Page 2 of Curse of the Healer
My stomach rumbled as I reached for the fire poker. An iron rod with a pointed end. Although the scratching noise at the door might have been an animal, the makeshift weapon made me feel better. There was a stray cat I usually left a bowl of milk for, but I’d forgotten that afternoon. Perhaps it was hungry and wanted to get in.
I made my way to the door, heart pounding in my throat. My fingers closed around the doorknob, and I took a breath to steel my nerves. I yanked it open and brandished the poker, ready to stab any intruder who stood outside of my hut.
Crisp frosty air blew in, sending the last of my fire to embers, but there was no one there. I blinked in the frostiness. Gold stars shone pale in the velvet sky, and the silvery moon was almost full. Coolair eased the edges of my wine-induced headache.
The beauty of the night reprimanded me. I needed to stop drinking. The festival of Yule began tomorrow night, and I would miss it if I carried on this way. Especially because the blacksmith's wife was still kind to me, although suspicious. She offered to sell my wool blankets during the festival. Using that money I could buy all I needed for the rest of winter. Only, the blankets weren’t finished because I kept getting drunk.
Yule was my favorite time of the year, when the villagers came together despite the cold to celebrate and welcome the sun back to our lives. We decorated the great tree that had stood in the center of the village for ages. The pond was frozen over, and it was funny to watch the children skating, laughing and shouting as they tried not to fall over, their faces pink and rosy. Best of all was the feasting and gift giving. During that time, we were one people, happy. All transgressions were forgotten, something I desperately needed. I had to redeem myself in the eyes of the villagers.
It had been months since the incident but I still remembered it like it were yesterday. The Lord of Moon Leaf called me to his manor for the birth of his firstborn. He and his wife hoped it would be a male heir to their land titles and wealth. Because of my reputation, they called me to be present for the birth, scorning the servants and the healer who had worked for their family line.
I recalled that day vividly. The eve of Mabon. A great celebration was to be held the next day, and the house was tense with excitement. It was the largest manor home I’d ever seen, with stone walls and rose bushes around the entrance. It would have been a beautiful place to raise a child with every comfort that could possibly be given. I’d walked inside, and my luck had turned. Nothing went as expected. The lady labored long and hard, losing far too much blood for my liking. The child was born without making a sound and died within the hour.
I’ll never forget the smell of blood or the rage and disappointment in the lord's eyes, but and the wails of the mother as she beat her breast, crying out for her stolen child still haunted me. I’d left, a foul mixture of sweat and blood staining my clothes, anxious that I'd find myself swinging from the noose. Although there was no punishment from the lord, word got out about my failure. The next child I delivered died as well. As did the third one, and then failure swallowed me. I gave up my post as healer, retreated to my one-room cottage to hide, knit and drink.
Whenever anxiety rose, beating like the wings of a trapped bird in my chest, I reached for the wine, drank one too many glasses, lost track of time, and fell asleep. The blanket I’d been hired to knit wasn’t even half done, all my working hours lost to drunken stupor. Drinking myself to sleep each afternoon was pathetic – and if I lost my commission, the wardens would take my land - but I did not know how else to stop the madness from seeping in.
My fingers twitched as I looked out into the night, a dismal reminder that it was time for another drink. At times when I was deep into my cups of spiced wine, I'd stare out my back window at the enchanted wildwood. I saw things in the wood. Grotesque orcs crept through the vines, the dim light revealing their blue-gray skin and abnormal features. Trolls with long noses and fat, sagging bellies. My imagination ran wild at those times and I often shut the curtains, returned to my rocking chair and pretended I'd seen nothing. Despite my fear of those creatures—real or imagined—the winter air felt pleasant and cool against my skin. A walk after sundown was not a smart idea, but spending some time out in nature might help me heal.
I took a step, and my foot bumped against something. On my doorstep lay a shape, obscured by the gloom. I narrowed my eyes and cocked my head to examine it. A round object, shaped almost like an egg but roughly cut at the ends. The low light from the fire flickered in the background as I leaned over. Black hair fluttered around the edges, but then I saw two eyes, wide and unseeing. Human eyes. A severed head.
My hands flew to my mouth, and I screamed into the quietness of the night. I backed away in horror, my stomach queasy and fingers shaking.
