Concealed Power: The Healers of Meligna

Chapter Two

The next day, the sun glimmered off the roofs of the houses I could see through my small triangular window in my cosy attic bedroom. The town square bustled with life. Market stalls stood side by side, ladened with supplies. I recognised many of the people who came to the square to spend their coin. Most were residents of Borrelia, while others were from outlying properties or visiting from the south. Borrelia became the last stop before South Senya ended and North Senya began. Once, on a rare occasion when Mother mentioned the healers, she told me that many people fled to Borrelia when the healers took control of Meligna, the great northern city.

One of those seeking refuge from Meligna was Ms. Black Bonnet, so named for always wearing a black hat. Every day, she would visit the fish stall, the cloth stall, then the trinket-maker’s store and finally, after buying nothing, would drag her feet to the doctor’s house. I knew it belonged to a doctor as the sick flocked there. Most coughed, others limped, and some arrived on stretchers. Some left on stretchers, too. People seemed to get sick a lot, but not me. Well at least I never seemed to get what others got such as fluid in the lungs, a dripping nose or swollen eyes – sicknesses common to a snowy climate. Mother said that my blood wasn’t susceptible to the illnesses of others and that trait was an inherited one. But that confused me because both Mother and Father fell ill many times a year and seemed cautious of being around my uncle when he fell ill with his usual sores and cough.

I watched Mr. Fat Man, the vegetable seller, flirt with Ms. Big Chest, who seemed to like the attention. Some days, she ignored him or chased him off with a broom. Her moods were as fickle as the weather.

And then came my favourite part of the day, when the town crier, wearing his funny hat, shouted the midday news. Borrelia happenings were fairly boring, so in my mind, I replaced the town crier’s mundane news with my own fantastical tales.

‘Hear ye! Hear ye! A witch flew into town today. She’ll brew you a nasty potion for a silver coin or two.’

A long time ago, I’d asked my father to take me outside. I’d wanted to be like the other children playing in the streets.

‘Absolutely not,’ Father had said.

‘But I want to see the market, Papa.’

‘There’s something you need to know…’ That was the first time I’d learned about what brewed inside of me.

Tired of watching the world outside, I went downstairs and lit a small fire. I checked the washbasin and saw it held clean water. Uncle Garrad hadn’t washed, and I fretted over the chance he might spread traces of my disease.

I picked at my breakfast—a portion of bread and some honeyed drink—then began reading one of my favoured books about the animals of Bivinia. A few pages in, I became distracted by the barricade door. I thought about Uncle Garrad bargaining with customers and recording inventory downstairs. I walked over to the door and put my ear against it, the house seemed unusually quiet. There were no thumps, scrapes, or voices. I didn’t dare check the door lock. I couldn’t trust myself with the freedom if I found it open, and I didn’t want to hurt anyone.

I washed my hands. Not clean. I washed them again. I wiped down any surfaces I’d touched and resumed my reading. The day passed slowly. I tended to other chores, sweeping, dusting, and darning a torn apron. When the daylight passed, and the living room darkened, I lit a lamp. My stomach rumbled, and I looked at the food Uncle Garrad had laid out on the kitchen bench.

The fire in the hearth had just ignited when I heard a thump downstairs. There were several more thuds and the sound of things being knocked over. I spun around to watch the door. My heart raced, and I wished I’d checked to see if the door was locked. I hoped it was my uncle and not a thief or criminal. I’d learned about thieves from Mrs. Moferburry who lived in Juxon City, the capital of Senya, a place she called Pilfers’ Paradise.

Hearing the scrape of a key in the lock, I relaxed. Uncle Garrad stumbled through the door, swaying under the influence of too much liquor.

‘’ello there,’ he slurred, making an exaggerated waving gesture. ‘What’s my wittle princess cookin’ her favourite uncle this evening?’

I noticed a festering sore on his left hand. I scanned the rest of his exposed skin, desperately searching for more wounds, troubled by the possibility that his illness might flare up and see him bed ridden. Without Mother and Father, I would have to care for him.

There were no more sores that I could see, but Uncle Garrad managed to catch my gaze as it fixated on his hand.

He put his arm behind his back. ‘Tsk tsk, it’s rude to stare.’ A hint of drool came from the side of his mouth. Clumsily, he pulled the key from the other side of the door lock, shut the door, and then relocked it. He took four uneven steps forward and fell into a lounging chair. He swung his legs up on the side of the armrest, and his head drooped as his eyes closed.

I tried to calculate how long Uncle Garrad would be sick and whether I’d have to call for a doctor. My thoughts raced, and I tried to quieten them by focusing on cooking. I dropped pork into the boiling water and pulled out the rest of the ingredients. I unhooked the skillet and began to oil it. When he began to snore, I closed my eyes and breathed out with relief.

A few minutes later, he grunted and peered at me with bloodshot eyes. ‘You’re so lucky aren’t you? Parents that love you. A whole future of life. And to finish off that mountain of luck, every man will want you. They won’t turn away in disgust like women do to me.’

Uncle Garrad rubbed his eyes and then put both hands out in front of him and spread his fingers. He pointed at the mark on his hand. ‘See this? It be a curse on my life! Loneliness. Rejection…’ He trailed off, his head slumping back again, and the snores resumed.

The key fell and clanked on the stone floor. Slowly, I stepped toward it, crouched, and picked it up. I held it as if it were a porcelain ornament. I placed the key on the table next to my uncle, forcing my fingers to let it drop. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the desire to unlock the door and go down into Mystoria.

The sizzling of water brought my attention back to the cooked meat. I took the pan to the kitchen bench and scooped the meat from the water. Droplets sizzled on the sides of the iron pot. Uncle Garrad had been so sick once before that he’d spent a month in his home. Mother said when the sores were fresh people could catch the sickness. Neither of my parents had ever worried I’d catch it, but they’d been careful not to touch him.

I squashed the hot meat and herbs into balls and placed them on a cloth. I’d lost my appetite and decided Uncle Garrad would appreciate the ready-to-cook edibles in the morning. I found some apples in the pantry and placed two of them in a large pocket in my apron. They would see me through until morning.

I retrieved my parent’s quilt and spread it over Uncle Garrad, being careful not to wake him. I tipped the water I’d used to boil the pork over the fire to extinguish the flames. I picked up a candle and held it in front of me to see my way upstairs.

As I passed Uncle Garrad, I paused and inspected the sore again. Two other red circles were beginning to form on his skin close by. Tomorrow, more sores would appear, and soon, they would spread to his face and body. I only hoped the fever would be mild and short lived.