Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
1578, ISLAND OF RùM
T here was nothing quite like the peace of a calm morning. Whatever poison the sea had needed to turn over in order to bring about this beautiful morning, it was almost worth it. A week of storms had left most of the residents in the small seaside village unable to leave their homes. Half of the modest population had sniffles and fevers. Never mind the grumpiness that tended to come along with sleep deprivation, patching up homes for all the long hours of the night, stoking fires and scraping together meals. Never mind those who had to run out to tend to flocks or save livestock.
Their village would have their work cut out for them for the next few weeks, for the repairs alone. Freya would be busy, too, with all the healing she would need to do to keep the villagers healthy and sound after such a terrible storm. But, for this morning, she was able to walk down the clear beach just after dawn. Her basket was already full of herbs she would turn into salves and oils for her townsfolk, but she was presently on the hunt for something a little more charming for those children who were stuck in bed while the others were out playing after the long week indoors. Perhaps a fancy bottle, or a sand dollar, a pretty shell… anything to keep their hearts light. It would make their recoveries easier.
Well, that and her seaweed.
It was vexing to her that she had only ever managed to find this special ingredient along the rocks by this section of shore. Hopefully, the storm hadn’t ripped them all from the roots. The remedy she had in mind should be of particular relief to her aging neighbor, but, then again, she would take as much as she could to make as much of her special remedy for anyone who came asking for it.
Further down the shoreline, closer to where their dock was still mostly intact, fishermen were preparing their boats to go out and replenish the food stores for their families and anyone else who was feeling poorly. Despite how some of her neighbors squabbled, they were a community, and they worked well together. No doubt the fishermen were eager to return to their beloved sea after the week of being landlocked.
Ah, there it is. Freya lifted her skirt with one hand and quickly jogged down the beach to where her seaweeds were still clinging to the rocks. They were a little worse for wear than she would have liked, but she was not in a position to be choosy about her supplies. With more difficulty than she had anticipated, she started to pluck and pull as much as she could, plopping the slippery weeds into her basket on top of everything else. There wasn’t going to be enough here for her goals, but she would make do with what she?—
A shout from near the docks caught her attention once more, halting her actions as she squinted to better see what had suddenly riled the men. From their pointing, she could see three small fishing boats returning rather quickly to the shore, and her heart plummeted. What had happened? What had they seen out there? If they were going to be landlocked for much longer, it was going to be bad news for everybody in the village.
Resting her basket in the crook of her arm, she watched them, forgetting that her skirts were now getting heavy with water from where she was standing, but she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from the sight in front of her. Almost against her will, her feet started to move her forward, slowly, reluctantly, fearing whatever bad news that they must be bringing.
But it was her name that they were calling.
Over and over again, the men were calling for her. Two of the fishermen took off down the dock, no doubt headed for her house where they presumed she was. The largest of the fishing boats was closer to the dock, and the other men were casting ties right back to it in order to secure it.
Her legs moved her body, even though her mind stayed a blank slate, fearing whatever she was about to run up to. The basket jostled painfully against her torso but she paid it no mind.
“Here,” She called, waving her free arm up over her head, eager to be helpful in whatever way she possibly could. “I’m here!”
One of the fishermen spun on his heel quickly, and the look of relief on his face was palpable when he saw her running closer. He turned, running to meet her in the middle, not wanting her to wait, clear urgency in his eyes.
“Freya! Come quickly!” He urged, as if she were not already running as quickly as her dress would allow. The moment he was within arm’s reach, she thrust her basket of supplies into his chest. With her hands free, she could pick up her skirts and give her legs far more mobility.
“What is it? What has happened?” She asked, still wary of his answer.
“There’s a man. They found a man floating on a board in the sea,” he explained, running alongside her.
The wood of the dock was wet and felt mighty unstable as she ran onto it, careful to avoid the obviously loose boards that were being repaired just moments before. “Is he alive?”
The man didn’t answer, and her worry only grew.
Nothing could have properly prepared her for the state of the man in front of her. Unconscious, from the look of things. She knelt in front of him, placing a hand gingerly on his chest as she bent her ear to listen. His heartbeat was faint, but still there. Each rattled breath from his pale, cracked lips made it sound as if it would be his very last. The man’s poor skin was red and raw, blistered in the places where the sun had been the cruelest to him. His clothes were shredded and salt-encrusted. He must have been drifting for days. His hands were worn down, still seeping blood from whatever he had been holding onto for so long.
“Help me, I need to get him inside,” she urged, her voice laced with worry.
