The Island House by Posie Graeme-evans Read Free Book Online Page B

suffered, but that was hard.
    This stranger was just one more poor, broken creature and, when he died, as seemed likely, he would pass into the dark alone, far from his family. Without the comfort of his Gods, or someone to perform the rites of passage, where would his spirit go? Unappeased, perhaps he would haunt them. That thought, if nothing else, made Signy sidle closer, and she tried to drop water into the boy’s mouth. She was frightened of malevolent spirits.
    “That is good. Very good.”
    The old woman had returned. She smiled approvingly as she pounded leaves and roots together on a flat rock with a hand-size stone.
    Signy smelled wild garlic, and she saw plantain roots plus another plant with large, hairy leaves.
    The old woman beckoned; she handed Signy a small pot. “Here, just a little at a time when I say.” Gunnhilde mimed dripping the contents onto the mess of crushed plants.
    Wary, Signy sniffed the liquid; she smelled honey. Her eyes brightened.
    Gunnhilde knew the girl would not understand, but the sound of a human voice among such devastation was comforting. “Yes. It’s nice, mead: just a little splash.” She mimed the action, and Signy copied her. “That’s right, good.” The nun talked as sheworked; at least the child seemed bright enough to grasp simple instructions. “Fermented honey—that’s the smell; honey is a powerful healer, especially with comfrey and garlic.” But Gunnhilde cast a worried glance at the boy.
    This first poultice was for the outside wounds—the damage to the child’s face and the burns on his body. For the deep wounds, and to control fever, she must brew simples of shepherd’s purse and the bark and leaves of willow. But that would have to wait; the boy’s broken legs must be set very soon, or it would be too late.
    “Here, Sister, as you asked. And the rope as well.”
    Signy scuttled away. The man had appeared again.
    Cuillin produced four broad stakes. Signy did not know, but the monk had split them laboriously from straight timber—the remains of a precious half-burned roof beam.
    The man dropped a hank of flax rope beside Gunnhilde. He had not changed his opinion; it upset him to see the boy in such agony. “He’s a lost cause, Sister. Smothering would be a kindness.” Cuillin swallowed. Help me, Lord, if it is your will. “Even if he lives, the boy will be crippled and scarred.”
    Gunnhilde did not acknowledge the kindness of the monk’s pragmatism. “God will guide my hand when I set the bones in his legs. I have all that is needed.”
    “But these are weeds, Sister. Weeds for broken bones and burns?”
    The poultice was finally ready, and Gunnhilde knelt beside the boy’s head. “These are not weeds, Brother Cuillin, they are weapons in God’s armory.” The nun waved her hands, and constellations of insects rose in a single mass. She slathered green slime over the wounded face and chest, though the boy writhed under her hands. “There, child, do not fight me. This will cool your face, I promise you.”
    Cuillin sighed raggedly. “I must help the others. Where is the girl?” Seeing Signy, he beckoned. “You. Here.” His tone was impatient.
    Signy backed away. She remembered the other man by the rushes, the one who had broken Laenna’s nose; the newcomers were always ready with a hard hand.
    “Make her come, Sister. You won’t hold the boy alone.”
    Signy watched them. The woman was stubborn, and from his expression, Signy understood the man did not agree with her treatment. But she stared him down, and eventually, defeated, the man left, shaking his head.
    Signy crept over to sit beside the boy. She fluttered her hands to drive the insects from his face.
    Gunnhilde smiled at the little girl. She was sad that Cuillin had not seen what she saw now—a sign that the Lord’s Grace was working even through these Pagan hands. She patted the child’s shoulder approvingly.
    Cautiously, Signy smiled. The woman did not want the stranger to