Chapter 5
Avice
It took Avice the descent down Knucker Hill to realise that her wrist no longer throbbed. She half-slid and half-climbed down the steep mound, and it dawned on her that she had been using both hands to do so.
At the base, she held up her wrist to her face and studied it carefully. Besides being lacquered in Trewoofe’s dried saliva, there was no sign of injury – gone was the rapidly spreading bruise and red swelling.
In all the excitement, I did not even think to ask what he was doing.
She opened and closed her fist, then flexed her soiled fingers, staring in wonderment at her healing.
Avice, Bramble interrupted. It is not long until nightfall and the rain will come any moment.
The midwife snapped from her awe and tilted her chin up. Her Grim was right. The grey sky was rapidly dimming and the clouds smelt heavy with rain. The shadows from the surrounding trees cast long shadows around them.
“How is it so late already?” Avice grumbled.
She started at a quick march through the woods, making like an arrow released from a bow, straight towards her cottage.
You know once you step through the stone circle, the day passes differently. You linger at the well for too long every time you visit, Bramble chided.
“Enough scolding!” Avice snapped.
Her familiar whimpered but said nothing further. Guilt pricked at her. She was cold, filthy, and her body ached from all her efforts. She had been awake all night and day, and her temper hung by a fraying thread.
No excuse, Bramble has not done anything wrong. Avice reached and scratched the top of the Grim’s shaggy head as they continued their quick march. “I am sorry. I should not have snapped at you.”
I accept your apology. I should not have scolded you. It has been… a day. He huffed heavily through his nose.
Exhaustion dogged her every step, but Avice managed a weak giggle. “As you say, it has been a day.”
At last, the cottage was in sight. Halfway through their journey home, the heavens had opened and soaked them both to the bone.
Relief spread through Avice as they crossed through the stone circle that surrounded the gardens she kept.
Her boots crunched on the frosted path that led all the way up to her dwelling.
Avice’s lips tugged down, her joints were frozen stiff, and her teeth chattered in her head.
I did a good thing today, she comforted herself.
Even over the steady sound of the rain, a chime caught her attention from an evergreen holly bush, quickly followed by excitable jabbering. She smiled gently in the direction of the noise.
“Yes, I am home,” Avice reassured before continuing to limp her way up the path.
The Good Neighbours who lived in her garden took sanctuary in the evergreens during Winter.
The Pillywiggins favoured the holly bush and had consumed all the berries nestled amongst its spiked leaves – its juices were poisonous to people and animals, but a delicacy to this particular type of Faerie.
Avice had often wondered if the juice from the fruit is what gave the Pillywiggins their attractive, red colouring.
Another chime was accompanied by a heavy rustle from amongst the greenery. The midwife’s heart thudded, concerned they were about to evacuate their Winter home and spread their wings.
“Do not come out!” Avice exclaimed. “I am soaked, cold, and I must get inside to warm up.”
An indignant shriek was followed by the snapping of twigs. The midwife knew that once the Pillywiggins came out from their hibernation, they would want to begin their Spring preparation and now was simply not the time.
She said no, Bramble growled, the edge of his lip quirking up.
That was enough for the flock of Pillywiggins to fall silent.
Avice let out a relieved sigh and turned her gaze to her humble cottage.
The dwelling had belonged to the Gardener women for generations.
The timber framed, wattle and daub walls had been patched and replaced repeatedly over the many turns of seasons – the old way of describing a Christian year – and the varying shades of brown and yellow were proof of the repairs.
She smiled at the steady stream of smoke that wafted from the stone chimney. It stood proudly from the thatched roof. Gentle light flickered behind the wooden shutters. The midwife pulled at the leather strip around her neck and drew out a bronze key from beneath her dress.
The last rays of the Sun dipped below the trees.
Avice grumbled to herself as she pushed the key into the lock.
She wrestled with it, her fingers chilled and sore, shivering against the rapidly dropping temperature.
The comforting clunk of the solid, wooden door unlocking finally met her ears.
Avice shoved her way inside, the air within her humble, one-roomed cottage immediately warmed her bones.
“Come, Bramble,” Avice called.
The Grim stepped over the threshold, shaking out the droplets that had clung to his coat. The midwife shoved the door closed behind them, the hinges creaking loudly in the near-silent cottage as it slammed shut. Locking the door from the inside, Avice sealed away the chilly night.
Finally, Bramble huffed, padding towards the central hearth, his pelt steaming on his approach.
