‘We have to ease his pain.’ Jarel grabbed her by the shoulder. ‘That’s all we can do for him, there’s no herb lore to save him now. Do you know any potions that might help his passing into the ancestor world, one of Katchka’s recipes, perhaps?’
‘Hemp oil mixed with lovage and a touch of henbane, more if she wanted to quicken death.’
‘Do you think you could do that?’
‘I know the plants and I’ve seen Katchka mix them.’
‘Then I’ll do some hunting. We’ll make his final meal a good one. Something for him to remember this world by.’
Iwa pressed her lips to her father’s forehead and felt the skin cold and clammy as winter slurry. She stayed there for a moment, as if trying to breathe warm life into him. But it was no use. How long has he been like this? she wondered as she peered round at the rocks.
His blood must have gone bad almost straight away. She felt her throat choke at the thought of it. At least there would be little in the way of suffering once the fever took hold. A sharp pain as the arrow entered and then little more as death closed all about. Still she couldn’t leave, kneeling over his body and hugging it to her in an effort to quell her own tears.
By rights he should have slipped into the ancestor world long ago. Nobody lived long once their blood turned bad, but then he was always a fighter. She smiled as she brushed the hair from his forehead. Not strong, not like Godek or the other hunters who often made fun of him, but he was tough like winter bark, still able to cling to life when other, stronger, younger men would have given up.
Still looking at his face she knelt back on her haunches and hoped for a sign of life, the merest flicker to say that he knew that she was there. But grim death was upon him, there was no mistake of that, no matter how much she tried to rid herself of the thought. Nobody else could have lasted this long. She tried not to look at the wound and the mass of blood and bandages wrapped around it. Once or twice she thought she saw his eyelids flicker.
Jarel knew he was so close to death, she realised. That’s why he hesitated to bring me here. And she hated him for it. That brief flicker of hope and then soon she would be alone. Even the clan was about to die. Will the world end soon? Is Zaltys about to wake and swallow Matka Ziemia?
She knelt there for a while, trying to find the courage to leave as the sun glinted from the crack in the rocks. ‘The end of all things,’ she murmured. Only then did she get up and make her way to the cave mouth. She ought to bathe the wound and clean his bandages, but he was beyond that. ‘Are you sure you don’t need me to guide you?’ Jarel said.
‘I should find all I need if I follow the brook, where there’s water, there’s herbs, as old Katchka would say.’
‘Be sure to hurry back,’ Jarel said. ‘Oh, and bring plenty of henbane.’
Iwa paused at the mouth of the cave and then she was gone. The sun made her eyes water as she ran beside the brook. Maybe it would have been easier for Jarel to use his knife and send Yaroslav off to the spirit world. She doubted that Yaroslav would even notice the blade, but the gods would never accept such a death. No, the herbs would be quick and spare him any pain. Depending on Jarel’s catch she could make a broth and mix the herbs into his bowl and her father would know nothing more.
If only I had found him sooner, before his blood went bad. I should have paid more attention to Katchka and then maybe I’d have a better idea about what to do. She was close to tears now, stumbling aimlessly through the forest with hardly a care to cover her tracks. The old woman had often sent Iwa out to find herbs, shown her how to cut lovage under a full moon so that it would keep its power, but Iwa had always treated it as a game, something that was better than berry-picking. Never in her wildest dreams did she ever think that she would actually have to heal anybody herself. And now it was too late, Yaroslav would die and it would all be her fault. Katchka should have found someone better, rather than waste her time with me.
Chapter Seven
Cautiously, Iwa peeled back a clump of ferns to reveal a tiny knot of henbane. The stalks shivered under her touch as, with practised ease, her fingers curled past the yellow flowers to the dark grey seeds below. Then, with one fluid movement, she twisted the stalk away from the stem and placed it carefully in the tiny reed bag, her lips murmuring a silent prayer to Jezi Baba the night mistress, who held sway over such things.
Most herbs were easy to gather. They all had their own songs, of course, simple spells passed from mother to daughter. Even Iwa, who had never been one for berry-picking, knew them all. There was the sweet song of the blueberries, or the soft prayer that the
