Page 9 of Sinbound to the Highlander
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Slowly walking through the forest, Freya’s eyes were latched on the ground, scanning the underbrush for the plants Missus Beathag had asked her to get. She had found some hawthorn, and nettles but no mandragoras. The iron tool she was to use on them rested in the basket, ready to be used when she found any.
Her eye rested on a cluster of plants with broad green leaves and large starry white flowers—the wild garlic Missus Beathag wanted.
Found it at last!
Happy with the find, she slipped to her knees and using her right hand, plucked the plants up with the roots and transferred them to her left hand. She was not sure why she had to follow such a method, but she was not going to ask.
Rumors had it that Missus Beathag was the daughter of a druid, and that was how she had learned to heal. Some said she had learned it from medical masters when she had lived in the cities, but Freya did not care. Whichever way, she still helped and healed people.
The light slithering down through the thick trees was getting dimmer and dimmer, and soon she knew she had to go back home. Tomorrow she would hunt from the mandragora plants through another part of the forest that lead down to the stream.
Mandragoras were best grown in sandy or dry soil and grew under partial shade. Some trees grew over the banks of the river and provided the shade the mandragoras needed. She would check there tomorrow.
With the plants in her wicker basket, she stood and brushed the dirt off her skirts. Satisfied with her yield, she left and trekked back to the village. It was sundown, so people were coming from the farms and the market. Children were running in from the river, wet-headed and laughing.
Holding the basket to her side, she lifted her hand and greeted all those she passed by. The preacher’s wife called to her as she passed by the stone kirk, and she waved back, pausing to exchange pleasantries before she moved off and to her home. Bypassing her home, she made her way to Missus Beathag’s house and, on the porch, knocked on the door.
“Missus Beathag, it’s me,” Freya announced.
“Come in,” the old woman called out.
Pushing the door in, she went in to find the woman stirring something in a pot bubbling over the firepit.
“I found the wild garlic, nettles, and hawthorn. I’ll look for the mandragora in another part of the forest. And, possibly down near the riverside, on the morrow,” she said while wiping her face. “Are ye goin’ to need them quicker than that?”
“Nay,” Missus Beathag shook her head, “I daenae need them in a hurry, but I would like to have them as soon as possible. The spring rains are soon to come, and ye ken Missus Stewart has bouts of consumption here and there. And Mister Mungo has those pains in his knees when times get cold.”
Picturing the two elderly people in her mind, Freya nodded, “I understand. I’ll be back on the search on the morrow.”
“Thank ye,” Missus Beathag said, then added, “And I meant it, lass, stop worryin’ about yer husband.”
Her brows wrinkled a little as she wondered why Missus Beathag was speaking about her husband again. But, as before, she did not ask why. “I ken, and I’ll see ye on the morrow.”
Kissing the old lady’s cheek, she went to a surprisingly empty home, took some clothes and a washcloth, and went to the stream to bathe. The sun was dimming, but she washed off quickly and, with the clean feel of her skin, went back home to find her mother stoking the firepit.
“Where’s Faither?” she asked.
“Restin’,” her mother said, “had a hard day on the farm today, but got the rest of the crops cut.”
Stashing her dirty clothes in a sack to be washed tomorrow, she went to help her mother. “I got most of the herbs Missus Beathag wants, but I still have to find the mandragora on the morrow. Is there anythin’ ye need for me to do before I do go?”
“Aye,” her mother said sweetly, “I’m going to be helpin’ at the kirk from dawn to noon, can ye wash some of our clothes and put them out before ye go,mo leanbh?”
“I will,” she agreed while fiddling with the tail of her skirt and debating with herself. “Maither…do ye believe what they say about Missus Beathag…that she was the daughter of a druid?”
Her mother shot her a curious look, “I ken a lot of things about Missus Beathag, but nay that, why?”
Sucking a deep breath, Freya told her about her constant curiosity about who her birth parents were, and how she wondered about if she would ever marry.
“Then, she said that I shouldnae worry about me husband, that he’d come along’ when the time was right,” Freya admitted, “And a while ago, she said the same thing. I just cannot shake the feelin’ that she kens somethin’ I daenae.”
“Mayhap she meant it simply, that one day ye’ll have the husband ye want,” her mother wiped her hands and came to sit by her. Resting her right hand on Freya’s, she asked. “Is it somethin’ ye’ve been kennin’ about for a while?”
Her cheeks warmed, “It is, I mean, I’m old enough now. A lot of the girls I grew up with are married off, and I ken ye’ve done yer job in raisin’ me. I ken its time that I stood on me own.”
Her mother’s face fell, and guilt cramped Freya’s stomach before she rushed to add, “Nae to say ye havenae done a good job, raisin’ me, and I love ye dearly, but eventually, I am going to leave ye.”
