CHAPTER 12 MILI
I t’s been a fortnight since Kar left. There have not been such troubled weeks in all my life in Ethelinda. It’s been two weeks of drought and illness, two weeks of torment while dry, grey skies stare down heartlessly on our town, almost all frail with illness in the streets. Our crops are dead, and the townspeople have had to disturb the forest not to starve. The clouds cover everything, but they never rain. All we get is dry, brutal grey.
The Sun itself can’t even pierce through the veil of clouds in the sky. Only the Moon’s light reaches us, now.
I realized, this morning, that I cannot manage the devastation alone anymore. It’s become impossible. Not that I was ever truly succeeding to keep up, not really. I healed the first few to fall ill, but in a day’s time, the disease spread out of control. Now at least one member of every household is sick, plagued by the strange illness that’s taken over my homeland. I feel depleted of my magick, unable to recharge properly.
Shaking the wary thoughts off, I steady myself and continue my walk through town, my powers shot from overuse. I feel weak, and I know I am, but still, I stop to give some comfort to the townspeople I see fallen down or hobbling along the cobblestones.
“Mili,” a young faery calls out warily to me.
I kneel before him, holding my hands out to him. He takes them softly as I say, “Dearest, what is it? Do you need help? Are you safe?”
He shakes his head. “M-my mom – my mom said to get you. It’s Chrysthinia.” His eyes well up with tears and he continues, “Will they be okay?”
“Of course,” I say, my own mind sent into a spiral. “Chrysthinia will be just fine.” I smile, and curse myself as I feel it fall just short of my eyes. Godsdamnit, Mili, I think, don’t frighten the boy!
But he must see the worry in my face, because a tear slides down his cheek and his mouth warbles. “They’re really sick.”
I feel my heart tighten and shatter, but I just shake my head and keep forcing a smile. “Well, we’ll just have to go see if we can help them feel better, hm?”
Then the boy sets his mouth in a straight line and stands tall. His eyes harden with childhood resolve, and he sets off running back down the street. As he goes, I notice how pale, how pallid his skin looks, and restrain myself from crying out in frustration that I didn’t ask to heal him.
–––
“Come in,” a somber voice calls out from inside Chrysthinia’s cottage. I push the door open with quivering hands, and my eyes fall on a small pallet on the ground. Chrysthinia lies immobile atop it, covered in a thin, linen sheet. Their mouth hangs halfway open, and their soft, ragged breathing rings quietly through the foyer to me.
“Oh, gods,” I whisper, clutching my heart as I walk to them.
My feet almost stumble as I sit beside Chrysthinia’s prone body and the faery guarding them. The faery, a middle-aged woman, looks sadly at me. I wipe a stray tear away, realizing with a start that I’m crying, and quickly breathe in to compose myself.
The woman says, “I’m glad you could come.”
“How long have they been like this?”
“At least a few hours,” she replies. “I came to check on Chrysthinia and came in when they didn’t answer my knocks. I don’t know entirely how long they’ve been ... like this.” I choke back a sob at the thought of Chrysthinia unconscious, alone, for hours.
“You’re their neighbor?” I ask, struggling to maintain some semblance of composure.
She nods. “Yes. I am Helennia; I didn’t know Chrysthinia very well, but they are a good neighbor, and good for all of Ethelinda –much like you.”
I take in a stuttering breath, and nod. “Thank you for sending your son to find me.”
“Of course,” Helennia murmurs, wringing out the damp cloth on Chrysthinia’s forehead and replacing it with a fresh one. “Chrysthinia spoke highly of you. I assumed you were friends.”
“We are.” I stare into Chrysthinia’s face, tracing every curve of it with my eyes. I follow the lines etched into their shaved black hair, the runes and patterns they asked me to help sketch onto their scalp. I wonder, somberly, whether any of the protective sigils are working. I wonder if they’re doing anything at all.
Helennia, I realize, is staring at me with a quiet frown. I look up to her and shake my shoulders out, putting on a brave face. “Do you know what this sickness is?” she asks.
I haven’t even admitted it to myself, yet: I don’t know what this blight is. Maybe it’s connected to the nightmare I had of moonlight coming down, sharpening into fangs, then twisting into daggers at my window. It feels so long ago, I haven’t thought about it much lately but Chrysthinia always said I should take it as a warning. It can’t be related though, that nightmare was a threat to me, but this is destroying the whole town, polluting and tormenting the good people of Ethelinda. It must be something else. I refuse to believe it’s happening just to bring me down. The sickness has taken many forms, which makes it hard to discern if it’s one disease, or many; even though all I’ve done is heal and comfort the sick, I haven’t had time to actually think about it, much less to actually study it and determine suitable antidotes.
Without Chrysthinia here helping me, as they have been doing for the past fortnight, it’s all but hopeless, my fight to protect my people. It hits me, solidly in the chest: there’s nothing more I can do .
