The Fickle Winds of Autumn

23. An Unexpected Patient

Aldwyn spread his wrinkled hands and warmed them; he observed the flask of green liquid bubble above the flame on the desk; its pungent odour filled the small cottage with deep and powerful memories. He allowed himself the pleasure of breathing it in while his mind drifted cosily into reminisces of all the times long past he had needed to prepare the root-bane potion.

The cottage door rattled opened behind the alcove to his side.

He was not expecting any visitors.

His young votary must have returned from the market.

"You're back early!" he said, without bothering to look up from his work.

"Aldwyn quickly! She needs your help!"

Ellis's voice gasped with urgency - clearly something was amiss.

The boy carried a bedraggled, unconscious girl across his arms.

Lack of sentience was always a bad sign.

And even from this distance, her breathing sounded laboured and irregular - but at least the patient was still self-ventilating.

He cleared a space on the low side-table; several clay pots crashed to the stone floor.

"Get her up here quickly," he instructed, "then fetch fresh water from the tarn."

The boy laid her down but did not leave.

"It's her legs!" Ellis said - his flustered face unusually red and breathless, clearly indicating his exertions in carrying the young girl.

"I can see that!" Aldwyn replied.

After all these years, did the boy really think that he was so incompetent not to notice her obvious wounds?

And why was he still fussing around the prostrate invalid instead of bringing the water?

"Don't stand there dithering, Ellis, get going!" he said.

He stooped over the fragile patient; the lesions looked bad.

The boy grabbed the buckets and dashed back out through the door.

The deep bruising around her wrists and the open sores weeping from her ankles told their own story - and coupled with the patient's pallid malnourished frame, spoke only of leg irons and enforced marching - fierce work that the girl's soft young skin was obviously not used to suffering.

The wounds had never been given the chance to heal properly and had festered and putrefied.

She had lost a good deal of blood, and the toxic infections which coursed through her veins threatened to ravage and overwhelm her delirious, enfeebled body.

A virulent fever had almost overcome her; she was clearly in a bad way.

He reached for a pale purple bottle and poured its contents over the girl's calves; the matted blood and dirt which had congealed there washed away and gave him a clearer view of the problem.

This would not be easy.

First he must staunch the flow, then do what he could to remove the toxins.

And he must work quickly.

He closed his watery grey eyes to calm and focus his mind more clearly.

Beneath the rise and fall of his breath, he spoke the ancient words of healing; he felt the weight of his short, stubby beard wagging in rhythm to his gentle murmurings; its roots prickled and tingled.

He wandered down, deep into the realms of his concentration; he lifted his hands out before him and allowed the sleeves of his robe to fall back and expose his fore-arms. He continued the chanting, profound and fervent; his voice grew in volume and authority.