Strands of Starlight (10 page)

Since she had come to Saint Brigid, she had tried to ignore her power, never looking closely at anyone for fear that she would see some injury or disease that would set it off. Following so closely upon her rape, the surge of healing would have been not only a reminder, but also a rape in itself, for in its own way, it used her just as brutally as had the stranger.

But hard as Miriam's heart was, it was not hard enough. “I'll come,” she said, cursing herself. She rose and went to her room to fetch her cloak. As she fashioned the garment, she looked into the mirror by the door. Black eyes, black hair, jaw set. Hard. Too hard. She did not fit here in Saint Brigid. She thought about Mika and the house she kept on the outskirts of Furze.

“Why did I ever think it could be better?” she said.

But her reflection tightened its jaw and would not answer.

***

Kay came with them, saying nothing. Roxanne had long legs, and Miriam and the priest had to hurry to keep up with her. Together, they crossed the broad village commons, went down the street toward the barless gates of the town, and entered Francis's house through the wide doors of the smithy.

The big smith was standing in the hallway, his arm around Anna, one of his daughters. They both regarded Miriam with a sense of relief. “Thank the Blessed Mother yer here,” said Francis. “Hester's in wi' Mick, and tha boy's trying a brave face, but his foot wants otherwise.”

Miriam was already feeling the power. “Take me to him.”
I don't want this. I want out.

Roxanne led her down the hall and into a small chamber. Michael lay on a pallet against one wall. His mother was beside him, bathing his forehead with cool water. The boy was sixteen and sturdy, with a stubble of beard frosting his cheeks, but his face was white. A glance at the blood-soaked bandages about his left foot told Miriam his pain had to be terrific.

Out of habit, she fought the power. “H-how did it happen?”

Michael answered. “ 'Twas my own stupid fault, little mistress,” he whispered, trying for a grin. “I should a fixed tha peg that held tha tackle last week, but this head a' mine won't hold anything in't.”

“Shh,” said Hester. “Don't blame yourself, Mick.”

“Ah, ma . . . I'm surprised I can breathe and eat at tha same time.” He shuddered suddenly, clenched his teeth.

Roxanne bent to Miriam's ear. “I gave him some herbs to ease the pain. I hope that will not interfere with your work.”

Miriam nearly laughed. Would that anything could interfere! Her spine was hot, the power surging up her back in waves of fire. She let her cloak fall to the floor and staggered forward, her head splitting. “I'll . . . I'll . . .”

Roxanne took hold of her shoulders, and miraculously, the power settled into a controlled, even flow. “Easy,” said Roxanne. “You've never had help with this, I see. Let it flow, but stand away from it, and direct it as you wish.”

Miriam, looked up, astonished. “What are you doing?”

“Helping as I can.” There was moonlight in Roxanne's eyes. “Be at peace. There's no sense in hurting yourself.”

With Roxanne holding her still, Miriam stepped forward and removed Michael's bandages. His foot had been pulped by the heavy pulleys. The toes were a mass of crushed flesh and bone, the ankle twisted and cracked in many places. Miriam stared. She could actually see what she was healing. Recalling Roxanne's words, she laid her hands on the foot.

White light. Michael gasped. “Oh!” said Hester as though a chipmunk had run up and sat in her lap.

Roxanne gave Miriam's shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Good work,” said the weaver. “Very good.”

The healer shook her head to clear it of the flash. She felt very well, with none of the half-drugged grogginess her power usually left behind it. It had been almost pleasurable.

Francis and Anna had come to watch, and when Miriam turned around, they were smiling. Hester and Michael regarded her fondly. Roxanne was openly admiring. Kay grinned broadly. “No one's afraid of this?” she demanded. “I just put his foot back together, and no one's afraid?”

“Wi' sha we be afraid?” said Francis.

She shook her head, bewildered. “Never mind . . . just, never mind.” Dazed, she picked up her cloak and wandered out of the room and down the hall.

Francis came after her. “Mistress Healer.” Miriam stopped, and the big man went down on one knee before her. “I thank ye humbly, mistress. I'm greatly in yer debt. If there's anything I can do for ye, I'll be dard glad t' do it.”

“You're not afraid,” she said blankly.

