Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 18: Two Rough Words

At noon of the third day of their conquest of the robber's glade, Barnaby sat beside Val. Her face drawn and grey, at times opening eyes that did not see Barnaby or the summer day. Her hand twitching at the blanket edge, perhaps seeking the security of her knife. But the motion reminded Barnaby of Grandda's final days, clutching blindly at things of the fading world.

Finally, Barnaby rose, walked towards the campfire. He called for his magic cat instructor, his dark ghost tutor. Finding neither by mid-day's light.

"Master Night-Creep? Dark Michael?"

The wind made indifferent rustle; no shadow hinted ghostly form.

"Val still won't eat and won't wake and she's not breathing right," shouted Barnaby. Then, voice lower: "I fear she's dying."

No reply but a crackle from the embers of the fire. The dying fire... Barnaby knelt, placing the last of the gathered kindling upon the embers. Blew, wondering why one could not do the same for the sick.

Here I am staring into fire and ashes again, thought Barnaby.

Here you are, agreed the fire. Embers and ashes glimmering orange-red welcome.

This is no time for daydreams, Barnaby scolded. I must do something. He looked about, hoping to find his clever teachers had mysteriously appeared behind him. But no; here was just Barnaby and the fire, no different than the millhouse.

I'll have to do something on my own, he told the fire.

But what? asked the flames, dancing excitedly.

Barnaby answered aloud, tasting the words for hope or sense.

"I could make a broth of healing herbs to revive Val. Excepting I don't know which herbs. I don't even have any herbs. I might carry her into a town, so some surgeon gives her a healing poultice. Except it's over-far for her to go, even if I knew where a village lay or a surgeon lived or I had coin for his doctoring. Maybe I could fetch a wise-wife to cast healing spells. Though I don't know where such a person might be."

The campfire crackled encouragingly.

"You and wind, water, earth and blood," mused Barnaby. "Master Shadow Creep said you five held magic in St. Demetia."

Magic... of a sudden he recalled his willow wand. He jumped up, setting off into the wood, crashing through brambles, seeking the small glade. Following the scent of the half-buried robbers.

He found himself on the edge of a sun-lit circle of trees; butterfly-haunted, bejeweled by buzzing bees. There in the center stood his wand. And beside it, a woman knelt. And Barnaby knew the woman.

He near laughed, happy to see this familiar face. Behold: Missus Green herself.

She was humming softly, some tune to which the light flickered, the butterflies danced, the bees buzzed. The melody filled Barnaby's head till he found himself breathing in time to it.

He watched as Missus Green reached a finger to touch a fresh leaf now sprouting from the wand, a leaf green as the sun seen through an emerald.

Missus Green did not wear the straw hat she'd favored when she'd come to help the birthing in the cabbage field. Today she wore a crown. No silly thing of gold or jewels. Just a circlet of wheat stalks, set upon braids thick and rich as rope, more gold than gold itself.

Barnaby puzzled. How had she come to be here? And why did the sight of her make him feel so shy? She was just some farm wife keeping a field probably no bigger than the mill-house floor.