The Island of Mists

by Wendy Nelson-Sinclair

  TWELVE

  Eight years passed since I had left the Island’s shores. Autumn arrived unexpectedly. One day, it was a hot, sun-drenched summer day. The next, it was cool, windy, and drizzling. Judging by how quickly the temperature dropped, as well as how fast the leaves changed color, I instinctively knew that the coming winter would be bitter and harsh. I had not anticipated this and was totally unprepared. I needed to build up stores to sustain me through the months when food would be precious, and foraging would be scarce.

  The sun decided to come out after I had gathered an abundance of acorns. As a child, I recalled crushing the nuts and waiting in anxious anticipation while Aunt Leena brewed a strong, morning drink out of the pulverized shells and nutmeat. It was a rare treat that I now indulged in daily. The day started off dark and dreary before clearing. The weather hadn’t hindered me in the chores that I needed to attend to though. It spurned me on and now my basket was brimming with bounty, and a line of fish hung secured at my waist. One fish was to be my dinner that night, the others were to be smoked for rations.

  I had just come into the clearing in the heart of the forest, close to where I had killed the stranger who had attacked Talen. The heavy tang of blood scented the air and I caught the sound of several men laughing close by. Alarmed by their presence, I hid in a thick patch of bushes until I could ascertain whether it was safe. None of the voices were familiar. I knew many people that traveled this road but did not recognize anyone nearby. The men laughed raucously, speaking in an unfamiliar dialect. Whatever it was they said, wasn’t good. The tone of their voices was filled with mischief as each one tried to out-boast the other. I had seen enough wickedness in my life to know that if they caught wind of my presence, that would be the end. I listened carefully for the next quarter of an hour, waiting patiently for them to leave. Relief washed over me as I heard them pack up and disappear back down the road.

  I took a careful step out from the safety of the foliage. Scanning my surroundings, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Emboldened, I returned to the clearing. I cautiously headed back slowly until my foot struck something solid. I glanced down. A man’s foot lay against mine. Following the length of his leg, I saw the rest of him hidden under a large dogwood bush. Stepping over him, I pushed the dense leaves back and gasped, seeing that he was soaked in blood and close to death. The thought to just leave him stayed with me for the span of a heartbeat before my conscience dictated otherwise. I trusted my ability to smell the measure of a person’s goodness. This man smelled of woodsmoke, baked bread, tanned leather, and something metallic that I did not recognize. I stared down at him, intrigued by his wild, yet distinguished look. His head was covered in thick, shoulder-length hair that obscured the features of his face. Tattoos were etched into every inch of uncovered skin. The clothes he wore were unlike any that I had seen before, and I suspected were not native to this land. He let out a short, forced, sudden groan and I jumped backward. His hand grabbed hold of my ankle, forcing another gasp out of my lips. The warmth of his skin on mine sent a shot of electricity up my leg, rendering me speechless. The stranger opened his eyes and tried to speak before his head rolled to the side and he lost consciousness again.

  The sensible part of me said to leave him, to walk away, and give his people a chance to find him—if he had people, that was. The healer in me said otherwise. This man would die if I did not help him. As an avowed healer, it was my duty to render him aid. Healers did not pick and choose the moments when they were called. Our work dictated that we helped whoever was in need. Letting out a sigh of defeat, I set my basket down at his side and dropped to my knees. I checked him over for wounds, finding many. Some wounds were deep while most them were shallow. He would bear many scars but with my care, he would live to see another day. However, the wounds would need to be cleaned, treated, and bandaged. My greatest problem was that the man who lay before me was muscular, and tall. I was certain that when he was on his feet, he stood well over six-foot. He was solid, dense, and I knew that there was absolutely no way that I could carry him alone. I needed to get him back to my dwelling where I could tend to him to better. I spent several moments thinking, wondering just how I could manage to get him there when an idea struck me. The Hermit! If I brought something to barter with, the Hermit would help me. Doing as best as I could, I managed to push him close to where the overgrowth spilled out onto the path. I quickly gathered loose branches and bits of greenery and used it to disguise the strangers’ body. Within minutes, I had him well camouflaged. I got up and wiped the dirt from my hands and then bent down to speak to him softly in his ear.

