Chapter 31
I will be the first to confess my lack of knowledge—in healing, certainly, and in most everything else, truth be told—but I had learned a few things about wounds recently. What is more, I had learned from excellent teachers. My offer hung in the air for a moment as Catia considered. Finally, she said, “What would you do?”
“First I would clean the wound with vinegar,” I told her, and explained what I had seen the Lucius do for my father. “Then make a poultice and bind it to the wound with clean cloths. Then, if we could get some willow scrapings, I would make a tisane to ease the pain and help him sleep.”
She gazed at me with something like wonder in her eyes. “How do you know these things—one so young?”
“I helped my father,” I said simply, to avoid a lengthy, possibly painful explanation.
“Your father,” she repeated. “Was he a physician?”
“No, he was a magistrate,” I confessed. “But he was badly injured in a raid and I helped tend him. The little I know I learned from a physician in Viroconium and a healer named Agnese.”
The farm woman bit her lip uncertainly.
“And I know this,” I continued, confidence making me bold, “if Lucius and Agnese were here, they would do the same.” Still, she hesitated, looking toward the house.
“Do you truly think it will help?”
“I do. But, whatever happens, it will not make matters worse by trying.”
She agreed and led me back into the house. Seisyll had take to his sleeping pallet on the ledge in a far corner of the house. Catia and I settled at the table and discussed what would be needed for the poultice and tisane. And she said she would get these things for me. Then she went to her injured husband and explained what I had offered to do. I watched from a distance as Catia bent over her husband, her hand on his arm, speaking urgently and low. Fortunately—or perhaps, providentially—he agreed, but only after some resistance to the idea of a stranger tending his wound.
Catia returned from speaking to him and told me, “He will allow it. I’ll fetch your things.”
As she busied herself elsewhere in the big house, the old woman at the hearth, Mara, rose from her stool and brought a shallow wooden bowl to the board and put it down in front of me. With a toothless smile, she handed me a large ashwood spoon and gestured for me to eat. Under her watery gaze, I took up the spoon and sampled a bite. “Mm-mm,” I said, nodding enthusiastically.
Indeed, I would have eaten a bowl of live crickets just then; but the simple porridge was just as good as any I had ever tasted. Mara, looking on, gave me a gentle pat on the head to smooth my hair and shuffled back to her stool beside the fire. As I spooned up the warm food, the fatigue of the previous night’s journey came over me all at once. I yawned and might well have put my face in the porridge if Catia had not returned from her herb store just then to announce, “I think I have everything—except the willow. And that, I can easily get.” She placed a jar on the board before me, saying, “I only have a little vinegar left. I’m making more, but it isn’t ready yet.”
“This should be enough,” I replied, hefting the jar. “And the herbs?”
She placed two wooden bowls of withered leaves before me. “The comfrey and thyme,” she said. “I have more—as much as you need.”
Unable to help myself, I yawned again, and shook my head to clear it.
“Aurelia, girl, you are fair exhausted,” Catia said, watching me. “You should sleep. We will tend Seisyll when you are rested.”
A low moan came from the bed niche along the wall just then. I suspected that Seisyll’s latest exertion had taxed him heavily and he was paying for it now. “It has been eight days as you said,” I pointed out. “I don’t think he can wait any longer.” So saying, I put off my fatigue and formed the plan by which I would proceed, then sent up a prayer asking for a little skill and much wisdom to help me ease his pain and make him better. “We’ll make a start.”
Catia gave me an uncertain look, but said, “Do you need anything else?”
“Only some honey and a few clean cloths.”
She turned and called to the old mother to bring her the honey; then went to fetch a few rags of raw linen cloth. I rubbed the dried herbs into dust and mixed them in a bowl. Catia returned holding a pile of folded cloth. “These scraps were left-over from shirts tunics I made last spring,” she said. “Is it enough?”
I shook out some of the cloths. “Perfect,” I told her. “I couldn’t ask for better.”
We spent the next little while preparing the poultice and ointment. Catia watched me closely, marking all I did and how I did it, asking questions from time to time. Old Mara, from her place by the hearth, watched, too, keeping her own counsel. When I finished, I announced that we were ready to proceed.
Catia led me to the sleeping nook where her husband lay. She shook him gently awake and told him I would tend his wound now. Though he opened his eyes, he said nothing and I noticed his face was pale and his eyes bright. Indeed, he appeared worse now than when he had ventured outside.