“Afraid? This in't the first time we've been touched by healing powers. Some years ago, Varden fixed me hands once, he did, after that old hag of a Leather Woman burned them. And I dinna know Varden then, nor he me. But he came nathaless. And how sha I be afraid a such godly workings?”

“But people are always afraid,” she said. “And then the Inquisition comes, and they . . .” She put her hands to her face. The power had not dazed her. It was the love that had done it.

Francis face darkened a little. “Speak na' of that here,” he said. “That Jaques Alban was one a' them, I'm certain. Wi', he tried to force David tha carver to work for him. Imagine that! 'Tis a mercy a' God that Alban is no more.”

Miriam pulled herself out of the daze enough to ask: “What happened to him?” Kay had never answered her question.

“I din know. Got lost. Wandered awa. Whate'er. But y'see, mistress. We ha' little love for sic as that here. Be easy. Lord, Miriam, it's as though one of the Elves ha' come to live wi' us!”

“I'm not an Elf.” She looked up to see Roxanne and the others standing around them. “I'm not an Elf, and I'm not a witch.” Roxanne seemed almost wistful. “I just heal, that's all. And I don't understand any of this.”

Almost in terror, she made her way out to the street. She ran all the way to her room in Kay's house, slammed the door, and buried herself in the bedclothes as though blankets and comforters could shield her from the acceptance that had found her.

Miriam heard the front door open and close. A minute later there was a tap at her door.

“Go away.” She huddled herself into a ball.

“Miriam.” Roxanne's voice was gentle. “I'm not going away.”

“Then you can stay out in the hall for all I care,” snapped the healer. “Everyone in Saint Brigid is so concerned about me, it's making me sick. Charity drags me off to play, Kay wants to teach me to read, now you're here. What are you supposed to be? My confessor?”

“No.” Roxanne swung the door open. “I'm your priestess.”

Miriam looked up. Roxanne was a tall woman, but now she seemed taller, and her eyes held a depth of wisdom that made Miriam almost afraid.

“Are you . . . are you an Elf, too?” said the healer.

Roxanne shook her head. “I'm mortal, like you, though I've learned a few things from Varden's folk.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to help, if I can. Saint Brigid must be strange to you. Charity is young, and maybe she's too exuberant. Can we talk?”

Miriam shrugged. “You're here.”

“True. But it's still your choice.”

Miriam worked her mouth for a while, then swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. “All right.”

Roxanne dragged a chair over. “You probably have some questions about this village,” she said.

“Not anymore. Kay told me the whole tale over breakfast. The Elves came to Saint Brigid, and now everything's love and kindness.”

Roxanne smiled slightly.

“Go ahead. Laugh at me.”

“I'm not laughing,” said the weaver. She sat down, leaned back. “May I tell you something about yourself?”

“That I have an evil temper, and that I'm a nasty little bitch? Go right ahead.”

Roxanne appeared to be looking out the window at a willow tree that, new-leafed, swayed gently and dappled the floor with shadow. “We grow up, and we get used to living as we do. I'm tall and broad-shouldered—always have been—and my mother saw nothing wrong with me wearing boys' clothes and climbing up into the mountains with the village lads when I was little. I still climb upon occasion. I'm used to it. If I had to give it up, I'd be unhappy, and probably quite irritable.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“Everything, Miriam. You're used to being hunted, pursued, and in fear of your life. Regardless of whether or not all that was pleasant, it's still what you're used to and now it's all changed. I can understand why you act the way you do. What I am asking is that you understand it also.”

There was respect in Roxanne's voice. She sounded like a teacher, one who honored her student as much as she expected to be honored in returns. Her gown was simple, dark, girdled by a woven cord of black and silver, and Miriam noticed an ebony-handled knife at her side. Roxanne had called herself a priestess, and though Miriam did not know what she had meant by it, she admitted to herself that the weaver seemed to be deserving of the title.

After a while, Miriam spoke. “All right. So I understand. It doesn't help much. Is everyone in this town so damned accepting of Elves, healers, and—Lord knows—witches?”

Roxanne toyed with the end of her cord. “The Elves are known by sight in the town. Varden often comes, and occasionally one of the elven ladies comes with him. No one is afraid, but only a few in Saint Brigid know the Elves well. Andrew the carpenter and his wife Elizabeth and their family often entertain Varden. Likewise David the carver and Charlotte who live on the edge of Malvern. Kay, of course Charity, whom Andrew and Elizabeth adopted six years ago, is much loved by the Elves.”

