©copyright Regine Haensel
Rowan
The pale light of dawn spills through the windows as a raven calls. When
I answer a thump at the door, a woman hunches there, hugging a cloak around
herself. She was at the burial and I’ve seen her previously in the village,
though I’m fairly certain she lives on a farm. I must look the way I feel –
rumpled, hair tangled, wild-eyed – because she takes a step back.
“Oh,” she whispers,
“forgive, it’s so early. I didn’t think.” She turns to walk away.
I clamp a hand on her
arm knowing she wouldn’t have come if there isn’t a remedy she desperately
needs for a sick child, a husband, or herself. Her startled eyes turn back to
my face. She shakes her head.
“I can come again.”
“Tell me what you
need.”
I guess I’m persuasive,
because she tells me that she hasn’t been able to sleep for several nights, and
this evening went for a walk in hopes of wearing herself out. But it only made
her wider awake, so she kept walking and decided to come to me. I almost burst
out laughing; it’s so ludicrous. One woman who can’t sleep asking for help from
a woman who’s been awake all night.
I beckon her into the
cottage and seat her in the armchair; pull up another chair and ask a few
questions. She’s of the age when women go through what people call ‘the
change.’ I know the herbs to use for that. Four of her children are living, two
dead in infancy. Her eldest son is married and lives with his parents in a
small addition to the house. His wife is with child and can’t help much around
the farm. The woman’s eldest daughter is to be married soon to a neighbour’s son
and spends all her time with him or planning her wedding. The woman’s husband
cleared more land this spring and that makes more work for everyone. It’s not
surprising she’s worn out. She doesn’t understand why she can’t sleep, then. I
try to explain as I heard Mother do many times.
“Remember when your
children were babies?” I ask. “Sometimes they wouldn’t want to go to bed thought
they were tired, and the struggle made things worse. So when they finally were
put to bed, all they could do was lie awake and cry. It’s like that. You have
years of tiredness behind you. Women get to a certain age when they can no
longer bear children, and sometimes their bodies crave rest, but can’t seem to
get it.”
She stares at me. “So
what do I do?”
I’m amazed that she
looks to me for answers. At a third or less of her age, I’ve never experienced
the symptoms she’s described to me, can only pass on the wisdom my mother gave
to me and hope that it’s sufficient. At the same time I know that what I’m
about to tell and give her will indeed make her feel better. Self-confidence or
Mother’s persuasive abilities? No time to sort this out, she’s waiting.
“There are herbs that
will help. I’ll make you a tisane first and while you’re drinking that, I’ll
put together a couple of mixtures for you to take home.”
I put the stool under
her feet and get her settled with the pot of chamomile and a cup. She smiles in
thanks and leans back against the chair. As I move quietly around the cottage
gathering the ingredients I need, I glance at her now and then. As often
happens, when a person believes help is on its way, she can relax. I slip over
to her and take the cup out of her hands just before it falls. Her eyes are
closed and she’s breathing evenly.
I go back to mixing the
tonic to help build up her strength. If only there were herbs to give courage, which
is what I need now, because I know that I must find my brother. As I heat wild
honey and berry juice, adding ground poppy seeds for sleep, as well as a few
other ingredients, I think of herbs I should take on a journey in case of aches
and pains, wounds, insect bites. I fill a jar, set it and a package of herbs on
the table. The woman still sleeps peacefully so I put a pot of water on to heat
and get out the makings for gruel. When that’s cooked, I touch her shoulder.
She wakes with a smile
on her face, immediately frowns and wants to rush home, saying her family will
be needing breakfast. I persuade her to eat a few spoonfuls. She leaves with
her packages, believing in miracles. I sit at the table staring into space
realizing how dependent on my mother and me the people in the area have become.
What will they do if I leave? The day continues as it began – more people with
various ailments or complaints. I’m kept busy, and I suppose that’s a good
thing, because it doesn’t allow me to brood. At the same time, I know that I
won’t be doing this sort of thing for much longer.
That evening Thea comes
to me again as a woman, her proper shape. I’m sitting at the table sorting
through clothes. She glances at the things I’ve laid out – bunches of herbs, a
knife and a wooden bowl, a small cooking pot, Mother’s bracelet, a loaf of
bread, carrots, cheese, and a leather satchel.
“Where were you all
day?” I ask before she can comment on what I’m doing. “I didn’t see you.”
“I wandered the forest
looking for anything unusual. Saw a few broken branches, some flattened plants,
but otherwise nothing untoward. The branches and plants could have been from
animals.”
“Thank you for keeping
watch,” I say.
She sits across from
me. “I’ll come with you.”
For other excerpts from this novel, see the following posts on this blog:
Chapter I - 2014, July
Chapter II - 2015, September
My books are available through SaskBooks, Amazon, local bookstores and booksserimuse@gmail.com