  “I need to get help so that I can tend to your injuries,” I assured him in the calmest tone I could muster and hoped that he understood me. “Please try not to move or make a sound until I get back.” I left him and ran as fast as I could to the Hermit's dwelling.

  The Hermit greeted me like we were old friends and immediately agreed to help me in exchange for a share of my acorns. It was a small price to pay. Together, we traveled back to where I had left that stranger lying alone. When we entered the clearing, panic rose in my throat because the place where I had left the man lying was now empty. The camouflage I had so carefully crafted was now scattered about with no body beneath it. I searched frantically for him. Briefly, I wondered if he had had the strength to crawl off or if the ruffians had come back for him. Finally, after several minutes of frenzied searching, I discovered him in the same cluster of bushes that I had hidden in earlier.

  “What are you doing here?” I chastised him while motioning the Hermit over to join us. “Why did you not stay where I left you?” I checked him over again. One of his wounds, the one that had given me cause for concern earlier, was bleeding heavily again.

  “Mmmm…” He weakly motioned towards the path. I glanced back and saw fresh footprints in the dirt.

  “We must get him out of here quickly,” I told the Hermit who didn’t hesitate to agree with me. “Those men are probably searching for him. We need to get out of here before they come back and catch us too.”

  We managed to carry my patient to the makeshift gurney—the same one I had used to carry Talen to his burial site—the same one I gave the Hermit after moving in. The Hermit sometimes let me borrow it if I needed it. Working together, we managed to load the stranger onto it and secured him with ties to keep him from moving or slipping off. We struggled with the bulk of his body as we dragged him back to my home. The path up proved to be the most difficult. The heavy burden that we carried— and nearly dropped several times—left both the Hermit and me gasping for air by the time we reached the cave’s entrance. After he helped me unload my patient onto a pallet, I gave the Hermit his fee and threw in a crock of wildflower honey as a token of my gratitude. He accepted it with great enthusiasm and left with a smile.

  Alone to tend to my patient, I set to work. I gathered everything that I would need, including ointments, crushed and dried herbs, and salves, along with bandages, rags, and a large basin of water. Eweln constantly stressed that clean hands were the most important factor when it came to healing and recovering. Cleanliness kept putrefaction from settling into the muscles and flesh. I could hear Eweln’s voice guiding me as I set to work on this lost stranger.

  After a careful examination, I found many of the wounds weren’t as deep as I had initially thought. The one that had given me great concern had stopped bleeding and sat open, red, angry, and inflamed. I applied yarrow to reduce the swelling and to ease the pain.

  The wounds looked as if they had been inflicted by some type of knife, maybe even a sword. Even though I had never treated a sword wound before, I instinctively knew what to do. Suture it, keep it from bleeding, and make sure it healed without becoming infected. The remaining wounds were easy.

  After several hours of hard, focused work, with the sutures all in and his wounds bandaged, I finally had a moment to breathe. I sat back and wiped my sweaty brow with my forearm. My patient slept quietly upon the p
allet while the fire crackled and popped. Even though my body was exhausted, my soul was exhilarated. The familiar sense of purpose, combined with joy left me satisfied. I longed to practice my craft since being forced from the town. It was fortunate that it had been me that found this large, hairy stranger instead of someone who else. I was a born healer, after all. It was highly likely that anybody else would treat him with horse dung or something just as dangerous and he would have been dead by morning. The Goddess had led me to him. I knew it within the marrow of my bones. She’d given me my abilities and saw how I ached to use them. Both Aunt Leena and Eweln had said as much, many times throughout my life. The Goddess blessed me with my gifts and presented me opportunities to use them, even when I didn’t want to.