“And you?”

“Varden is my l over. And I am his.”

“The Church would call you a witch.”

Roxanne smiled, but sadly. “I am a witch, Miriam. But not in the way the Church thinks, and not because I took an elven lover. Long before the Church came to this land, my ancestors worshiped a Goddess. When the Church came to power, it declared that the old beliefs should die and be forgotten. Churchmen preached that witches did great evil, and they should be destroyed. The persecutions have gone on for a long time, and will continue for a long time to come.”

“Don't talk to me about persecutions.” Miriam had been shaken by Roxanne's admission, but was determined not to show it.

Roxanne nodded slowly. “Very well, I won't. Let's just say that I am one of only two in Saint Brigid who keep the old ways. Not many know what I am. Most know me as weaver, herbalist, and midwife. But the Elves, and Kay, and Charity and her family know that I am a witch, a priestess of the Goddess.”

“And Kay tolerates this?”

“He comes to me for advice, and I go to him. Our paths are different, but they lead to the same goal. Kay says mass and administers the sacraments, and I bless the crops and call the rain when it's needed.”

“And blast an occasional priest?”

Roxanne laughed merrily. “Alban? No. Though I confess I was tempted.”

“Well, someone did some blasting. Francis said something about an old hag. Was she a witch, too?”

“We called her the Leather Woman because she made bits of harness and tackle for a living. She worked magic, but she wasn't a witch. Nor was she particularly happy. She was crippled and deformed, and she had spent her childhood being ridiculed and her adulthood being feared. Once, she struck at Francis, and Varden healed him. Later on, she disappeared.”

“It seems that unpleasant people have a way of disappearing in this town. What did the Elves turn her into? A butterfly? Am I next?” Miriam laughed harshly. “Maybe I could convince them to make me a warrior.”

Roxanne regarded her appraisingly. “It would be a difficult path, Miriam,” she said at last. “Before you ask for anything, make sure you know exactly what it is you want.”

Miriam was puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

Roxanne shook her head slowly. “I have a gown I must fit to you, Miriam,” she said. “Will you come to my house? I can have it ready by tomorrow morning if we do this today.”

Miriam had the feeling that Roxanne had told her as much as she wanted, but not as much as she could. “I'll come,” she said, still wondering what the witch had meant. For a moment, she thought about being a tall, strong warrior, about hunting down her rapist and killing him. She laughed ruefully to herself. Another barred path, another sealed door.

But Miriam suddenly found herself wondering: Was it so barred? Was it so sealed?

What had happened to Jaques Alban? And what about the Leather Woman?

***

Kay made his way up the street, his arms folded in his sleeves and his soutane flapping in the breezes that came down from the north. There was a good, hearty scent of forest in the air, as if Old Malvern were cupping the village gently in its gnarled hands and wishing it a blessed spring.

He stopped at the low fence that surrounded Andrew's house. Elizabeth waved at him from the doorway. “Andrew's in the shop,” she called. Philip, her youngest, dodged around her, vaulted the fence, and took off down the street. “Philip! Use the gate!” But he was already gone, and she laughed.

Kay laughed, too, and went round the corner of the house. Andrew was hammering pegs into a bench log. A pot of glue sat beside him on the floor. He looked up at Kay's approach. “God bless,” said Kay.

“Be at peace,” said Andrew. There were wood chips and sawdust in his sandy hair and he shook them out. “Is it that time already? The morning went quickly.”

“Very quickly,” said Kay. “My brother lost and found his foot at the forge between prime and terce.” Andrew looked puzzled. “There was an accident,” explained Kay. “Some pulleys fell on his foot.”

“Dear Lady! Is he all right?”

“Roxanne came for Miriam. She healed him.”

Andrew smiled. He took a rag and cleaned his hands of glue. “Bless her. Is she feeling better then?”

“I don't think so,” said Kay. “She ran off after it all. Roxanne followed. She might be able to help. Woman to woman and all that.”

“I hope so.” Andrew opened the door into the house. “I'm off now, Elizabeth. I'll be home for supper.” He blew her a kiss.

As they crossed the fields on their way to the forest, Kay noted that the crops were coming along fine. Of course they were. With Roxanne in the village and the Elves in the forest, could they do otherwise?