To the Healer's and Back

CW: Illness, Body Horror, Vomiting, Implied Self-Harm

Mother’s hand is damp and clammy and, truthfully, quite unpleasant to hold, but I do so anyway, tightly, guiding her along the trail through the northerly woodlands.

Usually, she is quick to tease me whenever we hold hands; shifts her weight to one leg, smiling, free palm landing on her hip. She laments how quickly I’ve grown up, grown into my hands. Or, sometimes, she jokes that if I let my nails grow long and twisted, I could pass for an evil sorceress, long fingers perfect for casting spells and hexes. My sisters, meanwhile, have nimble, little hands: covered in dirt most of the time, but talented at braiding my hair. Today, it’s been woven into two plaits down my shoulders, one done by Hilda, who is ten, and the other by Gardenia, six.

I myself turned thirteen years old yesterday, and Mother kindly gifted to me the splendid dagger - sheath included - that I have asked and begged for for the greater part of two months. It is quite small, and simple, but clearly crafted by a master’s hand, perfect stitching on the orchil-dyed leather hilt. I desired it not for violent acts or mischief-making, of course, but now that I am officially a young lady, I need it for more practical uses, like foraging in the brush, or easily cutting a length of yarn when I weave.

++++

There is no time to string my steps in any way that makes sense. In the brief moment of clarity that strikes me from the very heavens above - those damned heavens! - I do not suppose my legs have ever carried me as quickly, do not believe I have ever experienced such desperation. My heartbeat is the music of my plight, the tempo coursing through my entire body, syncopated. I must look like some sort of madman! Me! Me, how possessed I must seem, like the wild beasts from the tales I once put to song.

++++

For convenience, I have attached the sheath to my belt, which also carries my satchel. On a typical day I carry paper and quill inside, but today it contains damp cloths, a flask of water, a jar of garlic salve at Mother’s suggestion, and a small bottle of honey.

++++

It had been a lie, all a lie! That cur, that demon, that fiend in human skin! With her most wicked spells and magics, a hellish handiwork, an insult to the very basis of my existence! Oh, gods, what has she done to me?

++++

The journey to the Healer is supposed to be a half-day’s journey by foot, but Mother, with her dark hair plastered to her forehead, has needed to stop and collect herself about every half hour, coughing phlegm and spit into a rag from her sewing. I pat her back until she says that she is ready again.

Her steps have been short and slow, and I am starting to fear that the walk will be much longer than I had first expected. Though we’d left in the hazy light of early, early morning, the sun will likely hide itself in the hills before we arrive.

++++

She did this to me. Nothing makes a lick of sense; nothing will make this makes a lick of damned sense. With fire in my lungs, I run in spite of the tremendous pain that hinges in each of my joints, that gnaws at the bottoms of my feet, my own breathing foreign and rhythmless. Rhythmless! What a disturbing notion. What is this hell that has befallen me, and why? What did I do to deserve this? What have I possibly done wrong?

By the gods, I was respected, adored by those who heard my lyrics, looked to for a laugh, for advice, revered for my talent and wisdom - wisdom! Ha! If I had but an ounce of wisdom in my entire body I would not be rushing down this forsaken path, away from that life-ruiner, that she-devil. Gods, I shall never again seek help from another, I swear, I swear by the Earth itself, by my own blood! That heartless, vile bitch! My blood, blood she combined with that of something else, with something demonic, monstrous. Monstrous, I am monstrous!

A poet must not be monstrous, a bard must not be vicious, a musician of my sort must not be appalling! Ringing, chanting, over and over, a poet, a bard, a musician, poet, bard, musician, and between the hiss of the trees and the whistling of the wind in my ears, some evil piece of my own consciousness spits out a scrap of truth:

A poet, a bard, a musician of my sort must also have two hands.

++++

“Are you going to be alright, Mother?” I ask after her rattling breathing has evened out, for what seems to be the hundredth time. She folds up her rag and tucks it back into the pocket of her apron, placing her free hand on the top of my head. She smiles, with effort, and her face is pale and wet.

“Yes, my sweet. Let us carry on.” Her voice is thin, faraway. Her eyes are half-lidded, like she might fall asleep right here on her feet, but we move forward, slowly, through the trees.

++++

I believed I could reverse the inevitable. I believed she could assist me.

My sight is blurred. The world is distant. Oh, by the heavens, did I really deserve this? Just for wanting to strum the lyre once more, to hammer at the strings of a dulcimer, steady the pan flute to my lips, reverse the misfortune that’d bared its teeth at me, taken my livelihood away?

++++

The morning of my birthday Mother seemed fine enough, perhaps a bit tired, but by nightfall Hilda and Nia came running to alert me of her worsened state. I ran to her bedside and found her muttering profanities - quietly, as to not let my young sisters hear - and horribly feverish, drenched in sweat and shuddering beneath her blankets.

