The tale-telling of her life endeavors began after Kysante managed to loose his breath and accept the fact that one possible friend was better than no friends at all. He let Urtica start her stories shortly after he explained where the head came from. But she already knew that part of his journey. Not thanks to him, but to other sources.
He left many details behind, but he found a reason good enough to justify carrying the head.
“This is Haleno. He was my wife’s first healer, the one that I paid much coin for.”
“I knew Haleno. I can smell him miles away and even in death, he still reeks,” she said looking at the bag with contemplation. Her eyes switched to stare at the knight’s hands. So many horrible things had they accomplished, and yet there was no trace of blood. Not on the surface, at least.
“The why I carry his head, is a truth that I wish to keep to myself. But knowing that you are a skilled witch I think you might have already seen his faith, and his past doings.” There was a certain sadness in his voice, almost a regretful feel. Kysante was no murderer, yet he had killed. What is done for a greater divine purpose sometimes is overseen by justice.
“That remains uncertain.” She replied with mystery, assessing her stare upon his eyes. “I have traded a few herbs and elixirs with Haleno back in the day, when the roads to Deidra where peaceful and safe. If you ever remember such days.” Urtica walked towards her stack of potions and chose a dark purple vial, with a tag writing Rest of The Wanderer on it. Its size no bigger than a coin. If someone would drink it, it would take one single drop of it to empty the bottle.
“Did you know you were cooperating with him, and his doings?” Kysante frowned, following every movement she made. The tiny vial was now offered in her open hands, for him to take. “What is it?”
“This is a simple vial of mixed valerum and humulus. I call it the ‘Rest of The Wanderer’. I used to trade it for salt and spices at the Moonlight Market with my fellow alchemists.”
“I still don’t know what it is.” The knight held the bottle and it was even more smaller in his hands. He raised it up against the candle light and saw through it: a dense liquid with sediments at the bottom that shone like a night sky.
“I will take it in times were I want to sleep and not dream. When your legs are sore of traveling and your head is spinning tracking any dangers that are not there, this vial would help you sleep.”
“Thanks, but the least wish I have is to be put to sleep in a witches hut.” Kysante snorted, thinking of this as a nonsensical trick.
“I do not intend to harm you, traveler. If you still have not realized, you have something that I want. And it is of no use if you are unalive. But you must hear my story first. Once you hear of it, you may take the remaining of the night to rest. A long day awaits for you tomorrow. And perhaps for me too.” The alchemist sat down in a bench made out of dried logs, probably naturally broken by the windy nature of the hills surrounding the valley.
“It is only fair that I ask then what is your story. But you must know, stranger, that I will not care. My clock is running and my time is ending. I am in no state to offer support, to anyone, no matter what.”
“You are definitely very stubborn. I could be of help, if you let me.”
“There is nothing you can do for me. My destiny is mine, and I am coming close to the realization that it is all written already.”
Urtica sighted, throwing more wood into the fire pit in the corner of the hut. There was a shabby escape for the smoke that barely allow it to flow outside, making the air thick and foggy. With now the third cup of tea in her hands, she started a journey throughout her memories.
~
Urtica had lived in that house for twenty and three years now. The fact that she was actually given to conception within the same walls, was not a minor detail. Although she was born by the herbalist’s house, who happened to be a matron, healer, alchemist, and almost saint old lady, she felt like the house had seen her come out of the womb. There was a strong connection with those walls. The fireplace talked to her through the flames. The windows were left open always to embrace the breeze and make the whole building dance and crack. The plants thrived. The garden was dark and muddy, fully covered in foliage of the uncountable trees, but fruitful, always giving back the love she joyfully spent there. Sometimes, even the doors seemed to open and close at her demand.
In old times, the house embraced a beauty of no other alike. It used to be white and gray on the outside, with stone and wood combined. The location of it was a well-thought decision by whoever had built it: the Traders Road was ahead in a comfortable distance of seven hundred and fifty four steps, that Urtica counted carefully repeatedly every time she walked towards the river that ran alongside it, fulfilling her urges for a fresh breath of running water. It was of a much more delightful glory in the olden days, when the water was cared for, and the river held a calm traffic of a few travelers and merchants.
If she followed the roads direction northwards, little more that an hour, Urtica would find the first few stands of the Trading Plaza. Those were the most simple and not so aesthetically pleasant shops, with a poor spectrum of goods, but it was enough travel time for a girl to enjoy the sun, buy spices and dry meat, and come back home in haste.