As soon as the thought enters my mind, I shove it down, deep into my stomach, and gently motion for Helennia to give me room. She moves aside, and I kneel beside Chrysthinia and pull a small necklace out from under my silken blouse – my most prized sachet of healing herbs. I bring it with me everywhere, but only use it in the most dire of circumstances.
Perhaps it’s selfish, using the remedy on my closest confidant, but I justify it to myself quickly. Chrysthinia is as much a healer of Ethelinda as I am; it’s only the two of us powerful enough, really, to ensure the wellbeing of its inhabitants. Ethelinda needs them as much as I do.
I grab a mortar and pestle from a nearby end table and pour in the herbs –Chrysthinia leaves their magickal items strewn casually about the house like wildflowers in a field. Echinacea, dried garlic, thistle, turmeric, feverfew, and allspice tumble in tiny dried bunches out of the sachet and into the small stone mortar.
“Can you pray?” I ask Helennia, urgency coating my words.
She nods, and I set to work grinding the healing spell into a powder. I focus on Helennia’s words as I work, turning the pestle in a circle, over and over ...
Mother of Ethelinda, Mother of this Realm, here lies a body, one of your own. Here lies a person, here lies your child. Mother of Ethelinda, guide the faery’s hand. Mother of this Realm, wake the child’s spirit. Hum, hum. Here lies a body, one of your own. Here they lie, helpless and prone. Guide the faery’s hand, wake the child’s spirit. Hum, hum.
Once the herbs have formed a coarse powder, I breathe heavily and let myself focus on my emotions. I think of Chrysthinia, of our lives intertwined. I recall when they first came to our home, when I was just a teenager and they were so angry and hurt from their past. Images of them stomping through Ethelinda, rugged and defensive from their painful upbringing, flash through my mind. I think of everything we’ve been through, the spells cast together, the healing done.
After a moment, I feel my tears spilling down my cheeks, and let them fall into the mortar. I crush the herbs into the saltwater and form a mixture, fragrant and strong. Once it’s combined well, I place small beads of the poultice on Chrysthinia’s forehead, collarbones, shoulders, knees, and feet. I press them in as Helennia keeps chanting, hum, hum , and sigh deeply.
Then, we wait.
–––
After hours, the Sun began to fall over Chrysthinia’s home. Still, they did not stir.
I wanted to stay, but I knew the other people of the town needed me. Aurora would wake soon, too, and I didn’t want her chaotic energy to disturb the spell (which, I prayed, was doing something for Chrysthinia). Sensing my trepidation to leave, Helennia promised to stay; that brought me some peace, and so I left on weary legs to go back home.
On the sunset-lit walk back through town, there are almost no townsfolk in the street. The stores are dark, and passersby walk amongst each other without so much as a friendly smile in each others’ direction. All the while, the volcano looms above.
The volcano, I suddenly think. The volcano ... and that godsdamned dragon. As a flash of lightning strikes up in the distance, suddenly a bolt of rage flies through my body, all the way from my hair to my feet, setting my ears on fire. How ... how dare he?
How in the Realm is that dragon, secluded, powerful beast that he is, content to sit so high-and-mighty atop his volcanic perch? Why, with all of the godsdamned power I know he has, is he content to just hide away while everything falls apart in the town? How dare he just sit there and watch all of Ethelinda wither away? Clearly the devastation hasn’t affected the volcano, otherwise he would have cared to do something about it and help me. I’m sure he’s sitting on his ass, enjoying his life while smelling amazing. Oh but he’s definitely smelling good enough to eat. All my senses are weakened but I can still feel his intoxicating spice in the air from time to time. When I catch a whiff of it in the air, I don’t know if it’s comforting me or not letting me focus. Maybe both.
Then a whisper on the wind breezes by my ears. I whirl around as it reaches me, the small hairs on my ears pick it up so clearly. Go to the dragon, it hums, and you may summon the rain . I realize quietly that it’s an answer to my prayers; the Mother of the Realm is, at last, answering my prayers. She’s guiding me.
I cry out in an overwhelming moment of both relief and agony, joy and fear, then take off running back to my cottage. I sprint through the door, not worrying about the sound it makes as it hits the wall, and throw on a cloak, stiff muslin pants, and sturdy boots. As I walk away from the wardrobe, I glance in the mirror. It’s the first time I notice my reflection since the devastation started. I look so pale, so sickly. Anyone laying their eyes on me these days would probably be frightened. I can’t help but regret that I will not be quite myself when I meet the dragon.
“Mili?” Aurora mumbles, half-asleep still. I silently roll my eyes as I throw my small pack of emergency traveling gear over my shoulder (including medicinal herbs, stones and driftwood carved with protective runes, and dried nuts and berries).
Once I’ve grabbed the essentials, I quietly whisper a sleep-inducing chant over my shoulder to make sure she doesn’t wake up. After her breathing slows again, and I’m sure she won’t follow me, I hurry out the front door.
The Sun has already set, but my eyes are sharp in the darkness while the Moon is out, so I start my walk through the town, headed North – straight for the dragon’s lair.