Why did the Vikings have such greed and disregard for life? These finngail, fair foreigners, were anything but fair from her point of view. Two years ago, they had raided farms across the region of Ulaid, taking most of the winter’s store of grains. She shuddered as she remembered the fevers that had resulted from the famine they’d endured that winter. Everyone hoped they’d never return, but the next spring they’d been back, taking half the village sheep and many of the cows.
Mac Artáin and his sons had tried to stop them, to no avail. Her teacher had done his best to save their lives, but when it was all over both Mac Artáin and his eldest son Finnegan were dead. Seamus had taken over as the head of the family, but he’d been crippled in the attack and … Aeveen stopped herself. She could not dwell on the misery of the past in the middle of a new crisis.
Liaig Pearse had done his best back then. She had done her best too and even earned a rare compliment from her teacher. Bittersweet, it was, since the herb pillow she’d applied had done little to save Finnegan. “Liaigit,” he’d called her, “little healer.” At 16 years old she’d been tempted to harass him for calling her little… but it was the first time he’d seemed genuinely pleased that she had learned his craft.
A loud crash of the monastery bell shook Aeveen out of her reminiscing. They had arrived, then. She sighed. Stories of other churches being raided were becoming all too common along the coastline, ransacked and raided for the precious metals the village had so carefully stored away. She quickly packed strips of clean linens, a bottle of burdock extract, a bottle of vinegar, and the precious basil oil they’d imported. She slipped some oats and buttermilk in too, along with some cheese curds and nuts. They wouldn’t likely have much time to eat today if last year’s raid was any indication.
“Don’t forget the fresh herbs,” Pearse reminded her. “I’ll get the apples and meet you outside.”
Aeveen slipped outside with her healer’s bag and quickly picked what she could, carefully putting them into the pockets sewn on the side. Mint, for nausea and headaches. Chives, to keep the bugs away from wounds. Brooklime, to help with the pain and stave off poisoning.
A sudden scream pierced through the fog. Surely the finngail hadn’t already made it into the village? Aeveen closed her bag and darted between the oaks in the garden. Had her teacher heard the scream too? Her heart pounded as shadows passed in the thick fog. Closer, now, another scream, and then shouting as she heard some of the villagers defending their homes.
“Fire!” someone yelled.
“GET OUT!” roared another.
Cruel laughter could be heard over the cacophony of the skirmish. Metal clashed against metal, doors slammed, and the crackling sounds of the fire quickly intensified. Aeveen couldn’t be sure where it was coming from, but the acrid smell of thatch burning set her whole body on edge. She risked looking out from her hiding place. Wisps of smoke curled up through the thatch of the liaig’s neat cottage.
But where was he? Liaig Pearse hadn’t come out to meet her as he’d promised. It shouldn’t have taken this long for him to collect the apples, even if he was starting to slow down in his old age. With a sickening feeling, she slid back towards the window. She didn’t see any fire in the kitchen, so she slipped inside.
“Liaig?” she whispered. “Liaig Pearse?”
Nothing. Slowly she lifted the cellar door, praying that she’d see him, still gathering the precious apples wrapped in paper. She could see that most of the apples were gone, so he’d been there. But the tiny dirt cellar contained only the bottles and jars with their preserves and remedies.
Was that a cough? She quickly closed the cellar door in silence and edged her way into the front room.
“Teacher!” she called softly, forcing herself to look around. No other dangers? She decided to ignore the smoldering roof above them; at least the Vikings had left as quickly as they had come. She rushed to the liaig’s side.
“Liaig Pearse. What happened? What do you need? How can I help?”
Aeveen’s words tumbled over one another as she bent over her teacher. The apples were strewn across the floor and the precious medicines they’d made were gone. His bag was torn, and she could see blood on his sleeve.
“What did they do to you?” she whispered, quickly trying to assess his injuries.
He didn’t answer. His breathing was shallow, rapid, and he was as pale as the daisies that grew outside. She could feel his heart beating quickly; it was much faster than normal, with an unsteady rhythm.
“Focus, Aeveen,” she reminded herself.
She quickly ran her hands under his body, looking for signs of swelling or bleeding. There. Heat radiated from his side, where she suspected a broken rib. She groaned as she felt hardness in his belly. Internal bleeding. There was nothing she could do.
“I am sorry,” she whispered into his ear, and looked up, silently praying that Saint Athracht would help heal him. As she raised her eyes to the roof, she realized that it was no longer just smoldering. Small pieces of thatch started to fall around her.
She hugged her mentor. “Please. Do not leave me. I am not ready.” She started to pray, but then it was over. He was gone.
She carefully set him down; there was no time to grieve now. There was no time to cover him with a blanket, no time for anything but survival. She gathered the scattered apples and stuffed them into her bag before tearing herself away from her