Our village medic sadly perished the month before last, so I kissed Mother’s head and told her we’d journey north - to the nearest Healer, residing in the forest - at sunrise.

++++

I have attempted to refrain from looking too closely at what she has done, if at all, but despite the terror of turning my gaze upon her spell-craft, I falter. As I brace myself for my own hideousness, my lungs heave and burn.

It is a mistake.

My knees give way before I can fully comprehend what I’m looking at; the contents of my stomach pour out of my mouth, bitter, dripping onto the ground with a painful squeezing in the pit of my stomach. Black blood, disgustingly real, encrusts the arm she has attached to me, each finger tipped with a talon, unforgiving, inhuman.

She has ruined me. Ruined me, not only with a thread of deceit, but with a thread of flax; my new arm is sewn with unfamiliar snippets of flesh, constructed with a rotten sorcery.

There is screaming. I am screaming.

++++

It is nearly dusk when a figure emerges over the crest of a hill, moving quite quickly. Running, actually - sprinting! Almost airborne, moving with such speed I am almost afraid that something is chasing him. Perhaps Mother and I should run too - though, as he moves closer, and closer, I wonder instead if he is some sort of messenger, though he seems a bit clumsy for that. He is clad in a grass-green cloak, material thick and expensive-looking, but with no shoes, feet pounding against the ground, like a drum. They are tinged with red. How awful - this path is littered with sharp rocks and stones. It must be incredibly-

He has me by the arm.

A roar escapes Mother’s throat, and in the sudden mayhem a fist is raised and then another, and another, and they are her hands, over and over, raining down on the man who has me in his grasp, fingers tight around my wrist. “Get your hands off my daughter!”

My body is moving on its own, jerking backwards on instinct, a shriek erupting from my lungs, like a feral thing. The world slows, and the figure does not let go, and the entire world goes dark for what seems like a thousand years, eons, maybe. When I open my eyes, I realize I have only blinked a single time.

++++

My legs are moving again, fast, nonsensical. I let them do what they will. All I know is this punishment, this newfound torture.

++++

The hand is gone, the man is fleeing, my mother shouts curse after curse at him - a couple of which I’ve never even heard before - and the sound of his feet against the trail dissipates, and he is farther away, and even farther, and then the strange figure - in front of me just a moment ago - has vanished into the trees.

He is gone.

There is a long moment before I realize what else is gone.

++++

I nearly vomit a second time with the realization that if I am to keep living in this world - even meagerly, melancholic, robbed of my art - the arm must go. I must correct this wrong that has transpired, rid myself of this horrid addition, cobbled with my own hubris and folly.

I need to remove the arm.

No, no. I am going to remove the arm.

The anguish that covers me like a veil doubles, triples, until my thoughts are not my own. A blade. A knife, a sword, a cleaver, a rapier. Something to take my curse away, something, anything sharp. It is all I can grasp, everything else falling away in a burst of panic, of purpose.

Poet, bard, musician, a blade, a blade, a blade.

The arm must go. The arm must go.

Two figures are moving this way, at a snail’s pace. Nearly still. A woman and a girl, hand-in-hand, it seems. Look at the innocence of their features. Innocent - ha! That was what I’d thought of that infernal Healer. Nothing is innocent, no one. No one, no one, no-!

The child has a knife.

++++

“By the gods, thief!" I turn and shriek as he departs, rushing through the thicket, faster than the spitting fires of the underworld. “The gods curse you! Enjoy the damned dagger, villain!”

“Are you alright, dear child?” shouts Mother, stumbling towards me, beads of sweat dripping into her wild, distraught eyes; taking the arm he’d had in his clutches, she pulls up my sleeve and examines the skin for injury. “Did he hurt you? Did-”

“Mother, I am alright!”

“Swear it!” she shook me, taking my shoulders.

“I swear on Father’s grave, Mother, I am unharmed!” I shout back. “He did not strike me!”

“Oh.” She sobers. “Oh, thank the gods, Felice.”

It is not until she steps forward and wraps her arms around my shoulders in a tight embrace that she realizes: “Oh, woe, did that brute get away with your dagger? A hex upon him, a hex upon that man! What monster would steal from a young girl?”

My head fits neatly beneath her chin. Her skin is so hot I start to fear she might burst into flames.

“Do not fret over that silly thief, Mother,” I try to reassure her. “I will be able to replace the blade.”

“From a young girl and her sickly mother,” she hisses in disbelief.

“Mama, I-”

“I will buy you another dagger,” she vows, with fervor. “And if, by some misfortune, that one is lost as well, then I shall buy you another, and another, forever. I promise, by the gods, I promise.” I know the sickness is muddling her judgement, as we do not have the coin for an endless, imagined series of lost daggers, but I am in her arms, safe, warm - a bit too warm - and everything will be okay.

After a moment I smile, pulling away. I take her by the hand.

“Let us go quickly, Mother. We are almost there.”