Is this why the cow hadn’t returned home? That seemed a ridiculous thought. Why would an animal that only cares about grazing stand guard over a half-drowned girl?
She was a dirt-scratcher, no doubt about it. Even though her hair was wet, it was redder than any hair I’d ever seen. She must have been washed downriver by the flood, just like the other things. But how had she survived such a long journey? I looked down at her pale face. She was pretty in a strange way. I had to fight the urge to simply stand there and stare. Kneeling, I sat her upright, but she didn’t open her eyes. Sliding an arm beneath her knees, I lifted her. She was limp. There was no meat on her, as if nothing existed beneath the dress but a hollow skeleton. The only weight came from her boots, which dripped with river water.
Getting her home would be tricky. I laid her facedown across the saddle. She still didn’t move. Once I’d hoisted myself onto the horse, I turned the girl onto her back, then lifted her into a sitting position so that her legs draped over one side. As I held her against my chest, her drenched dress soaked through my vest.
I’d come to find our missing cow, but there was no way to get the girl home quickly with the cow in tow. I’d have to return later. Kicking the horse into a gallop, I held the girl tight, trying to keep her head against my shoulder so it wouldn’t flop about. She felt frail. I worried she might break along the way. As her wet hair pressed against my neck I shivered. I could have been holding a girl made of ice.
The horse was foaming by the time we reached the farm. My back and arms ached. Father, who’d been leaning against the fence enjoying a pipe smoke, hurried over. “What’s this?” he said, holding the girl steady as I dismounted.
“She was lying on the riverbank,” I told him. “She’s half-dead.”
“And nearly frozen.” Father helped slide her off the horse and into my arms. “Nan!” he hollered as we hurried toward the house. The milkmaids were busy inside the milking barn so they took no notice of the commotion. Peddler’s wagon was gone. Father opened the front door. “Nan!”
“Don’t be bothering me,” Nan hollered back. “It’s not yet time for noon meal.”
I stepped into the sitting room, but Father grabbed my arm. “It’s warmest in the kitchen,” he said, motioning me to follow. “No time to waste.”
Nan stood at the washbasin, scrubbing a cooking pot. Her mouth fell open as we rushed inside. Father grabbed a vase of flowers off the table. “Put her here,” he told me.
“What are you …?” Nan gasped as I gently laid the girl on the table. “God have mercy, what have you brought into this house?”
“She’s half-dead. Go get the missus,” Father ordered, setting the vase aside.
“But …” Nan pointed a sudsy finger at the girl. “Half-dead or half-alive, that girl’s a dirt-scratcher. You’ve put a dirt-scratcher on my table, where we eat.”
“It doesn’t matter who or what she is,” I said. Had she stopped breathing? She lay dead still, a faint tint of blue coloring her lips. “She’s going to die if we don’t help her.”
Nan looked imploringly at my father, who nodded his head and repeated, “Go get the missus.”
“What do we do?” I asked as Nan rushed out of the room.
“If the cold gets into her organs she’ll never recover,” Father said. He was right about that. Once, when I was much younger, we had a winter the likes of which no one had ever seen. The field grasses froze and branches fell from trees, shattering into pieces. One of our cows slipped on a patch of ice, and by the time we found it, it was cold all over, just like the dirt-scratcher girl. The cow never woke up. Father said the cold had spread into the cow’s organs, freezing them. “We’ll warm her. Get those boots off.”
While Father soaked Nan’s kitchen rags in hot kettle water, I untied the girl’s boots. They were pathetic things, poorly stitched, and both heels had almost worn through. As I pulled off the left one, river water dribbled onto the floor. I peeled off the drenched, thick wool sock. The skin on her foot was as pale as moonlight and as puckered as an old apple skin. Clearly she’d been in the water a long time.
Father wrapped a warm rag around the exposed foot. Then he pushed up the girl’s sleeve and draped another warm rag over her forearm. “This might do the trick,” he said.
The right boot was in worse condition, with its outer seam giving way and a hole worn through at the outer ankle. It took a bit of a tug to get the boot off because it was stuffed with bits of drenched fabric. Something didn’t look right. This foot was smaller than the other. I peeled off the sock and gasped. The skin on the left foot was just as pale and puckered as the other, but the foot itself was curled up like a fern’s frond before it opens. “How can she walk?”
My father shook his head. “Poor creature,” he murmured as he placed a warm rag over the curled foot.
