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ROOSTERS CROWED WELL before the village of Tuluva had awakened. Lorica hadn’t slept, though. Whenever her husband left for war a knot formed in her stomach and remained until he returned. War was unpredictable. No one knew who would live or die in battle and thoughts of losing Jareth tormented her every waking hour. She gazed out the window at the stars, hoping to find the answer in the firmament.
What a fool she’d been to try living a peaceful life. How impractical her plans had been! Jareth would never succumb to being a goat herder, and she had been foolish to try and change him. Imprudent, yes but wrong? Would it be too much to want him to have a long life? To stay home and earn his keep as any other villager would? To enjoy his children and perhaps to know his grandchildren? Would it be too much for her to ask for more security than that of a soldier’s wife?
If Jareth didn’t return this time, Lorica would still need to make a living and pay duties.
She sighed and sat up on her bed, determined to change the course of her life. Better to make that change now than in the winter when the threat of starvation and homelessness would mean death for her and her children.
Lorica slipped out of her night clothes and put on her chemise and layers of skirts, lacing her corset with resolve. She’d been contemplating taking authority over her family for a long time. Today was the day. She climbed the loft where the children slept and shook Crispin.
“Come, get up,” she said.
“What?” The boy peeked out from the goat-haired blanket.
“We’re walking to the Healer’s this morning,”
Kandace sat up in the bed across from him. “Where does the Healer live?” she asked. “Does he live far away?”
“She lives past the pumpkin fields. It’s a bit of a walk.”
“It’s still dark,” Crispin rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Why so early?”
“Because we have other errands to do on our way home.”
“What errands?” Kandace asked, pulling on her stockings. “Do I have to come?”
“Yes, Kandace. You do.”
“How are we going to pay the Healer?” Crispin asked. Lorica ruffled his hair, and he pushed her hand away. Taking authority over the children would not be easy. The last time Jareth had gone to war, Crispin was only ten, healthy, and more obedient. Between his seizures and Jareth’s training him to fight the boy had developed an attitude that only Jareth could manage.
“We’re bringing two goats. One for the Healer, and one to sell at market on the way home.”
“Father said not to sell the goats,” he argued.
“I know what your father said. Trust that I know what I’m doing.”
She slipped Kandace’s tunic over her head and braided the girl’s hair as Crispin got dressed.
“Put a lead on Rema and Jester,” she told her son.
Crispin slipped into his waistcoat, pulled on his boots, strapped his crossbow over his back, and rushed down the stairs. A cool whisk of air entered the cabin as he hurried out the door. Winter would be on them soon.
“Not Jester!” Kandace complained. “She’s our best milker and she’s going to kid soon.”
“And so, she will bring the best price—enough to pay the Baron of Ogress what we owe.”
“Father’s going to bring home money.”
“Your father is going to hire himself out as a soldier, but how long it will take him to get paid we cannot tell. Or that he’ll even return.” Lorica followed her daughter down the ladder, and draped Kandace’s cloak over the girl’s shoulders when they reached the common room, and flipped the hood over her head.
“What do you mean? Of course, he’ll return,” the girl said.
“Maybe,” Crispin met them at the door with the two goats. He gave Kandace the lead to one.
“Father’s not going to die,” Kandace argued.
“Come, let’s hurry.” Lorica secured the latch on their cabin door and led the children down the trail to the village. Dew tickled her face as she walked, reminding her of the morning she and Jareth first came to this land. He had built their house away from the settlement, worried that he would be scorned for being a mercenary and that his family would be derided. Lorica and Jareth kept to themselves until Crispin was born, and even then, it was Lorica who made herself known in town when Jareth went away. She sold her wares at the market to be visible so that rumors of Jareth’s profession wouldn’t spread. Through the years neighbors began to accept Jareth as a goatherd, for his days at home would be spent with the livestock. Unfortunately, Jareth never accepted himself as such. His passion remained in foreign lands and in the heat of battle—his skill the crossbow. Such passion did he have for fighting that he trained his son with a crossbow, without Lorica’s consent.
A deep, blue hue bade the night farewell as dawn lit the farmland. The children walked ahead of her, leading the goats while Lorica harbored a sick feeling inside of her. Too many times she had waited at home agonizing over Jareth’s absence. It was no pleasant existence waiting and wondering if a stranger would knock on her door one day and tell her that her husband had died? Or worse if she never heard from anyone of his fate. She’d be wondering for the rest of her life. She had to change the way she lived. No longer would she linger idly by her window anticipating the worst to happen. She would protect her children, her home, and her finances.
Smoke spiraled from the chimneys of the neatly-spaced cottages, and the scents of hickory, oak, and roasting pork pervaded the streets of Tuluva. A dog barked. Chickens scurried at Lorica’s feet as she walked, yet with her eyes set on the forest in the distance, nothing interrupted their travel. Beyond the last stone cottage, the road narrowed and meandered through fields of dying millet, and squash beds plump with yellow fruit.