Mara brought me her stool and then stood back with Catia to watch. Pulling the stool close, I sat down and, balancing the bowl of warm vinegar water on my knees, I spoke to Seisyll, telling him what I planned to do. “It might hurt a little,” I explained, “but I do think it will be for the best.”
Receiving only a grunt in reply, I lifted the hem of his mantle, I exposed his injured leg to view. What I saw took my breath away: a long gash that ripped the skin and flesh of his lower leg, tearing into the raw, red muscle. Dried blood and yellow pus crusted around the wound and the edges were red and inflamed; the flesh around the wound was swollen, discolored, hot to the touch, and weeping an ooze of watery blood.
I suffered a rush of serious doubt. So far, I had been certain of my competence and understanding. Now that the deed was before me, I realized what I imagined as ability was likely arrogance in disguise. What was I thinking?
Well, as my father used to say: “Being is mostly doing.” In doing the work of a healer, I would become the healer—for Seisyll, at least. Trusting that this was so, I marshalled my resolve and dropped one of the linen cloths into the warm solution, wrung it out, and gently, gently dabbed at the crusty matter that had formed around the gash. Despite my utmost care, Seisyll winced and tensed his leg. I whispered that I was sorry to hurt him, but it had to be done. He grunted and I carried on. The cleaning took some time, and my back and neck grew stiff for hunching over him. In the end, however, I could but admire my handiwork: the ugly gash, though still raw and oozing matter, was clean.
I imagined the old physician Lucius would approve of my effort, and his words came back to me so clearly it was almost as if he stood beside me: it is the corruption that kills. With this in mind, I took up the bowl and began applying the poultice of honey and mixed herbs that Catia and I had prepared. I did not know how much to use, but on the reckoning that too much would be better than too little, I lavished it on the wound until I’d used all we’d made. Then, while Catia lifted her husband’s leg, I wrapped the injury with strips of clean linen Mara provided, wrapping them around his leg and tying them tight to hold the poultice.
“All neat and tidy,” I pronounced, and sat back to admire my handiwork. If I had possessed one of Lucius’ slender needles and a length of that fine catgut, I might even have been tempted to try sewing the gaping flesh together. But a fledgling bird can fly too high, they say, so I set aside the empty bowl and contented myself with having done what I could do.
Seisyll moaned and mumbled something and I looked to Catia. “He says it tingles—like nettles,” she repeated.
“I think that is a good thing,” I offered—hope speaking rather than experience. “The medicine is meant to draw out the poison that inflames the wound.”
She regarded me with something approaching wonder. “We will make more of this medicine, I think.”
I agreed. “That would be best, but now we will do all to keep the wound clean and let the medicine do its work.”
Seisyll muttered something I did not catch, and closed his eyes. He was soon asleep—his small store of strength drained, the jar empty.
Catia drew a covering over him and we retreated to let him rest, joining Mara at the hearth. I blushed to hear Catia praise my skill and wisdom; the old woman smiled and nodded, and patted my hand.
“Your father must be very proud of you,” Catia said, taking up a poker to arrange the fire.
“Well, you would have to ask him about that,” I said. I had not the heart to tell her that my father was cold in his grave.
“I wonder that he has allowed you to travel alone—and so far from home.”
“Oh, but I wasn’t alone when I started out,” I replied. “I was with friends who were meant to look after me. But accidents happen.” I shrugged, as if this was only to be expected. “I had no choice but to come on alone. And anyway, I’ve got Ursa to watch over me.”
“Ursa? Is that your dog?” Catia’s eyes grew wide. “I would be more afraid of her than any rogue on the road. A fierce beast, I’m thinking.”
“She is that,” I avowed. “And that much more besides.”
We talked a little more; Mara watched us the while, mumbling now and again, but not entering in much—until she said something about cows, I think.
“Yes, well . . .” Catia rose, saying, “I have to go and tend the calf.”
I stood, too. “I’ll go with you.”
“You must be exhausted, travelling all night and all.” She put her hand on my shoulder as if to push me back down. “Sit here and rest a little.”
I thanked her, but said, “If I sit here any longer, I’ll fall asleep in the fire. Better that I should keep moving. And, anyway, I should tend to Ursa. She’s probably wondering what has happened to me.”
“Come then, we’ll find something more for her to eat,” Catia told me. I could tell she was glad for the company.
Ursa was sleeping just outside the door, but awoke the instant we stepped into the yard. I greeted her with a gentle pat on the head and told her what a good and obedient dog she was. I introduced her to Catia, and explained that we were going to get her some food and water. Ursa, intelligent thing, seemed to accept this and wagged her tail; I do think she was happy to see me and even nuzzled my hand as I stroked her ears.