Had she kept walking towards the north, she would have found the first and closest village, Markaros. Mainly formed by a small circle of stone fence enclosing no more than a few houses, surrounded by one of the main roads and a few minor cobblestone streets, with a few trees here and there that stood still facing the age of time. There she would likely come across a market that would take place every two moon’s cycles, when every worker of the village would take a well deserved rest and enjoy two full days free of any farming duties. Most of the folk would spend their last copper pieces in trinkets, plants, herbs, medicine, and special food that they likely never get any other day of the month, where you only buy the necessary goods for a few common meals.
But Urtica was not a loyal participant of that market. She was too afraid of stepping ahead of her well known streets. She needed no more than what she already had. And whatever lies beyond, was of no interest for her. Her spices and herbs were naturally grown and harvested in the house garden, and she would only trade those of a more exotic nature that would never grow in this valleys. She could catch a fish or two from the river fishermen, who will happily provide for her in exchange for some of her monthly harvest. She would even offer more than herbolary goods and sometimes a service of her alchemy skills would slide through their agreements. She had cured them from so many minor diseases, and she had advised the fortune for the upcoming sailings a few times, providing a bigger picture of what could be ahead. Every single one of the fishermen knew the girl. Even the ones that were afraid of her knowledge and ways, still showed respect. A witch was a devil’s pawn for the common eyes, but she was no witch. She was born and raised in Markaros, from parents of origin alike, and they all shared a bond in this village that felt much like a family.
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As of one morning, the sun was shining, and there was not a single cloud in sight. The summer was forecast to be hot and delightful, ideal for a morning garden activity, safeguarded by the shade of the house, with even all windows open.
But a sudden change in the hills breeze made Urtica shiver. After the sharp blow of the wind, her body hair spiked up like a cat, and she felt something was wrong.
She quickly did an inspection around the house, shutting down all the windows she could, ignoring those ones covered by wood planks. Some of her tiny herb jars fell to the ground, but the flooring was so old and soft, heavily changed by so many years of humid weather and the closeness to the river, that everything bounced back safely. Some of the jars rolled down the room, revealing more cracks in the corners that had been ignored until now. She quickly rearranged her plants on the alchemy jars shelves, trying to recover the peace that the unwelcome freezing wind had taken away.
“Juniper berries. Nightshade. Cornflowers. Monarch wings. Everything in place”, she affirmed to herself, going through her ingredients.
The herbalist taught her, from the very beginning of her conscious mind, how plants presented a solution to almost every problem a human being and non human could have. Bay Leaves for protection of patrimony, coin and wealth. Rosemary for cleansing the energies. Rue Grass for the dispel of the unwanted visitor who wants to harm the host. A heavy winter cold was easily healed with a Spearmint and Garlic infusion, mixed with green leaves tea and burned caramel. If the affected was too young for the voluntary ingestion, a Peppermint unguent over the chest would suffice for a quick release of the lungs.
The cold breeze was not going away anytime soon, Urtica thought. And she quickly decided to repel the sharpness of it with a more rustic healing method: cooking a stew. She partially picked the ingredients from what was available in the garden, in a bountiful summer harvest, and the rest from whatever leftover preserves she had stored from the end of winter. There it was, glowing in the dark of the dusty pantry, a beautiful and glossy tomato sauce, of an intense scarlet color. Almost like blood. The longer it waited within the jar, sheltered in the darkness of the pantry, the better. The freshly harvested tomatoes from the vegetable garden were meant to be preserved for the next winter, keeping the stock rotation up to date and time. What ingredients remained for the stew, was actually in need to be rescued from a soon decay: a few green and muddy potatoes -almost growing plants at the moment-, some filthy and soft dehydrated carrots, and a selection of fine herbs that were actually very, very common. Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. She could barely afford sea salt, and her usual replacement for that seasoning was some kind of dried meat, which was always cured and aged in salt. However, this time she did not count on the meat, and the growing cold breeze outside was enough of a reason for not leaving the house in search of that missing ingredient. She did have, on the other hand, very fresh carp, but a stew of such exquisite earthy features would be easily overshadowed by the flavor of fish.
“Herbs, potatoes, carrots, onions and tomato sauce,” she said out loud, as if the audience was watching her culinary skills in full action.
“I must be missing something.”
