To Paxaria: part 4.1

TW for blood, mention of violence

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The deep blue of evening had begun to spread across the sky when Ruelle and Altha entered the village where they would find lodging for the night. Ruelle took note of how Altha seemed to possess a familiarity with the main roads they had traveled, as well as many towns and villages through which they passed. This evening was no exception.

Almost as soon as they entered the village of Brookshade, an unusual commotion met them. Instead of the contented scenes of people closing up their shops for the night or the friendly chatter called back and forth between villagers who lingered out on the cobblestone streets, a clamor of raised voices fell on their ears.

The urgent tones laced the air with a sense of anxiety. An uneasy weight dropped into the pit of Ruelle’s stomach, and she knew immediately that something was wrong.

Her attention was drawn to a knot of people clustered outside a rustic house. Here the commotion seemed to be at a peak, with voices shouting over each other and people waving their arms about, evidently in some heated crisis or disagreement. Some ran hither and yon as if in distress, nearly colliding with curious bystanders who had been pulled in by the fuss.

“Who saw it happen?” someone shouted.

“Has anyone sent for a healer?” another voice called.

Ruelle was just opening her mouth to wonder what was going on, when a smallish but stocky woman bumped into their cart rather unceremoniously.

She stumbled and would have fallen to the ground if Rue had not instinctively reached out to catch her. She only barely managed to grab the stranger’s shoulder, but it was enough to keep her frum tumbling onto the dusty street.

“Oh, pardon me!” the woman cried, straightening clumsily and raising her hands to push back the frizz of stray hair from her astonished, dirt-streaked face.

“I’m just off to try to find –“ she broke off mid-sentence as her wide, anxious eyes fell on Altha. A peculiar look of recognition crossed her sharp features, followed instantly with one of immense relief.

“Altha Silverthorn? Oh, what good fortune has befallen us! A physician is needed badly, but I doubt if anyone’s reached the nearest one yet!”

Altha was already climbing down from the cart before the woman had finished speaking.

“Say no more,” she said, reaching for her bag. “Show me where I need to go.”

“Yes, yes, she is right in there.” The frazzled woman gestured toward the modest house where people were gathered outside the door in the chaos of the emergency. “It’s my own house they’ve brought her to, and I’m afraid I’ll hardly be able to get in myself,” she added with a worried look.

Altha, however, seemed undeterred.

“Ruelle, come with me. And you,” she said, nodding to a lanky teenage boy nearby, “Tether up my horse and cart as near as you can.”

With that, she headed straight into the gathering of anxious people crowding the doorway, her bearing resolute as she navigated the cluster of bodies. Ruelle scrambled after her with considerably less grace.

“Make way, please. Clear the doorway at once!” Altha’s voice rose in an authoritative tone above the hubbub. “I am a physician, and I need to see the patient immediately.”

Ruelle darted between people through the pathway that briefly opened to allow Altha to reach the doorway. A burly man just inside was apparently responsible for keeping the crowd out, and he almost forced Ruelle to stay back as a needless intruder, but Ruelle insisted that she was with the physician, so he reluctantly let her pass.

Shouts of, “I saw it happen!” and “You weren’t even there!” followed her over the threshold. The door thumped firmly shut behind her, muffling the cry of someone wailing, “Where’s our healer when you need him?”

Although the light outside was fading into dusk, the interior of the home was notably dimmer in comparison, and Ruelle had to squint to see at first. After a moment, though, she could see a figure slumped on a makeshift cot just along the wall, and in another moment, someone approached with an additional lamp to brighten the space.

Now Ruelle could see that the figure on the cot was a woman, not old, but not young. Her skin was a sickly pale, her eyes closed, and her breathing labored. But what disturbed Ruelle most was where the torn strips of cloth that served as bandages around her shoulder just beneath the collarbone failed to keep the red of the woman’s blood from seeping through, leaving an alarming crimson stain. Ruelle dreaded to see what horrific wound was beneath the wrappings.

“Can someone tell me what happened?” Altha urged, examining the patient with careful but quick precision. “Did anybody witness this injury when it took place?”

The modest room held only a handful of people: Altha, Ruelle, the injured woman, the burly man at the door, the distressed resident of the home, and an equally distressed fellow in farmer’s garb. It was this last individual who raised his hand to offer information.

“I saw it – or, well, I was the closest.” He anxiously fidgeted with the well-worn hat in his hands, lines of concern written in his weathered face.