“Thank you, Ashling. It is so warm in here. I cannot tell you how good it is to come home to this,” Avice called over to the stone hearth.
The fire, burning merrily, cast the room in a cosy glow. He gave a loud chirp. A small ball of blue fire rose from the flames and floated over to Avice. The midwife giggled as the Wisp landed on her extended finger. The Faerie had cooled his flames enough to kiss her damp skin in greeting.
Avice rose the Wisp to her face and nuzzled him affectionately. “I missed you, too.”
With a final chime, the little Faerie bounced from Avice’s freezing finger. The Wisp sang and floated around Bramble, who wagged his tail and whuffed in response.
Avice. The Grim turned his head from the game. I mean no offense… He sniffed the smoky air with an exaggerated flare. …but you reek.
“I am well aware, Bramble,” Avice huffed in response.
She rubbed her freezing hands together. I cannot believe I left my gloves at Robert Shepherd’s. She cursed her foolishness. I will have to remember to get them when I am doing a follow-up with Goodwife Joan.
Avice flexed them, the feeling finally returning to her fingertips.
She toed off her mud-caked boots, leaving them on the woven mat by the door.
Now she could use her hands properly again, she began to untie the fastenings on her many layers of soaked clothes.
The blood from the birth, mud from her tumble, and damp from the rain had practically stuck the fabrics together.
Terrified she may rip the garments, she gritted her teeth, delicately removing them – layer by layer.
Finally, she stood, only in her linen chemise and stockings. Shivering, she looked down at herself. Clicking her tongue in frustration, she saw the filth had seeped into her final layer.
“God’s blood,” she spat.
Bramble, tucked up by the hearth, lifted his head. What is it?
“Every single piece of clothing I wore today will need to be cleaned,” Avice tutted.
She turned her eyes to the corner of the room, her dirty garments were piled high in a wicker basket, and she knew in her coffer that very few clean clothes remained.
“I also need to wash,” she growled. “I really have had enough of today.” She glanced over to the closed wooden shutters. “Tonight,” she corrected herself.
So, wash? Bramble suggested with a tilt of his head.
“I have not collected ice from the river today. I only have healing waters left. It seems wrong to use that for cleaning myself. It is supposed to be used for my medicines.”
But you smell. Bramble snuffed, resting his head back on his paws.
Avice knew she should save the gifted healing water for her patients.
She studied the precious ceramic jars pushed flush against the daubed walls.
She remembered the effort it took to fill them.
Back and forth with her carefully stitched leather bags that Trewoofe would take into his well and top up.
Her skin itched from the filth. The only part of her that did not feel grimy was the place where the Knucker’s tongue had touched her.
Her cheeks flushed at the thought of the warmth, the wetness.
She clenched her thighs as she felt a dampness of her own at the memory that now seemed determined to haunt her every thought.
Avice shook her head from side-to-side. Wash, change, sleep.
She fetched a bowl and linen rag from the scuffed table.
Carefully removing the lid from the jar and scooping, she gathered some of the healing waters.
She took a sip, sating her thirst, before placing the brimming bowl on the table.
She finally peeled off her chemise and stockings, tossing them into the dirty clothes pile.
Thanks to Ashling keeping the cottage warm, the water was tepid.
Beginning on her face, Avice began to scrub.
She hissed as the cloth contacted her scars.
One circling her eye and the other marking her lips.
They had chapped with the frigid wind. She continued, until the worst of the filth was removed, and then scrubbed herself dry with another rag.
Stepping over to her coffer, she pulled out a fresh chemise and stockings and quickly dressed.
Avice’s eyes grew heavy as she stumbled over to the wooden pallet, laden with blankets and furs in front of the hearth.
Ignoring the hunger gnawing at her stomach, instead worrying more about the cold that seeped into her joints, she lay down, piling herself up with the bedding.
Rolling over so she faced Bramble, who was curled up on the rammed-earth floor, she patted the pallet.
“Just for tonight,” she offered, teeth chattering. “I cannot get warm.”
With an enthusiastic wag of his tail, the Grim bounced up. He plonked his head onto Avice’s belly. The midwife gave a sleepy chuckle at his puppy-like enthusiasm. She wove her fingers into his wiry hair as her eyelids grew heavy.
“Good boy, Bramble,” she murmured.
The gentle thump of the Grim’s tail sent soothing reverberations through her. The rhythm finally sent Avice to sleep, with the ghostly feeling of Trewoofe’s tongue slipping into her dreams.