Nan hurried back into the kitchen with my mother at her heels. Mother froze in the doorway for a moment, her eyes wide with shock. Then she pushed her sleeping bonnet off her head and pressed her fingertips against the girl’s neck. “Her pulse is weak. We need tea. Strong tea. As black as you can make it,” she told Nan. “But cool enough to drink.”
“But, Missus,” Nan said. “That’s a dirt-scratcher. As sure as I’m standing here, that girl’s a dirt-scratcher.”
“I can see that,” Mother said, exchanging a worried look with Father. “We’ll sort that out later. Now make the tea.”
As Nan strained tea leaves, Mother took a small vial from the cupboard. “Sit her up,” she told me.
With Father’s help, I lifted the girl into a sitting position. Then I sat at the edge of the table, supporting her head against my chest. Mother opened the vial and waved it beneath the girl’s nose. When the strong scent reached my own nostrils, I flinched. The girl, however, had no reaction to the disgusting odor. Mother waved the vial three more times until finally, the girl moaned and turned away. “That’s a good sign,” Mother said. “Very good indeed.”
On the first try, the tea simply pooled at the corner of the girl’s mouth, dribbling onto the front of her dress. On the second try, some trickled down her throat. She coughed, her eyelids fluttering. Her lungs rattled with water. Mother tipped the cup again and this time the girl swallowed. The blue tinge to her lips disappeared. With focused determination, Mother managed to get an entire cup of tea into the girl. As Nan refilled the cup, Mother said, “Now, someone best tell me how this girl got onto my kitchen table.” She turned to me, not to Father, immediately suspecting my hand in the situation.
“I went looking for a missing cow and I found this girl lying on the riverbank,” I said. “Well, the cow found her first. It was standing over her …” I hesitated because it was going to sound crazy. “I think the cow was protecting her from the vultures.”
Nan snorted. “I don’t see why a cow would do such a thing.”
“I agree,” Father said as he set a warm rag over the girl’s shin. “The cow was simply curious. Cows can be very curious creatures.”
“But the cow didn’t come home,” I said. “Don’t you think that’s odd? It stayed at the river. It stayed with her.”
No one said anything, watching as the girl swallowed the second cup of tea. Mother handed the empty cup to Nan, then pressed her fingers to the girl’s neck again. “Her pulse is stronger. Much stronger. Now, we must get her out of those wet clothes and into bed.”
“Bed?” Nan asked, her cheeks flushing. “You want to put that girl into one of your beds?”
“Do you have a better idea?” Mother asked.
“Put her in the barn. That’s where she should go,” Nan said, pointing out the window. “Dirt-scratchers are filthy creatures.”
“In the barn?” I said. The girl still leaned against my chest, her breathing steady but wheezy. “She’s not an animal.”
“Then put her in the bunkhouse,” Nan said.
We waited for Mother’s decision. After all, matters of the house fell into her jurisdiction. She said nothi
ng, simply reached out and ran her finger down the girl’s pale cheek. I’m sure I’m not the only one in the kitchen who noticed the sadness that spread across my mother’s face. My older sister had died four years ago, and she was about the same age as this girl. “She is not a creature,” Mother whispered, her lower lids glistening with tears. “She is someone’s daughter. She does not belong in the barn, and the bunkhouse is for men only.”
“You can put her in my bed,” I said. “I can sleep in the bunkhouse. I don’t mind.”
Nan began to protest, but Father silenced her with a steely look.
I lifted the girl from the table and carried her to my room. Father had once carried my sister in much the same way. He’d let her sit by the window for a bit each morning to watch the birds, then he’d take her back to bed. I well remembered the spring morning when he carried her for the last time to the gravedigger’s wagon.
I stood in my room, unsure if I should set the girl on the bed, what with her wet clothes and all. Mother hurried in, carrying a nightfrock that had once belonged to my sister. “Strip the bed,” she told Nan, who pulled the blankets and pillows off. After I’d set the girl on the mattress, Mother gently pushed me into the hallway. “Nan and I don’t need your help undressing her, thank you very much.”
Father and I waited outside the closed bedroom door. He pulled his pipe from his pocket and set it at the corner of his mouth, unlit. My sleeves were soaked, as was the front of my shirt. I could still feel the girl’s body pressed against my chest.
“No doubt the flood washed her downriver,” Father said, chewing on the pipe as he often did while deep in thought. “No doubt others will wash downriver as well.”
“Do you think she’ll live?” I asked.
Father set his hand on my shoulder. “Even though Nan doesn’t approve, she won’t let the girl die. Now, how bout I go fetch our wandering cow while you load up the wagon and tend to the shop.”
