IF YOUR BABY NEVER STOPS MOANING
And whimpering and groaning,
Feed him with wine and shepherd’s purse,
And light a small fire under his…
Pronounce a blessing or a curse.
That’s Johanna’s medicine.
If your baby never stops crying
And there’s nothing left worth trying,
Brew him ointment from fish oil,
Dung beetles and crickets’ wings,
And bring the mixture to the boil.
Then smear him, Tanwen says.
If your baby needs a new night nurse,
There cannot be anybody worse
Than Sian, my little sister.
All night she’ll want to bolster-fight,
Royster-doyster, play the jester.
And that’s Sian’s treatment.
I know this song isn’t fair, except about Sian; but sometimes I start to make one up without really knowing where it is going.
It is true some herbs can help us, as long as we don’t pick them on an evil day when they have no power; and I know Johanna and Tanwen have learned more recipes than anyone else on our manor. Tanwen has sometimes given me lemon balm to sweat out my fevers, and once she quieted my aching head with feverfew.
All the same, I know some of her and Johanna’s recipes are completely useless, because Tanwen told me so herself.
“They’re bogus,” she said. “But we still sell them at Ludlow Fair. People pay for them.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Fear, I suppose,” said Tanwen. “When people are ill, they become afraid, and when they’re afraid, they can be very stupid.”
When Tanwen said that, I remembered what the hooded man told King Uther after Duke Gorlois and Ygerna dared to leave his feast.
“Very stupid,” I said. “Or very bold.”