  Healing Cal was something that I regretted. In the summer before the Rites, his father had come to Eweln’s hut, frantic and begging for her to help his son. I sat with her at her table stripping rosemary leaves from the stalk when the knock sounded upon the door.

  “There is something wrong with my son,” He spoke humbly from her doorstep. Eweln announced that we would be there shortly. Cal’s father had left and Eweln asked me to prepare our things.

  “I don’t want to go,” I told her, armed with the knowledge that she knew the reason why. “I don’t want to be anywhere near him,” I said hoping it would keep me from having to go. Eweln stood in the center of her house and with her delicate hands upon her stern hips. Shooting me a look of uncommon impatience, she said something that would stick with me through the course of my life.

  “We do not pick and choose the people that we treat, Yvaine,” She spoke evenly while I stubbornly listened on. “No matter what your feelings are towards Cal. No matter what my feelings are towards Cal, we are healers and he needs our help. Personal feelings do not dictate who benefits from our craft.” I sat in my chair, thoroughly chastised and reluctantly agreed to go.

  When we had gotten there, Cal was confined to his bed, stricken with a high fever and cold chills that were rooted to the bone.

  “He has caught the Spring Fever late,” Eweln announced, much to the relief of his parents. “There is a handful of others who have been stricken with it too. There is no doubt that he will recover.” She added, giving further comfort to his worried parents. The Spring Fever was an ague that we had all suffered at one point in time, and once you had it, you didn’t have it again.

  I tried not to think of Cal but now his memory was just as bitter and acid on my tongue as it had been then. I detested his constant attention. Each of his vain attempts at flattery soured me against him. The memory of his savage, brutal attack was raw, like a half-healed wound when the scab breaks off. My eyes grew warm with the prospect of unshed tears and immediately, I wiped my eyes to cast them away. My life was different now. I was no longer in any danger from him and there was another task that was right at hand. I leaned back against the dense wall and allowed myself a few moments to let my mind settle, dispelling what I most wanted to forget but never would. To keep my mind clear, I watched my patient sleep and after a few moments, let my eyes close.

  ************

  A short time later, I woke up with a start. My eyes focused as they slowly opened. To my surprise, I found the stranger watching me. Our eyes locked and I saw his exhaustion, as well as his pain, clearly written across his strong masculine features. He moved to speak but groaned painfully.

  “No, don’t try to move,” I scrambled to my knees and reached out for my salves that rested just beyond his reach. “I have something for the pain. Something to help you sleep.” I kept my voice calm as I approached him. He watched me intently as I pulled back the dressings and checked him for signs of redness and swelling. I let out a controlled sigh, seeing much improvement. Wanting to stay on top of the progress, I applied honied-garlic ointment to the wound. His body relaxed in response to its instant pain-relieving properties. Wiping my hands clean, I brewed a strong tea of valerian root and moved to help him drink the liquid that would allow him to sleep undisturbed, giving his body a chance to heal itself. His eyes locked onto mine as I drew close. Kneeling down, I showed him the vessel. I lifted his head and brought the cup to his lips, but his hand shot out from under the coverlet and captured my wrist. His touch was gentle, absent of any anger or malice. I felt the gratitude that flowed through our connection and because of it, I smiled.

  ************

  My patient slept soundly, waking periodically, for the next three days. I tended him dutifully, leaving him only when I needed to check my traps or when my eyes grew too heavy to keep open. The rest of the time was spent in constant care. The wounds were washed and treated several times a day to prevent any infection that might occur. After nightfall on the fourth night, my patient let out a deep groan and immediately I went to his side. His brow was beaded with a thin layer of sweat. His eyes opened as I checked the bandage protecting the wound on his stomach. I let out a sigh of relief and gave thanks for the willow bark tea that finally broke his fever.

  “Where am I?” He asked. This stranger first spoke in a tongue that I did not understand. Seeing no reaction from me, he repeated himself in Talen’s language. The language of the native people.

