Page 1 of Curse of the Healer
Chapter 1
Sunbeams danced across my wood table as I cleared away my breakfast dishes. A mug of warm tea and a bowl of gruel. It was midwinter and my food supply was growing low, but fear and embarrassment gripped me when I considered going to town to trade for more.
A flash of red drew my eyes to the back window of my one-room hut. I tip-toed over and glanced out of the frosted windowpane. Dark green vines and rich brown wood met my eyes—the entrance to the enchanted wildwood. Eyes stared back at me framed by black fur and then vanished into the thicket. My hand went to my neck and a shudder rippled down my spine. Once again I considered whether it was wise to live so close to the enchanted wildwood.
A knock at the door pulled me out of my thoughts. It was almost midday, and I wasn’t expecting visitors. No one came to visit me anymore. Months ago, it was different. I was held in high esteem as the healer of the village of Moon Leaf and had been for fifteen years. When I was twelve, my grandma—who was the healer at that time—claimed I was old enough for the gift to awaken within me and ready to begin my training. We mended broken bones, calmed fevered children, and helped mothers give birth. Once, a babe was breached, and Grandma’s hands were too shaky to turn the babe around in the womb. So I did it. The babe was born hale and happy.
From then on, a kind of luck shined down on me. Every child I helped birth was born fat, healthy, and never became sick. They recovered quickly from bumps and bruises, and when the baker's son fell out of a tree on his fifth birthday and broke his arm, it healed completely in a week.
But ever since the incident, I was seen as a disgrace. When I went to town I heard whispers of "witch" and "cursed one". The village wardens threatened to take my land because I was a burden. If they had come to pay me a visit, I did not know what to say or do.
My throat went dry and my fingers trembled as I unbolted the door. Cold daylight streamed in, and my shivers of fright turned to relief when I saw who it was. I chewed my lower lip, suddenly ashamed of my shoddy appearance. My white wool dress was quite plain, and my black hair tumbled in unbrushed waves down to my waist. I tucked one of my wild curls behind my ear and looked up at the handsome man standing on my doorstep.
He was much taller than myself with a thick torso, great arms and legs bulging with muscles. Sandy blond hair hung past his wide shoulders but was pulled back from his chiseled face and fastened at the nape of his neck. He wore a long-sleeved shirt, open at the front where golden hairs spilled out. His pants clung to the muscles of his legs and were tucked into his boots. In his arms, he carried a bundle of wood.
“Mistress Talia.” His deep voice was low and melodious.
My skin tingled at the sound of my name on his lips. “Wilhelm, come in.” I held the door open wider and moved back to give him room to enter.
His presence filled up the room, and a smile played around the corners of my mouth as I watched him. Wilhelm had been my one consistent companion throughout my trials. Aware that I was a young woman, living alone, he took it upon himself to check on me from time to time, coming around with fresh-cut wood or bringing me wares from town. He was handsome and gentle for a man whose body carried so much strength. I'd admired him from afar and rewarded his visits with a cup of tea, a home-baked slice of bread or a knitted hat for the winter, when I had time. But today I had nothing to give, and perhaps he knew that, for after setting down the wood, he moved toward the door, a furrow in his brow.
“Are you well, Talia?” He asked, twisting his fingers.
“I am,” I lied, meeting his dark green gaze. “Thank you for bringing more wood.”
“It is the least I can do,” he said, his eyes holding mine. “Are you sure you want to stay here? Alone?”
I swallowed hard, desperately wishing my attraction to him was not one-sided. The way his green eyes looked at me made me feel breathless, and yet he kept moving away as though my bad luck would rub off on him. Perhaps it would be best for him to leave, but I twisted my fingers, desperately thinking of something to say to make him stay. “I am, and I have work to complete before the festival of Yule begins.”
Wilhelm nodded but took another step toward the door. “Aye, I’ll leave you to your work then.”
“Are the villagers still angry?” I blurted out. I had not wanted to ask the question and immediately regretted it when I saw the pity in Wilhelm’s eyes.
“Some are,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “They are used to looking to you for help, and they don’t understand what happened. I think I know how to—“
“I understand,” I cut him off, my voice ringing with bitterness.
His eyes clouded over, and he paused. “Talia. I came to warn you about the wildwood. The creatures within are always restless during a festival. If you feel frightened or uneasy you may stay at my home tonight. I have an extra room…” He trailed off.
I realized why he said what he did, for he was trying to be kind. Disappointment made me glance back at my knitting strewn across the table.
Wilhelm stepped outside, rubbing his hands together. “It is a cold day. I will return tomorrow, if you will have me.”
I wanted him to stay, but he strode off, as though he could not bear to be around me anymore. “Until tomorrow,” I whispered, and shut the door.
After putting another log on the fire, I sat down in my rocker and reached for my knitting. The jug of spiced wine sat on the table beside me and, knowing a drink would help ease my anxiety, I poured a cup and drained it dry.
Chapter 2
Anoise woke me, and I bolted upright, sending the rocker I sat in into motion. My eyes squinted at the sudden confusion of being startled from deep slumber. A slight headache pinched between my eyes, and I listened.
It happened again, a gentle tap-tap on the door of my sparse one-room cottage accompanied by a faint scraping.
My arms trembled—still weak with sleep—as I forced myself out of the rocking chair. A ball of bright yellow yarn rolled off my lap and my knitting needles clattered to the floor. I failed to suppress a cry from escaping my lips. When had I become so jittery?
The sound at my door trailed off as I caught my breath and took in the room's state. The fire burned low and the air was tainted with a sour scent. I sighed and rubbed my hands over my arms. My shoulders slumped at the fading light in the window. Sundown. I’d slept through the afternoon. Again.
My gaze was drawn to the telltale reason: a flask of spiced wine. How many glasses had I drank?