Catia fetched another hefty meat bone from the little smoke shed and brought a bowl of water which I placed before Ursa; the big, shaggy creature fell upon it and lapped so greedily I felt guilty for not attending to her sooner. “I’m sorry, Ursa,” I told her. “Just you finish that and I’ll get you some more.”
After refilling the dog’s bowl, we walked across the yard behind the house to the larger of the two barns where a a good-sized spotted calf was penned. The amiable creature stood gazing at us with its big, liquid eyes. “Two were birthed this spring,” Catia told me. “But one died along with the mother.” She picked up a leather bucket. “There is fodder in that box there.” She pointed to a large wooden box beside the door. “Put some in the trough for them, and I’ll fetch the water.”
Gathering an armful of the fragrant fodder from the box, I carried it to the fence rail, dropped it into the long, stone trough and spread it around. The calf watched, uncertain whether to approach or not. By the time Catia returned with the water, it was happily nose down in the trough. We watched it for awhile, and then started back to the house. “You have sons, I think?” I asked. “You said Seisyll’s father and sons could tend the cows, and I wondered—”
“Why they’re not here?” Catia guessed. “Well, they’ve taken hogs and a few of the yearling sheep to the market at Bryncadlys.”
“Is it far—the market?”
“Not so far that a good day’s journey couldn’t get you there. Though, with pigs to herd it would take longer.” She paused to calculate. “Even so, they should have returned by now.” She turned worried eyes on the door as if expecting them to enter. “I worry about those boys and the old man with them.”
On entering the house, we heard Seisyll call. He was awake again and Catia went to him. They spoke together in voices too low for me to hear. Then Catia summoned me to her and said, “Seisyll wanted me to thank you, and . . .” She hesitated, biting her lip.
“What is it? What else did he say?”
“He wanted me to ask if you would stay to help butcher a hog.”
“But I thought you said your sons had taken the hogs to market.”
“Aye, so I did. Some hogs and sheep we sell and some we keep. Winter will be on us soon enough, so it’s time to slaughter and get the meat smoked.” She gave a little laugh. “I guess you are a magistrate’s daughter.”
I understood then why Catia was wearing men’s clothes: she was doing all the work of the menfolk while they were away, so dressed like one of them.
She saw my hesitation and guessed the reason. “I would rather wait for the menfolk to return. That would be best, but we do it by the moon, you see, and tomorrow is the day. The butchering must be done and,” she put out a hand to indicate her injured husband and aged mother, “I cannot do it on my own.”
I understood the problem now, but the idea of delaying my journey by even another day or two was disheartening.
“If you stay,” Catia continued, “we’ll feed you and give you a roof over your head and a warm place to sleep. You can’t be travelling on tonight, anyway. You haven’t had a moment’s rest since you arrived.”
I was considering, how best to refuse her without offending, when she reached out and put her hand on my arm. “Please, stay,” she said. “I cannot do it alone.” She glanced back to where ailing husband lay with his arm over his face, lowered her voice. “I fear Seisyll would kill himself trying to help me.” She offered a forlorn smile. “Please?”
How could I refuse this sister in her time of need? Swallowing my disappointment, gave the only answer I could. “I would be happy to do what I can—little as that may be. Whatever you need, I’ll do it.”
Catia gathered me in a heartfelt embrace; she pressed me to her bosom and thanked me.
“You must show me what to do. Truly, I don’t know the first thing about butchering hogs. I’ve never killed anything.”
“I’ll guide you. But first, you must rest,” she told me firmly. “It is heavy work and you will need all your strength.” She looked me up and down. “I’ll find you something to wear so you don’t foul your nice clothes.”
This was an over-generous description of the clothing I had worn continuously—rain and shine, day and night—since Dunstan and his crew sailed away with all my worldly goods and left me stranded. I was more than aware that everything I wore was travel-stained by my nights in the wilds, and smelled of sweat and fear and exhaustion. Even a moment away from their grubby company would be bliss. How could I resist?
Catia went away fairly humming with happiness. I looked at Ursa, lying at my feet. “Well, old girl, I think Deva must wait to greet us. But at least we won’t be hungry the while.” I shrugged. “Is that a fair trade, do you think?”
Ursa, regarding me closely, gave out a short, sharp bark.
“Yes,” I told her. “I think so, too.”