Altha pressed him to recount everything, so he went on.

As quickly as possible, he told how he’d been in the farther end of his fields, pursuing a stray cow that had gotten loose, when in the distance he had seen the large figure of a strange person who seemed to be dragging a woman away against her will. The woman was resisting to no avail. Being greatly disturbed by this sight, the farmer had shouted out and started running in their direction. This seemed to alarm the woman’s captor, who reacted by raising his blade and slashing the woman somewhere between the shoulder and the chest, then striking her in the head, dropping her to the ground, and fleeing. By the time the farmer had reached the injured woman, the assailant was nowhere to be seen.

Fortunately, the farmer’s shouting had reached the ears of a few of his workers and alerted them to the crisis, although none of them saw as much as he did. The neighborly farmer had done his best to carry the woman towards town as swiftly as possible, while someone else had run off with haste to find a healer. Meanwhile, the woman was brought to the nearest house, which happened to be this one on the very outskirts of the town.

That’s when Altha had arrived.

“To be honest,” the farmer confessed once his tale was out, “You got here just in time. Even though I knew the woman would be in good hands here with Elfrida, I worried our healers wouldn’t know what to do. Just before this poor woman went unconscious only moments ago, she was acting real odd. Seeing things, sort of. I think they call it hallucinations?”

Altha frowned and bent to examine the ugly gash more closely. The grim shadow that passed over her features unsettled Ruelle. Even she knew that a wound inflicted by a blade should not cause hallucinations.

As if in response to Ruelle’s thoughts, Altha muttered a single word that hung dark and heavy in the tension-laden atmosphere.

“Poison.”

Hearing the word aloud may have affirmed to Ruelle that her own thought process was on the right path, but it did nothing to relieve her.

The next moment, Altha snapped into a straight posture.

“Ruelle, fetch some of that dawnshade quickly!”

The physician’s authoritative demeanor was back again, but with a renewed urgency. Ruelle scurried to do as she was told, for once not hesitating or thinking about whether this was what she wanted to be doing. All she knew was that she did not want to see this woman die tonight. She had never seen a person die, and she did not wish for this to become the first occasion.

“How opportune that we renewed our supply of these herbs just today,” Altha noted as Ruelle brought them to her.

She then proceeded to give swift instructions to Ruelle on how to make a heated poultice using the dawnshade, urging her to move as quickly as possible. Ruelle tried to command her hands to work efficiently as she followed her mentor’s instructions, but she found that they were shaky with anxiety, not to mention unfamiliarity with this kind of task. She hoped the finished product was good enough when Altha whisked it from her hands a moment later.

Ruelle wanted to back away and avert her eyes from the nasty wound laid bare in the lamplight. But Altha said, “Stay here.”

With no other choice, Ruelle observed at Altha’s shoulder as the physician applied the dawnshade paste into and around the wound with swift skill.

“This antidote will help negate the poison and slow it’s speed,” she explained, never breaking focus from the work beneath her hands. “The dawnshade especially is-“

A violent convulsion suddenly overcame the patient and cut off Altha’s words mid-sentence.

Ruelle startled back and clasped her hands over her chest, surprised. Her eyes instinctively sought her mentor’s face and found her own shock mirrored there.

Ruelle’s heart stopped. The woman’s convulsion ceased for a moment, only to return just as aggressively before anyone could exchange any words.

“Ruelle!” Altha demanded, wheeling half around to face her. “What did you use in that poultice?”

Ruelle took a step back, her eyes going wide.

“I-I-“ she stammered. “All the ingredients you told me – the dawnshade, and the-“

“Show me.” Altha ordered. When Rue looked confused, she clarified, “Show me exactly what herbs you used.”

Ruelle scrambled to the leather bag from which she had retrieved the dawnshade. It was the very leather bag they had stored it in only just today when they’d stopped to gather it in the woods along the way. Ruelle fumbled for a handful of the leaves and placed them in Altha’s outstretched hand.

Frowning, Altha closely examined them near the lamp. Ruelle watched, her heart pounding, wondering what was wrong. But none of that matched the dismay she felt when Altha’s face went from analytical to horrified.

“Bring me my bag, now!” she demanded. “This is no dawnshade, but duskwither!”

Ruelle stumbled over her own feet to obey the order.

“What’s wrong?” She felt there should be a less stupid way to ask what she wanted to know, but her mind was a whirl of confusion.

