It was nearly midmorning when her fire threatened to die out. Sighing dryly, she roused herself to stoke up a blaze and cook a hot meal for herself. This she ate without a glance at Covenant. He was in no condition for solid food. She cooked and ate to gather strength for herself, because her peculiar power of healing required strength-so much strength that she had exhausted her reserves of courage before reaching middle age, and had left her work to rest in Morinmoss for the remainder of her days. Decades-four or five, she no longer knew-had passed since she had fled; and during that time she had lived in peace and reticence among the seasons of the Forest, believing that the ordeals of her life were over.
Yet now even Morinmoss had bestirred itself to bring her work back to her. She needed strength. She forced herself to eat a large meal, then rested again.
But at last she rallied herself to begin the task. She set her pot of fire-stones on a shelf in the wall so that its warm yellow light fell squarely over Covenant. He was still asleep, and this relieved her; she did not want to face either his mad talk or his resistance. But she was made afraid once again by the extent of his sickness. Something bone-deep had hold of him, something she could not recognize or understand. In its unfamiliarity, it reminded her of old nightmares in which she had terrified herself by attempting to heal the Despiser.
The acute fracture of his ankle she did understand; his cold-bitten and battered hands and feet were within her experience, and she saw that they might even heal themselves, if he were kept warm for a long convalescence; his cheeks and nose and ears, his cracked lips with the odd scar on one side, his uncleanly healed forehead, all did not challenge her. But the damage the
To steady herself, she hummed an old song under her breath:
When last comes to last,
I have little power:
I am merely an urn.
I hold the bone-sap of myself,
and watch the marrow burn.
When last comes to last,
I have little strength:
I am only a tool.
I work its work; and in its hands
I am the fool.
When last comes to last,
I have little life.
I am simply a deed:
an action done while courage holds:
a seed.
While she strove to master her faintheartedness, she made preparations. First she cooked a thin broth, using hot water and a dusty powder which she took from a leather pouch among her few belongings. This she fed to Covenant without awakening him. It deepened his respose, made rest and unconsciousness so thick in him that he could not have struggled awake to save his own life. Then, when he was entirely unable to interfere with her, she began to strip off his attire.
Slowly, using her own hesitation to enhance the thoroughness of her preparations, she removed all his raiment and bathed him from head to foot. After cleaning away the cobwebs and grime and old sweat and encrusted blood, she explored him with her hands, probed him gently to assure herself that she knew the full extent of his hurts. The process took time, but it was done too soon for her unready courage.
Still hesitating, she unwrapped from her belongings one of her few prized possessions-a long, cunningly woven white robe, made of a fabric both light and tough, easy to wear and full of warmth. It had been given to her decades ago by a great weaver from Soaring Woodhelven, whose life she had saved at severe cost to herself. The memory of his gratitude was precious to her, and she held the robe for a long time in hands that trembled agedly. But she was old now, old and alone; she had no need of finery. Her tattered cloak would serve her well enough as either apparel or cerement. With an expansive look in her loamy eyes, she took the robe to Covenant and dressed him tenderly in it.
The effort of moving his limp form shortened her breathing, and she rested again, muttering out of old habit, “Ah, mercy, mercy. This is work for the young-for the young. I rest and rest, but I do not become young. Well, let that pass. I did not come to Morinmoss in search of youth. I came because I had lost heart for my work. Have I not found it again-in all this time? Ah, but time is no Healer. The body grows old-and now cruel winter enslaves the world-and the heart does not renew itself. Mercy, mercy. Courage belongs to the young, and I am old-old.
“Yet surely great matters are afoot-great and terrible. White gold! — by the Seven! White gold. And this winter is the Despiser’s doing, though Morinmoss resists. Ah, there are terrible purposes-The burden of this man was put upon me by a terrible purpose. I cannot-I must not refuse. Must not! Ah, mercy, but I am afraid. I am old-I have no need to fear-no, I do not fear death. But the pain. The pain. Have mercy-have mercy upon me, I lack the courage for this work.”
Yet Covenant lay on her bed like an irrefusable demand moulded of broken bone and blood and mind, and after she had dozed briefly, she came back to herself. “Well, that too I must set aside. Complaint also is no Healer. I must set it aside, and work my work.”
Stiffly, she got to her feet, went to the far end of the cave to her supplies of firewood. Even now, she hoped in her heart that she would find she did not have enough wood; then she would need to hunt through the Forest for fallen dead branches and twigs before she could begin her main task. But her woodpile was large enough. She could not pretend that it justified any further delay. She carried most of the wood to her cookfire and faced the commencement of her ordeal.
First she took her graveling pot from the shelf above Covenant and made a place for it in the centre of the fire, so that its heat and light were added to the core of the coals. Then, panting already at the thought of what she meant to do, she began to build up the fire. She stoked it, concentrated it with dry hard wood, until its flames mounted toward the cave’s ceiling and its heat drew sweat from her old brows. And when the low roar of its blaze sucked at the air, causing the moss curtains over the entrance to flutter in the draft, she returned to the pouch of powder from which she had made the broth. With her fist clenched in the pouch, she hesitated once more, faltering as if the next step constituted an irretrievable commitment. “Ah, mercy,” she breathed brittlely to herself. “I must remember-remember that I am alone. No one else will tend him-or me. I must do the work of two. For this reason eremites do not Heal. I must do the work.”
Panting in dismay at her own audacity, she threw a small quantity of the powder into the high fire.
At once, the blaze began to change. The flames did not die down, but they muted themselves, translated their energy into a less visible form. Their light turned from orange and red and yellow to brown, a steadily deepening brown, as if they sprang now from thick loam rather than from wood. And as the brightness of the fire dimmed, a rich aroma spread into the cave. It tasted to the Healer like the breaking of fresh earth so that seeds could be planted-like the lively imminence of seeds and buds and spring-like the fructifying of green things which had germinated in wealthy soil. She could have lost herself in that brown fragrance, forgetful of Lord Foul’s winter and the sick man and all pain. But it was part of her work. Through her love for it, it impelled her to Covenant’s side. There she planted her feet and took one last moment to be sure of what she meant to do.
His hands and feet and face she would not touch. They were not crucial to his recovery, not worth what they would cost her. And the sickness in his mind was too complex and multifarious to undertake until he was physically whole enough to bear the strain of healing. So she bent her loamy gaze toward his broken ankle.
As she concentrated on that injury, the light of the fire became browner, richer, more potent and explicit,