  “You were wounded. I found you in the forest and brought you to my home to tend to your injuries,” I explained as I placed the blanket back up over him, covering the wound. He looked at me again, not with suspicion but with complete gratitude.

  “How did I get in your home?” He made a move to sit up, but I urged him to remain as he was.

  “A hermit that I know helped me carry you and it wasn’t easy. But you’re here now and I’ve treated your wounds so that they won’t get infected. Thankfully, none are life-threatening. Although, I must say that you’re lucky that the one on your stomach wasn’t worse. Any deeper and it would have pierced your bowel.”

  “Thank you for your kindness,” My patient let out another deep sigh and closed his eyes. “I was thought I was going to die. Thank you for helping me and for bringing me here.” He coughed suddenly, his body shook violently as each spasm caused him to wince from the pressure it placed upon his wounds. I helped him through the fit, holding him so it took the pressure off of his injuries. “Thank you again.” He said weakly once the fit had run its course and he was back securely under the blankets. “What is your name?”

  “Yvaine,” I said as I began to tidy up the area around him.

  “Ee-vain.” He matched the sounding of my name, speaking slowly and looking at me as if contemplating something. “What an unusual name. I have never heard anything like it before.” He stopped, drew in a deep breath which caught when his stomach extended out too far. My patient groaned from the temporary sting. “Do you originally come from these lands?” He asked innocently. I debated my answer while he studied me closely. “I come from the lands across the sea.” He looked away from me and focused his gaze on the cave’s ceiling. “I was out hunting when a group of men attacked me. I think they tried to rob me and then tried to kill me once they realized that I had nothing of worth to steal.”

  “I know them,” I said, knowing all too well the menace he had faced. “They come here looking for food every so often when their land grows lean.” The Hermit had warned me of their presence last year, telling me of how he had spotted them in the forest, boasting, and bragging while they stalked a stag. I had been fortunate enough to have avoided them so far. “They are ruthless. You’re lucky that they didn’t kill you.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” His mouth crooked into the slightest of smiles and a shockwave went through me. I hadn’t wanted to admit it while I was tending his wounds, or when I was washing his body, but I found the stranger beside me intriguing and attractive. In a word, he was beautiful. His well-muscled body, the rugged, yet exquisitely stunning planes of his face, and the gentleness that radiated from him created a stirring inside of me that I instantly squashed. My thoughts left me hoping that my cheeks didn’t blush with betrayal.

&nbs
p; My patient and I spent the evening talking and getting to know one another. While we ate a simple stew of mixed vegetables and rabbit meat, he spoke animatedly. It was wonderful to have someone to listen to other than the voice of my own thoughts. The stranger spoke with zeal about his travels. All the places he had seen, his family, friends, and most of all, his homeland.

  “I would like to go back someday.” He said as he set his bowl down on the ground beside him. “Before I became separated from them, my countrymen and I were discussing who was to remain behind at our settlement and who would be heading back home.” He grunted as he fidgeted. I scolded him, reminding him to keep still to guard against disturbing his wounds. Though he vowed that he was trying, he continued to be restless. That night, before I went to bed, I gave him another cup of hot, freshly ground valerian root. “This tea smells like sweaty feet.” He turned up his nose and tried to push the cup away.

  “Quit your complaining,” I scolded him. “Medicine isn’t meant to taste good.” I chimed further. “This will help you sleep and settle through the night,” Judging by the expression on his face, he was still suspicious of the odiferous brew. In an act of what I hoped he would see as good faith, I drank the full cup down and then promptly refilled it from the pot that sat on the table behind me. “I take it on the nights when I am overly tired,” I admitted. He grabbed the cup from me and leveled his eyes on mine before consuming the contents. “Sleep well.” I wished him and watched him settle down, his body already relaxing. “We’re having fish in the morning,” I said as I got up from the floor and carried the empty cup over to my preparation table.