She looked around the kitchen, of rather tiny and small characteristics, seeking for that special component that would bring up and raise the value of her stew. Considering that she never followed any recipes, her hands seemed to always find a way of creating delicious meals. Some afternoons, she would bake a honey cake, trusting only her instinct. The quantities of sugar, flour, honey and egg were up to her imagination and confidence. But it always worked well. And in so many cases, that can only mean a few things, in which you can find the quality of being well gifted in the arts of common sense and intuition.
“Ah! found it!” she said with enthusiasm. A little jar, almost empty, contained a few seeds of cardamom waiting to be used in their final destination. The stew was now complete, and waiting became all that was left to do.
Urtica took a seat in the nearest chair to the kitchen. The windows were now shut, but she could see the sky through them, converting to a gloomy gray single cloud. She remembered that time where Yadma would cook for her, attempting to make the childhood of the girl a little more bright, and the herbalist skills with food were no joke. The knowledge of ingredients that Yadma had was not only for the healing purpose, but also for the tasty one. Even so, she always considered food to be the most transcendent form of healing. Praying to The Gods was always a good presage, but a nice and warm meal could certainly take care of the souls in the darkest of times.
With the feeling of something wrong flying with the breeze, the alchemist could not help but to grab her leaf runes, where each of the stones had carved on them a different plant leaf. That had been one of her most loyal tools when it came to getting a glimpse of the things she could not understand. If a neighbor was in trouble with his wife, she would tell him what to do, following the leaves. If the sailors came to her door seeking for the augury of a future travel quest, she would gladly allow them to know what was going to happen. If a woman with child approached her, Urtica had the skill of knowing what the baby had between its legs.
“There is no sight in your womb, Kara,” she said to a fisherman’s wife once. “I cannot prevent the child’s future, or what is to come in his manhood or girlhood, because there is none in your future”.
And the baby, not so long after birth, was diagnosed with a condition that not a single healer in Deidra was able to overcome. When she said those initial words, it was heartbreaking for the mother, but it also was for Urtica, who felt every inch of pain in her own body. She became able to hear the child’s screaming, afraid of that future, long before being born.
So many things had she seen come abroad with her stones, past, present and future. And she would try now, to try and understand why her soul felt so dark on a lovely sunny day, and why all of a sudden the sun escaped the skies to hide from the imminent darkness.
The 12 pieces fit perfectly in her both hands, and after a violent shake, with a following prayer, she unleashed the runes over her kitchen table:
“To The Gods who see it all: grant me your eyes. To The Gods who hear it all: grant me your ears. To The Gods who feel light and dark: grant me the skill to tell them apart.”
She had learned the prayer from a combination of books that Yadma held within her library. It was known that whichever way you choose to approach The Gods, they would most likely not reply, for there had not been any trace of them in centuries. There were no rules when it came to praying, as long as your heart and intentions were pure. And if you asked for something, have for certain the fact that it would not be given to you fully, if it is given: The Gods do not make any gifts without a reason, or a price. And they will always keep part of themselves un-given, and they will take as they please in return.
Unfortunately, no one had reached them in a very long time. But the prayers were still strong in everyone’s hearts, with hopes of seeing them once again in times of need.
The runes were now spread across the table, laying with a clear message, although only four of them were facing upwards and the rest remained hidden.
Mugwort, the psychic enhancer.
Cypress, the death.
Aconitum, the poisonous omen.
Belladona, the growing darkness.
Urtica’s head swirled across the room, trying to seek stability. Her sight became foggy, and everything around her was fading out from colors. She believed the stew was burning and the smoke covered the whole kitchen, but there was no smell. The pot was not even near a boiling point.
A dark hand, wrinkly, full of veins and scratches, started to form growing from the fog that now flooded the kitchen. Holding a twisted dagger, of rare but expensive features, the hand stabbed a gold coin across its strong metallic compounds. It pierced through it, as if it was a piece of linen. It quickly vanished after its performance, but the fog remained.
And then, a deep voice made the whole house tremble. Arising from underneath the floors, lower than the soil and earth itself, the growling was low pitched and very clear. And the words it said sounded like a prayer, or a poem, or a song that a bard would sing at the inn on a rainy night. There was something beautiful and true about that prose the voice was reciting, but every word, every phrase made the alchemist crouch into the floor more and more, hitting her own head trying to get rid of it.
She would remember that message the voice was screaming, for it was meant to be heard by her. And she knew that besides the dark nature of it and the devil origins it had, it meant no harm.
It meant, in fact, that there was hope for those who seek The Gods That Are Gone.