“That’s the last house of the village, mother. Where does this Healer live?” Crispin stopped and wiped his brow, slapping the goat with his cap in an attempt to keep it from grazing. The goat flinched, but ignored him otherwise.
“Her home is in the aspen grove at the end of the fields.” Lorica answered.
“You know this?” her son contested.
“I’ve been told. We’ll travel that way and see.”
Kandace struggled with her goat as eventually it pulled her off the trail into the field. Lorica pulled it back.
“Let’s keep moving.”
She had never been to the Healer’s house. She only knew of its location from overhearing conversations in the marketplace, but she assumed she would come to a junction where the farmland ended, and the meadows began—where weeds and scrub brush spread across the landscape. Had she not kept a keen eye out for the trail into the woods she would have missed it.
As they moved under the canopy of trees, a heavy fog darkened the forest. The deeper into the woods they wandered, the murkier it became. Branches bearded with lichen and moss hovered over their heads like hairy arms waiting to ensnare them, silhouetted against gray mist.
“It’s like we just entered another world,” Crispin whispered.
“I’m cold. Winter’s coming today, I think,” Kandace said. “Do we really have to go here? It’s dark and lonely and there are probably wild boars and bears waiting to eat us?” She had fallen behind, her steps hesitant.
“If you don’t keep up with us, the bear will certainly eat you,” Crispin warned.
“Mother, I don’t see why you have to drag me along with Crispin. I’m not ill.”
“Kandace? What’s gotten into you?”
“I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be. I brought my crossbow,” Crispin assured her. “I’ll protect you even if you are my sister.”
Lorica shuddered, for the children’s fears were warranted. She took the lead to Crispin’s goat. “Then have your bow readied and lead us,” she whispered. The boy eagerly pulled a bolt from his quiver and stepped ahead of her. “Just follow the trail. I’m sure we’ll come to the Healer’s cottage soon.”
Crispin’s courage surprised Lorica. This was the side of their son Jareth had been nourishing, and why her husband had spent so much time teaching him the art of combat. The boy walked ahead of her, making not a sound as he stepped. He kept his eyes open wide and stopped whenever a branch snapped, or the wind rustled the leaves.
“I think these trees aren’t trees at all. I think they are sorcerers.” Kandace took her mother’s hand. Even the goats balked at going further.
“Nonsense,” Lorica said, though she could almost feel the forest breathing and watching their every move.
“I see light,” Crispin said, holding his hand up for Lorica and Kandace to stop.
“A light?” Kandace asked.
Indeed, a glow shone from the forest floor, nearly camouflaged under layers of mulch. Moss covered a gabled roof that extended only as high as Lorica’s waist. The arched window from which a candle flickered peeked halfway above ground giving the appearance of a fiery eye blinking at them. Kandace pulled on Lorica’s arm and gasped.
“We should approach with caution,” Crispin said, nocking his bow.
“I think we should approach as friends,” Lorica assessed. “So as not to raise the woman’s suspicions. She isn’t an enemy. We’re here to ask for her help.”
As soon as Lorica spoke, the light in the window failed. The three stood motionless, waiting—for what, Lorica wasn’t sure, but it seemed the air itself had stolen her breath.
“Why did she snuff her candle?” Kandace asked.
“There,” Crispin’s voice reached her ears, no louder than a breeze, and he pointed toward the trees beyond the house. The figure of a young woman, a wreath of bulrush and dandelions crowning her head, appeared out of the mist. She had in her hand a globe that sparkled as it rotated, and a fragrant vapor streamed out from it.
“You came to seek protection?” the Healer asked, her voice soft and sweet. Though they stood a great distance apart, Lorica heard her plainly.
“We came for healing,” Lorica said. “My son,” Lorica added when the Healer didn’t respond. “He’s...there’s something wrong.”
Crispin had slung his crossbow over his shoulder, but he stepped back as the Healer stepped gracefully through the woods toward them. She was a stunning young woman, with long hair the color of chestnuts, and eyes the hue of a meadow in springtime. Her lips were full and set apart and though she radiated great beauty, an unnerving aura surrounded her.
Perhaps it was because Lorica feared all forms of magic that she mistrusted the woman. Her instinct was to come between her son and any danger that might threaten him, so when she moved to do so, the Healer stopped her with her eyes.
“You came to ask me for healing, and yet you won’t let me touch him?”
Lorica swallowed. “Forgive me,” she muttered and let the Healer approach Crispin, but watched intently as the woman lifted his chin and gazed into the boy’s eyes.