He might be too far gone. He might be beyond her help but there was absolutely no way that she could leave anyone in that state and not at least try to help them the best that she could. The fishermen around her hesitated, and she clucked her tongue at them. They couldn’t do much worse to the man by carrying him than the damage that the sea had done already.
At her wordless reprimand, all the men moved into action at once, lifting him carefully. With the man’s bulk, it took four of them to carry him easily enough to her modest hut on the very edge of the town. They made a makeshift gurney out of fishing nets and poles, moving very slowly and carefully over the wet, soggy terrain.
When they were close enough, she pushed open the door and held it for them. She only had but one worktable, and one narrow bed, which she pointed for them to put the man on without delay. She preferred the quiet when she worked, and being too close to the town square never did suit her. Her hut was the smallest in the town, but she didn’t need much, being that it was only her.
The stranger didn’t make so much of a sound as they lowered him, not even a soft whine of pain.
That wasn’t a good sign at all.
Freya accepted her basket from the man lingering behind. “Dae ye wish fer me tae stay with ye?”
She appreciated the sentiment, but it was unnecessary. “He cannae harm anything or anyone in the state he’s in.”
Quickly, and with practiced ease, Freya tied her hair back and pushed her sleeves up to give her hands free access to the man in front of her. The larger townsfolk lingered, and while she appreciated it, she couldn’t very well work with them staring at her like that. “Go on then.” She commanded, and they slowly shuffled out of the room.
“I dinnae like the look of him, Miss Webster,” one of the fishermen said. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the waterlogged man.
“Well, then stay close enough tae hear me scream if it suits ye, but get out of me house.” Freya said without so much as looking back over her shoulder when she moved the man further out of the way. Mercifully, she heard the click of her front door, and she was left in a house that was far, far too silent for a man that injured. She leaned down once more, only touching him long enough to verify his pulse before practically flying over to her shelves.
It was muscle memory that had her hands moving over the shelves, pulling herbs from small jars and drawers to mix into poultices. She worked with efficiency as she added bits from various oils. It had always been that way for her, and she had never truly been able to explain it. The ill and injured had never bothered her the way they did other girls her age. She had an almost morbid fascination with them, healing people and learning how their bodies worked. She certainly wouldn’t deny she had gotten more than a few strange looks because of it.
She placed all her supplies on a flat tray with some clean cloth, a pitcher of water, and then her needles and moved them onto the bed. She dragged her small stool close and started with a numbing potion, tilted down his nearly blue lips slowly, massaging his throat to make him swallow. Not that he would need it but the last thing that she wanted was for him to wake up in the middle of her stitching him shut. It wouldn’t do much to help with the dehydration, but it was certainly a start.
How is he alive?
Freya allowed herself only one moment to marvel at the severity of his wounds, most of which weren’t even bleeding from how cold and weak he was. With her knife, she quickly cut off his shirt and gasped again. Even for her, it was almost stomach churning. Biting her bottom lip, she finished cutting off the rest of his ruined clothes and covered his modesty with her sheet as best she could. One by one, she flushed the wounds and packed herbs and poultices into them, making sure that they were as clean as they could be. It would be a pity for sickness to settle into the wounds. She stitched those that needed it in every place she could find. She had seen sailors suffer from exposure before, shark bites, all manner of impalements… but this?
She started to build up the fire in her hut, burning it as brightly as she could until she was barely able to take the heat. She kept her small oven burning, needing to ensure that the man’s temperature rose as well, if he were to have any chance at all. Gingerly, Freya started to lift his arm up and tuck it into his side, the golden ring on his finger glinting in the warm firelight. It was a pretty thing, gold and intricately designed with an arm shaped like swirling waves, something that she had never seen before. Was it a mark of his family? Of who he was? Did he have somebody waiting at home for him? Surely, a man built like this had to be. Half the scars on his body were long since healed over, marking him as a fighter, a warrior.
She slipped it from his finger, telling herself that it was to ensure his fingers didn’t swell and cause further injury as she slipped it into one of her many drawers. If he were to awaken, then she could return it to him. Of course she would. But, knowing her fellow villagers and how prone that they were to their superstitions and occasional greed it was for the best. She didn’t need him to be marked as any more of a misfortune omen or lord forbid, a prize.
She covered him and sat by his bedside, marveling as his chest started to draw in deeper breaths, a soft bit of movement behind his eyes. Only moments prior, it would have seemed impossible. She had done everything that she possibly could, and now it was out of her control.