“What’s wrong,” Altha said in a very agitated tone, hurriedly collecting a selection of items from her bag, “Is that we’ve just poisoned this woman even more by treating her with dawnshade’s poisonous lookalike!”

Ruelle’s heart sank with more dread than she had ever felt in her life.

“Were you not listening when I very carefully explained to you the difference between the two plants only hours ago?”

Altha’s voice was laced with anger and left Ruelle staring wordlessly.

“I-I’m so sorry,” Ruelle finally stammered, barely audible, a stinging heat burning her cheeks. “Is it that bad? Is there anything I can do to fix it?”

“Leave this to me,” Altha commanded sharply.

As if in a daze, Ruelle hung back while Altha flew into a blur of action. She was afraid to intervene as Altha frantically concocted some other antidote; clearly this time the healer was not relying on anyone else to help perform any of the steps. Ruelle was admittedly glad to shrink back into the shadows where poor Elfrida and the farmer man were still observing helplessly and the man at the door dutifully held his post. They all exchanged apprehensive glances, each displaying varying flashes of mixed emotions, but all knowing one thing without being told:

There may not be enough time to save her.

Ruelle did not know how much time passed, but it felt like an eternity as she stood back, watching helpless and ashamed while Altha worked swiftly, racing against time to combat the poisons coursing through the woman’s veins. By now, the patient was lying alarmingly motionless and pale.

At long last, Altha straightened and felt the woman’s pulse once again. She gave a grim shake of her head and turned to address the others.

“I’ve done what I can. The antidotes seem to be working, but only time will tell if they will be enough. Ruelle, you and I will discuss your lack of attention later.”

Ruelle could only look down in humiliation. The somber hush that fell on the whole group held a thousand words nobody could say. In the silence, the sounds of restless bystanders still lingering outside became more apparent.

“Whoever is still out there,” Altha said, nodding toward the door, “tell them they can all go home. The woman has been treated, she is in good hands, and no further word will be able to be provided until the morning. If any immediate family members are among them, they may be permitted to come in, but otherwise, their lingering will aid neither her nor them.”

The man who’d been holding them off nodded, opened the door, and spoke to the anxious audience who remained. It took a couple of minutes to persuade them to be on their way, but they reluctantly departed at last. Only two remained: the people’s local healer, who was only just now arriving, and a daughter of the injured woman. The latter hurried to her mother’s side at once. She had been frantically waiting to hear what happened ever since she’d gotten word that something was wrong.

Elfrida rushed to light more lamps and offer everyone a seat around her humble table.

Everything that had happened from Altha’s arrival up until the present moment was quickly recounted for the benefit of the local healer and the patient’s daughter, Idylette.

“It’s a wonderful coincidence that you were so near at hand,” remarked the local healer, addressing Altha. “I doubt I would have made it in time.”

“It was a blessing,” Altha agreed. Neither she nor Idylette would leave the patient’s side.

“Thank you for jumping in where there was a need,” Elfrida said to the burly man at the door as he made to leave, saying he figured his help was no longer needed. “Who knows how many people would have gotten in and disrupted everything even more if you hadn’t taken charge.

“Before you go,” Altha said, holding up her hand. “I want to discuss something with all of you while we are all still here.”

Everyone looked up expectantly.

“From what I gathered from your account,” she went on, nodding toward the farmer, “and from what I could deduce from the type of wound, the pieces come together to show that her main injury was the slash beneath her collarbone, executed by the blade of a strange assailant who disappeared.”

Murmurs and head nods affirmed her summary.

“What I would like to ask is whether it has been a common practice for people around here to carry poisoned blades.” She looked from one to another of the villagers present.

Everyone shook their heads. Altha sighed.

“It is as I thought. I have been through this area more than once in my day, and I never knew your folk to be the sort accustomed to these types of violent practices.” She cast a troubled glance at the still unmoving figure on the cot at her side.

“What are you saying?” asked the farmer after a long, anxious pause. He was fidgeting with his hat again, and deep furrows creased his forehead.

Altha didn’t reply right away. She rechecked the patient’s pulse, seeming to consider her next words carefully. When she did speak, she presented a question.

“Do any of you know what toxroot is?”

Like before, no one showed signs of recognition. In fact, they seemed quite positive they’d never even heard the term.

Altha shook her head again, but she did not act surprised.

“It appears,” she finally said in a lowered voice, “That this violence was carried out by some outsider with very different customs and access to poisons not native to this region.”