‘Nuff said.” He folded his arms over his chest and backed away two steps.

  Samuel straightened, standing tall. His two legs mimicked Rhy’s stiff stance of four. “I’ve never known you to turn someone away.” He gestured toward the female with his free arm. “She’s injured and needs your help. I can’t do it!”

  Rhy’s emotions were raw. Not thirty minutes earlier, he’d fought off his latest bout of being fucked-up in the head. Now his friend wanted to fuck him in the—“Can’t you keep her? I’ll look in on her at your place,” he gritted out between clenched teeth.

  Pan help me, I don’t want to be immature about this. But how in the hell could he play doctor with a pixie? Star-quality beautiful, he’d grant her that. However, thoughts of nursing her back to health turned his stomach sour.

  “Look at me, Rhy.” Samuel extended both arms out. “Ee hopp neh. I have no beard yet, you know what that means. I’m a single man in an Amish community. I cannot have this young woman under my roof!” The last word punctuated in a pitch lifted higher than his brows.

  Rhy stared hard at his friend. In their stubborn standoff, neither spoke nor made a move toward the Nymph.

  Samuel threw both his hands up in exasperation. “Scheissdreck! You’re a healer, the very best of your kind. Help this young lady. With all that you are, how could you turn her away?”

  Rhy took a glance at the Nymph. She was so pale and small; her coloring should have been a healthier complexion. Dark lashes fanned out in stark feathers resting on colorless cheeks. Grabbing his grandmother’s throw blanket from the foot of the bed, he covered her and followed the bobbing light out of the room.

  Wasn’t her fault Sam brought her here, he told himself. Boot heels sounded on the wooden floor, echoed by his hoof beats seconds later.

  The lantern on the apothecary table reminded him he had business to finish. He spoke in a low voice to Sam, who stood gazing out the front window with his arms crossed.

  “I don’t choose to carry these feelings of prejudice, but they’re part of who I am. Two hundred years I fought the Wood Nymphs. That’s a long time, Samuel.” He inhaled a deep breath. “I wish this scar on my face was the only evidence I carried from war. But it isn’t. I lost my family, along with more friends and relatives than I can name. And you ask me to help her?”

  Wide shoulders turned toward him, and a few steps brought the man into his personal space. Samuel ignored the white elephant in the room for the benefit of both. Each knew his surface scar was nothing compared to the subcutaneous damage Rhy carried.

  Sam removed his hat and looked him in the eye, almost nose to nose. “Through turmoil and strife, persecution and condemnation, love conquers all.” Never breaking eye contact, he stepped back and put on his hat. His voice deepened. “Do you suppose it’s easy being Amish in a modern world, Rhycious? Everyone looks at me as if I’m a sideshow freak. We don’t always get what we want in life, but we do have to live the one God gives us. Even you, my friend. Especially you.”

  The scar began to tick, much to Rhy’s annoyance. “Our families have been allies for many years. You’ve been my close friend all your life. But know this, Sam. I’m going to kick your ass if that little Wood Nymph drives me to drinking.”

  The notorious habit told throughout the ages remained true. Centaurs loved to consume alcohol. He chose to abstain since liquor exacerbated his anxiety attacks.

  Samuel’s lips pressed together, fighting his grin with a losing battle. “You’ll be all right. A fine strapping man like yourself can’t be undone by a twig of a girl. If she doesn’t wake until morning, she’ll see you as a human and never know she slept in the enemy’s den.” His smile went full-blown. “The enemy’s bed for that matter.” Chuckling, he turned toward the door. The sound of harness leather jangled outside.

  “It’s a good thing I live in an area where hoof prints and hoof beats are a common occurrence,” Rhy said begrudgingly. Anger subsiding, he mellowed and followed Sam to the door. Leaning against the jam, his tail flicked back and forth, dispersing extra energy. “‘Tis necessary when one travels as a man by day and beast by night,” he said, turning on the old-world Centaur inflection.

  Samuel stepped down from the porch and walked to his horse, Bert. “Your grandfather started the tradition of our families helping each other during that cursed war of yours.” He checked the bit and headstall. “I need your help now with the young Nymph. Your secret will always be safe with me. You know that.”

  Once he was satisfied the bridle was secure, Samuel climbed up to the buggy seat and picked up the reins. “Guten abend, Rhycious.” He clucked to his horse.

  As they passed, Rhy nickered to Bert, who blew softly through his nose and tossed his head. When Samuel gave a jaunty salute with his hat, Rhy grinned and slung back, “Screw you.”

  Closing the front door, the jangles of Bert’s harness and the damned Amish man’s laughter floated to him. He slid the bolt home and took a deep breath. Why did he have the feeling his work had only just begun?

&
nbsp; After checking his undesirable patient—yeah, who am I kidding? It’s like having a Victoria’s Secret supermodel in my bed—he returned to filling remedies for delivery in the morning. When he finished, he’d make the poultice for her injury. The lump would be purple by then.

  Maybe he should just cut off her head to make the bruise go away. No brain, no pain.

  Stop! He chastised himself for going there.

  Samuel had a point. He had to live the life his gods gave him. Why Pan and Bacchus had dumped the sexy little Nymph on him, he didn’t know. Of all places in the Boronda Forest for her to be found, fate led her to his cabin’s door. The gods must know something.

  And when did he started seeing her as sexy? He shrugged and rested a hind leg.

  Whatever. Bring it on.

  Two

  Luminous patterns danced behind her closed eyes in a kaleidoscope of movement. Shapes shifted with grace, never chilling in one place for long. Patience snuggled deeper in her warm cocoon and enjoyed the show.

  If the constant thumping in the distance would stop swimming in her fantasauce, then she could dream her next skirt design.

  As she imagined color schemes for fabric, the pounding increased in volume, bumming her dream voyage. Her eyelids were difficult to open, as if stuck together with sap. In her case, this was certainly possible.

  Forcing her eyes apart, she blinked several times. Blurred images swirled before they sharpened into focus. Confusion followed when she didn’t know where she was.

  Above her, a beautiful knotty pine ceiling glowed in warm shades of orange and black. The stained wood reminded her of a wild summer sunset.

  She rested in a bed, the mattress semi-firm, and slid her fingers in groggy fascination across paisley sheets dotted white and navy. Pima cotton, 700-thread-count. Maybe I’m in Elysium—Nymph heaven.