when all
of her annoyance with Magda was gone—that was when she felt the first soft
touch on her foot.
She opened her eyes and looked down, and as
she expected, there was a young rabbit gazing mournfully up at her, one ear
torn and bleeding freely, the marks of sharp teeth visible. At a guess, he had
escaped from the jaws of a stoat.
With a bit of waste wool to pad the ear, a
bit of soothing ointment, and grass plaited into string to bind it all up, the
rabbit was soon on his way. But before she was done with her work, she already
had a gathering about her feet of three more patients: a hedgehog with an injured
paw, a squirrel with a gashed side, and another rabbit, this one limping with
a broken leg.
There were no more small animals waiting
for her ministrations when she had finished with these three. She waited to
see if any more would appear, but none did, and she walked on until she came to
the river, where, by custom, she tended the larger creatures and the hunters.
There was an unvoiced truce among the
wounded; she had never seen an injured animal attacked by another in her
presence, although she very well knew that many of these creatures would not
hesitate a moment to kill and eat each other in different circumstances. She
often wondered about that, but nothing she had witnessed had given her an
answer.
Magic, she thought with
content mingled with wonder. That must be the answer. It felt strange to be in
the presence of magic, and stranger still to be the one conjuring it. But it
was dangerous too; scores of tales told her how dangerous it was to be known as
a witch or a magician.
She heard the river long before she saw it,
rushing beyond the screen of the trees, cooling the breeze with its breath.
There was a great gray wolf waiting for her by the riverside, and when she
approached him—carefully, for experience told her that animals in pain
sometimes snapped at her if she startled them—he held his mouth open for her to
see the broken, abscessed tooth that must have been causing him agony.
"Oh, you poor thing!" she
exclaimed involuntarily, for she had suffered from a similar affliction as a
child and knew how much it must hurt. But this case would require more of her
"special" talent than usual; animals usually suffered silently
beneath her ministrations as she eased pain, but nothing would keep such a
dangerous beast quiet as she inflicted more pain than he already suffered. Being bitten while trying to help did not figure into her plans.
Gently,
she bent down and she placed one hand on his head, and concentrated all of her
thoughts on one thing. Sleep—
The
wolf resisted her at first—it went entirely against his natural instincts to
make himself so vulnerable without the protection of the pack around him—but
at last, with a sigh, his head drooped, his legs buckled, and he dropped to the
ground. She knelt beside him, making certain that he was not going to awaken
until she was ready for him to do so. He would not feel what she did to him
until she was finished, and then he would have relief instead of nagging pain.
Now
she did what she had to—using the small version of a horseshoe-nail-puller she
had coaxed the blacksmith into making for her, she clamped the iron jaws about
the rotten stump of a tooth, braced the wolf's head between her feet, and
pulled. She strained her arms until they hurt, and at last the tooth tore free
of the jaw, and pus and blood oozed out.
She
had her work cut out for her this time. Only when the tooth was gone, and she
had used her magic to reduce the swelling and pain, and the infected socket was
cleansed with brandy and packed with bread-mold and spider-webs, did Ariella
wake the wolf as gently as she had put him to sleep.
He
leapt up from her lap as if he'd been stung, and sped off into the forest
without a backward glance. She didn't mind; none of her sylvan patients ever
gave any evidence that they felt gratitude for her ministrations. She'd been
hurt and
of her annoyance with Magda was gone—that was when she felt the first soft
touch on her foot.
She opened her eyes and looked down, and as
she expected, there was a young rabbit gazing mournfully up at her, one ear
torn and bleeding freely, the marks of sharp teeth visible. At a guess, he had
escaped from the jaws of a stoat.
With a bit of waste wool to pad the ear, a
bit of soothing ointment, and grass plaited into string to bind it all up, the
rabbit was soon on his way. But before she was done with her work, she already
had a gathering about her feet of three more patients: a hedgehog with an injured
paw, a squirrel with a gashed side, and another rabbit, this one limping with
a broken leg.
There were no more small animals waiting
for her ministrations when she had finished with these three. She waited to
see if any more would appear, but none did, and she walked on until she came to
the river, where, by custom, she tended the larger creatures and the hunters.
There was an unvoiced truce among the
wounded; she had never seen an injured animal attacked by another in her
presence, although she very well knew that many of these creatures would not
hesitate a moment to kill and eat each other in different circumstances. She
often wondered about that, but nothing she had witnessed had given her an
answer.
Magic, she thought with
content mingled with wonder. That must be the answer. It felt strange to be in
the presence of magic, and stranger still to be the one conjuring it. But it
was dangerous too; scores of tales told her how dangerous it was to be known as
a witch or a magician.
She heard the river long before she saw it,
rushing beyond the screen of the trees, cooling the breeze with its breath.
There was a great gray wolf waiting for her by the riverside, and when she
approached him—carefully, for experience told her that animals in pain
sometimes snapped at her if she startled them—he held his mouth open for her to
see the broken, abscessed tooth that must have been causing him agony.
"Oh, you poor thing!" she
exclaimed involuntarily, for she had suffered from a similar affliction as a
child and knew how much it must hurt. But this case would require more of her
"special" talent than usual; animals usually suffered silently
beneath her ministrations as she eased pain, but nothing would keep such a
dangerous beast quiet as she inflicted more pain than he already suffered. Being bitten while trying to help did not figure into her plans.
Gently,
she bent down and she placed one hand on his head, and concentrated all of her
thoughts on one thing. Sleep—
The
wolf resisted her at first—it went entirely against his natural instincts to
make himself so vulnerable without the protection of the pack around him—but
at last, with a sigh, his head drooped, his legs buckled, and he dropped to the
ground. She knelt beside him, making certain that he was not going to awaken
until she was ready for him to do so. He would not feel what she did to him
until she was finished, and then he would have relief instead of nagging pain.
Now
she did what she had to—using the small version of a horseshoe-nail-puller she
had coaxed the blacksmith into making for her, she clamped the iron jaws about
the rotten stump of a tooth, braced the wolf's head between her feet, and
pulled. She strained her arms until they hurt, and at last the tooth tore free
of the jaw, and pus and blood oozed out.
She
had her work cut out for her this time. Only when the tooth was gone, and she
had used her magic to reduce the swelling and pain, and the infected socket was
cleansed with brandy and packed with bread-mold and spider-webs, did Ariella
wake the wolf as gently as she had put him to sleep.
He
leapt up from her lap as if he'd been stung, and sped off into the forest
without a backward glance. She didn't mind; none of her sylvan patients ever
gave any evidence that they felt gratitude for her ministrations. She'd been
hurt and
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