The Healer said something that Lorica could not understand, and Crispin nodded. Lorica leaned closer to catch the conversation, but neither of them said any more. The woman stood over the boy for an unusually long time, long enough for fog to settle around them and for the air to grow damp and chilly. Kandace shivered, her teeth clattered, and Lorica wrapped her arms around her daughter. The goats stood quiet, and had ceased to graze. All eyes were on the Healer and Crispin. Finally, the woman released him and glanced at Lorica,
“Indeed, this is critical. He is almost gone. Come inside.” She walked to her dwelling, her slender form like a ghost descending the spiral staircase.
Crispin’s face had gone pale, and he looked at Lorica with fear in his eyes. What was a mother to do? Tell him he’d be fine? As much as she wanted to calm the boy, the Healer’s words were not encouraging. She nodded for him to go down the rock stairwell while she looked for a post to tie the goats. Kandace clung to her side.
“I’m scared,” the girl whispered.
Lorica patted her shoulder and the two of them followed Crispin into the underground house. The door creaked as it closed behind them.
Here was a home lit only by an oil lamp. All that made up the room shimmered red from its light. Over a hearth hung a chain supporting a cast-iron kettle and in that boiled a thick liquid. Two torches burned on either side, and a large wooden spoon had been placed on the rocks. The fragrance that seeped from the kettle was strong and bitter, like rosemary and sage.
“Sit,” the Healer offered.
There were no chairs, no wooden benches, but rather seats had been dug into the shelter’s walls and polished with a cured resin or oil so that they were smooth and glossy and reflected the lantern light.
Once Lorica was seated next to her son, she paid careful attention to the dwelling. Clay shelves along the walls were stacked with jars of substances unknown to her and bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling.
“My name is Airmed,” the Healer said, taking vials from her shelves and placing them in a circle on the only furniture in her house—a large oak table.
“Airmed,” Crispin whispered. “I have heard of you.”
“Not I,” Airmed corrected. “You have heard of my namesake Airmed, the goddess who heals.” She touched his head with a dollop of oil and knelt at his feet. The woman’s eyes were filled with tears, and because of that, Lorica’s heart sank. Would those be the tears she, as a mother, would be crying over her boy, soon?
“You have a long journey ahead of you, lad. A journey that will not be easy.” Airmed put the lid on her ointment and returned to her table where she placed herbs into a metate and began crushing them. Their fragrance filled the room, a scent Lorica was unfamiliar with. The sound of the stone rubbing against dried herbs was rhythmic and would have been soothing if circumstances hadn’t been so dire. Kandace shuffled nervously on her seat, and whimpered once. Crispin stared at the torches.
When she had finished preparing her concoction, Airmed approached Crispin again. Her silence bore a knot in Lorica’s insides—a silence that spoke a thousand words, yet kept their meaning a mystery.
“I have seen this magic that plagues you. You must resist it, but you are so young. Too young, I fear.”
“Can you do anything? Anything?” Lorica pleaded.
“What I can do will be like a blanket.” She faced Crispin. “It will cover you to the outside world, and hide your symptoms, but inside the disease will fester. I have nothing to cure it. This spell is joined to magic outside yourself, and not until the root cause is destroyed will there be any hope for you.”
Heat raced to Lorica’s head, and she felt as though she would faint. What kind of mage would declare such a fate to a young person? Crispin sat bravely, meeting Airmed’s eyes with courage.
Tears rolled down Kandace’s cheeks.
Airmed put a vial in Crispin’s hand. “Use this when the spirit of deception comes upon you. It will stop the seizures, but it won’t keep the visions away, nor the voices. If you can resist what they’re telling you to do, that would be for your and your family’s benefit. Try not to utter their language.” She squeezed his hand over the vial. “That would be very good,” she whispered and stood. “I’m sorry,” she said to Lorica.
“You can’t leave us hopeless,” Lorica protested. “You’re a healer. There has to be an answer.”
“Perhaps there is,” the woman answered. “Perhaps you’d find the remedy in Kolada. I have heard that a powerful wizard tends the court of Lord Sylvester, and that they have opened up a school for children.”
“Kolada?” Crispin asked. “That’s a long way away.” He handed the vial to his mother.
“We’ll travel to whatever end to cure you, Crispin,” Lorica said, tucking the medicine in her money pouch.
“No mother. I don’t want to travel that far. What’s the use? It will just be hopeless, like Airmed says.”
Despite his resistance, Lorica hugged her son. “I won’t give up that easily, and neither should you. What else will we do? Sit and wait for this curse to destroy you? No. We’re going. Kolada is only four days away.”
“Do I have to come?” Kandace asked. Lorica frowned at her and guided her out the door.
“I brought you a goat in trade for your help,” Lorica offered, but Airmed shook her head.
“I want no payment from you. You’re suffering will be hard enough.”