Black shadows moved in the darkness. Heart pounding, I slammed the door shut and snatched up the block of wood I used to bolt it. No sooner had I’d lifted it than the door flew open and clocked me in the head. Pain exploded across my vision, and I fell, landing on my bottom with a jarring thud as masked figures bounded over my doorstep.
With my vision swimming in pain, I couldn’t tell if there were two or three of them. I kicked one in the shin, but it didn’t deter him. The block of wood was still in my hands, and I swung, determined to hit one. How dare they enter my home and try to rob me!
But my efforts were in vain. They ripped the wood from my hands, rolled me onto my belly and pulled my arms behind my back. Strong fingers squeezed my cheeks, forcing my jaws open. They crammed a handkerchief into my mouth even though I gagged and coughed and spit.
A hood went over my head, and a sharp blow set my ears ringing. My consciousness ebbed as arms lifted me and bore me away.
Chapter 3
Consciousness came slowly with the sluggishness of returning memory and awareness. I opened my eyes to darkness, my eyelashes scraping against the heavy blindfold tied around my eyes. I sat upright, my head lolling to the side against a rough board of wood. The cool winds of winter did not kiss my skin, so I must have been inside somewhere. Sitting up straighter, I strained my ears for sound, but the blindfold muffled any noise. A dull ache of discomfort ran from my skull all the way down my spine to the knotted ropes which tied my hands behind me. I twisted my fingers to determine how tight they were. They did not move. Next, I attempted to dislodge the gag in my mouth. The cloth was foul, and bile boiled in my belly at the taste of it. My mouth was dry and aside from the gag, the sour taste of wine still lingered in the back of my throat.
Where were my abductors who had the audacity to take me from my home and tie me up in the dark? I wanted to go home, eat a good dinner and go back to sleep. I squirmed in frustration, and fear pulsed a rhythm in my heart. I would not be missed until at least midday when Wilhelm returned to check on me. Usually, the village folk did not venture out to my land. I lived far too close to the enchanted wildwood where the dark queen reigned and demanded sacrifices from the village to protect it from the beasts within.
I shivered, not simply because of the thought of sacrifices, but also because of the head on my doorstep. I had not recognized it, and in my horror hadn't thought to examine it to see if it were a fresh kill. Nay, it must have been a diversion to frighten me because I was the cursed one. The disparaging thought made me cringe.
Grandma said the goddess had blessed me, and I’d accepted it with grace and humbleness, knowing I did not possess such magic nor did it run in my family blood. In fact, just the opposite. Papa had gone off to fight in the king's war, abandoning Mama and I. She passed away when I was ten from an ailment she'd been fighting most of my life. It left her sick and weak, and even Grandma’s gift could not help her. I spent many days by her side, knitting to keep my hands busy, and telling stories of what I’d seen and heard in the village. Spiced wine eased her pain, and when she wasn’t looking, I snuck sips of it. At first the bitter taste made me choke, but when the warmth swept through me, all my worries melted away. After Mama passed, Grandma kept me busy so I wouldn’t feel too sorry for myself. I’d always been good with my hands, but I was better at being a healer. Until three months ago.
My fingers went still under the knowledge that I was useless to my village. There was no longer a place for me. But I pressed on. Grandma would not want to see me that way. She'd passed seven years ago, when I was twenty, and made me promise I would make a name for my family. And what had I done? Failed.
I twisted my numb fingers, trying to work blood back into them as I considered my predicament. And then I heard voices, muffled but coming nearer. I sat up straight and listened. Footsteps grew louder, metal scraped—a key being thrust into a lock—and a creaking door swung open.
Chapter 4
There was silence, and then a man cleared his throat. His voice quavered as he spoke. "Well. There she is, just as you requested."
“And you paid the men who helped you?” The second male asked. There was a higher squeak to his voice like he'd never fully reached manhood and his voice was still going through a traumatic sequence of highs and lows, trying to find the perfect level of deep manliness.
“Just as you requested,” the first man said.
I chewed my lower lip. They’d paid someone in the village to capture me?
"Did you have to truss her up so?" The second man groaned.
“I’m sorry, Teague. Will she do for the sacrifice?" His companion asked, sounding somewhat cowed.
