Glancing around, they were in a forest; not a pine stand like he was used to, but birch. Black scars marred their smooth bark. Maple was somehow still alert. Mal was surprised she had made it through so much unharmed. He hoped it would stay that way.
Why was she not to be harmed? He often asked himself this question. What did he owe her? It wasn’t like he was related to her in any way. He had merely found her, an orphan. He supposed because she was human, that was why he protected her. If she was another species, say a fawn, he wouldn’t have gone out of his way; and perhaps he would have taken the opportunity for a free dinner. But there seems to be something about humans, particularly their faces and deep eyes that call out to each other, warning others from killing them.
And besides, Mal thought she was adorable. Her plump cheeks and the bulging baby neck. Her tiny hands gripping one of his fingers. The way she looked out at the world through her young eyes was innocent. Naive, he thought, but refreshing nonetheless. Mal felt better than he had in a long time with her on his back. He felt renewed watching her wave her arms around in the snow.
Judging by the sun, they were on the correct side of the mountain. And it was only a few miles of white trees before they arrived in Arden.
Arden was not too big. A worn cart path led through the center of town as a kind of main-street. There was a butcher shop and a small tavern, that was it. Each of the Arden people had their own reason for moving into the valley, but the reasons boiled down to one: they all wanted to escape the confines of society. The citizens liked their life here. The green mountains, white-capped, rising up on either side. The miles of thick forest between them. They fought with all their strength to keep things quaint because if things started to grow they would just be building another society.
Mal walked into town, up the steps of Red Mill Tavern, which was next to the slow-moving River Tay, and into the dimly lit barroom.
“Mal!” a round man said. He had a lot of hair: a full white beard and long locks.“Good to see you. You look awful.”
He looked down at himself. His shirt was torn and dirty.
“I guess I have seen better days. Oldcastle, I need an ale.”
Oldcastle returned with a mug. He looked like he had a burning question.
“Can I ask why you have a child on your back?”
How was Mal to explain this other than the truth?
“I found her alone in the woods. I thought I’d take her in and feed her, at least until I could find her a home. Do you know of anyone looking to take in an orphan? Maybe Mama Narissa?”
“I don’t know...I haven’t been out her way in years. She rarely comes to town anymore. Besides, we all, including her, like our time too much to waste it on a baby.”
“...Well, do you know of a place we could stay, at least until I can get back on my feet?”
“As you know, we don’t have much here. A minimalist lifestyle we like to call it.” He smiled. “But I do have one room.”
The door creaked open to an attic. Coughing, Oldcastle led with a candle into the dark room. It was filled with extra bar essentials: spare tables and chairs sat stacked in the corner, cobwebs hanging from their legs. Various unmarked boxes were scattered about.
“With a broom and some elbow grease I bet you could have this place shining in no time,” Oldcastle said.
It was small, and a little dusty, but it would do. “Thank you,” Mal said, grabbing for his coin purse, holding it out to Oldcastle. “This is for you.”
“I can’t take that.”
“Why not? I would feel guilty using all this for free.”
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“Free?” Oldcastle laughed. “No, I’m still going to ask for payment, just not gold...I can see you look confused.
“We stopped using currency a while back. We all said we were tired of being separated from the fruits of our labor. And since we make the rules out here, we flat-out abolished gold. We operate on a barter system now.”
“Well, how do I pay then?”
“Provide goods or a service…something you can barter with. You’re talented so I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
It would take months to figure out a good or a service. But before that, his wound started to fester. It was yellow, and oozing, and tender to the touch. Oldcastle took one look at it and recommended he go to Mama Narissa. She would know what to do. She always did.
On their way, Oldcastle described her as a witch of sorts, a healer. She had flocked to Arden for the sole reason of being able to practice her craft in peace. In Summerfell, the council would make her fill out reams of paperwork before she could even think about using an incantation, lest she do something the government deemed naughty. She wanted community, don’t get her wrong. She was just tired of being treated like a petulant child. At least that was what she said was the reason.
While Oldcastle was droning on and on, Mal was focused on the puss coming from his face. He caught bits and pieces of what the old man was saying, but there was no way he could catch it all due to his pain. If he contorted his face at all, he felt a sharp stab under his eye. So much so that his face started stiffening into a flat stare. Oldcastle would look for conversation cues in Mal’s face, but there were none there, not because he didn’t want to, but because he simply couldn’t. Mal was amazed he had not felt the wound in the cave. Surely a wound like this he would’ve felt immediately. Did the heat of his fight with Cythra block the sensations? He assumed this must be the case. But a normal wound wouldn’t inflame like this. It looked like half his face was blistering. There must’ve been something on Cythra’s nails that caused this, something only an experienced healer could deal with.
By the time they got to Mama Narissa’s cottage, Mal could no longer see out of his right eye; and he was weakening. Oldcastle, with Maple on his back, carried Mal up her rickety steps. They had to swerve past many cats, who hissed at the intruders messing up their afternoon naps.
The inside of the cottage was smoky, and a not-so-subtle smell of incense hit them, sweet and strong. Mama Narissa stood in front of her hearth, flipping what looked like doughy pastries on a pan. She was a wide woman, not very tall. She looked like she would be the matriarch to a large family, but as far as anyone knew, she had none. “Oldcastle,” she said, not turning, “why do you always bring me injured animals. You know they never leave.”
“It’s not a cat this time. It’s Mal.”
She turned, unbelieving, from her pastries. Oldcastle wasn’t lying for once. Perhaps this time away from Halgen had really straightened him out. She looked at the dark-skinned man who by this time was struggling to breathe. He was choking on himself.
“Put him here,” she said, swiping candles and pouches of mixing ingredients off the table. A wax candle hit the ground with a soft thud. Oldcastle set him down. “What happened, Child?”
Oldcastle still thought it was strange she called him child. She mustn’t have been ten years his elder. “Cythra,” he stated matter-of-factly.
“When?”
“About a day or two ago. I don’t exactly know.”
Mama Narissa looked concerned; and deep in thought, she hurried to the backroom. Oldcastle could hear her rummaging around. He heard glass clinking and stuff thrown on the floor. He looked down at the writhing patient. If she could heal him, she must be a miracle-worker. Because Mal was looking rough; not like stuffy-nose rough, but like minutes-away-from-dying rough. She returned with an armful of small jars, and noticing maple for the first time, she gave Oldcastle a questioning look, before setting the jars down on the butt of a chair.
The healing practices she used she had learned from the Sets of Summerfell, but the government no longer recognized the Sets as part of their nation; and so, they didn’t allow their witchcraft. Mama Narissa always said it was a lack of understanding that caused them to outlaw it. Misunderstanding leads to fear, she thought, and fear leads to action. It was the natural course of these things.
She opened one jar and took dark green leaves, holding them to Mal’s lips. “Eat these.”
Mal, barely conscious, opened his mouth and chewed them. They tasted of mint. He didn’t enjoy the texture as they mashed between his teeth. He swallowed hard and the clump went down his throat. Almost immediately, he felt a change in his breathing. It was getting easier and easier. Next, she mixed a concoction in a mortar and pestle, with reddish leaves and a powder of some kind. Grinding this up and running her hand through the mixture, she moved it close to his face. Mal flinched away.
“This is going to sting a little,” She said.
Mal knew when people said that, it meant it was going to sting a lot. He mentally braced himself, and he was right. When she applied the mixture it started to burn, like salt on a fresh wound. He tried, but he couldn’t stop himself from crying out in pain and kicking. For some reason, Maple too started crying.
“Get her out of here—this is no place for a child!” She turned back to Mal. “This hurts now, I know, and it will for a while. But hold out. The pain will subside, and you can go back to your life. You should call yourself lucky she didn’t do more damage to you.” Mama Narissa grabbed another jar. She smelled of sugar, like a sweet pastry. And he felt her warmth. “This powder, Mal, is called Mother’s Kiss. It relieves all ailments for a time.” She spooned some and fed it to him. “Sleep now,” she said, rubbing his hair.