The door to the bedroom flew open and Mother stepped out, her face pinched with worry. “Husband, you’d best fetch the surgeon,” she said, a kitchen rag in her hand.
“Are you certain you need the surgeon?” Father asked. “Don’t you think we should keep this a secret? Dirt-scratchers aren’t permitted to leave the Flatlands. We might get fined for helping her.”
“Is it her foot?” I asked. “Is that why you want the surgeon?”
“No, it’s not her foot. It’s much worse than her curled foot.”
From my vantage point I could see the end of my bed and two pale naked legs, skinny as saplings. A large gash had opened the right leg, just above the knee.
“The wound is corrupted,” Mother said. “I fear we are too late.”
Chapter Nine
It was a short ride from Oak Dairy to the surgeon’s shop in the town of Wander. I took Father’s horse since mine was still cooling after the morning rescue. Wander was a walled town. Its only entrance was at the northern end where the gates, kept closed many generations ago when barbarians ran amok, were now kept open throughout the day. As I rode beneath the stone archway, the town greeted me in its usual cheerful manner. Ladies in colorful bonnets bustled between shops, men gathered in groups to discuss the latest news, merchants stood at their doors greeting passersby.
Our shop, Oak and Son’s Milk, Cheese, and Butter, sat at the corner of the main square, next to the clockmaker’s shop and right across from the town hall where our tax-collector lived. When the clock tower struck noon, a line always formed outside our shop. But this line wasn’t made up of the bonneted ladies, wives of the merchants and tradesmen. It was their cooks and maidservants, people like Nan, who bought the fresh milk, butter, and cheese for the households. As I neared the surgeon’s, the clock’s hand struck eleven. Looked like we’d be late opening the doors today.
I rode through the square, around the golden fountain, and dismounted outside the surgeon’s—Surgeon and Apothecary for Matters Pertaining to Both Sexes. Father had given unconditional instructions. “Do not tell the surgeon that she’s a dirt-scratcher or he might not come.” But the concern stretched beyond the surgeon. If word spread around town, which tended to happen faster than a fox circling a chicken coop, there’d be a whole mess of judgment thrust our way and that wouldn’t be good for business.
As I tied the horse to a post, someone called my name. Bartholomew Raisin scurried across the square, his thick thighs making a swooshing sound as they rubbed together. Bartholomew’s business was the promotion and management of the local barefist fights. We stood toe to toe as he looked up at me. That was Bartholomew’s way—to get right in your face when talking. “Got news for you.”
“It’ll have to wait,” I said.
“It can’t wait. I got news.” Bartholomew nodded eagerly. He shuffled from side to side. His fingers twitched as if the news was eating him from the inside out.
“I got something to do,” I said, turning away and heading for the surgeon’s door. Bartholomew had made a lot of coin from the fights over the years, and he doled out a meager percentage to the fighters. He was a rat bastard.
The scent of chopped herbs freshened the stuffy air of the surgeon’s shop. The surgeon’s assistant stood in the back, mixing green paste. Frightful instruments for cutting, piercing, probing, and stitching hung on the back wall. My heart kicked up its pace as I looked around. I’d face an opponent’s fists in the circle any day, but the surgeon’s hands, well, I tried to stay away from them.
A stranger lay on a table, moaning, his eyes shut tight. A traveling knapsack sat on the floor. The surgeon, a tall, thin man with a flat nose and a head of wiry black hair, leaned over his patient, tying the ends of thread that he’d sewn through the patient’s finger. “Hello, Owen,” he said, glancing up briefly. “What brings you here? Have your fists loosened a tooth or blackened an eye?”
“No, it’s not like that,” I said.
The surgeon tugged on the thread, then severed the ends with a knife. “You’re done,” he told the man, who slowly opened his eyes and sat up. “Keep the finger dry or it won’t heal.”
The man looked at his swollen finger. The surgeon’s assistant held out a silver platter, onto which the man set a coin. Then he grabbed his knapsack and staggered from the shop. As he did, Bartholomew Raisin stuck his sweaty head inside. “You done yet?” he asked me. “Cause I still got news. News doesn’t just disappear.”
“I’m busy,” I grumbled. “Wait outside.”
“You’re not sick, are you?” Bartholomew asked. “You can fight, can’t you?”
“I said wait outside.” I shut the door in Bartholomew’s face. It was no one’s business why I’d come to the surgeon’s.
As the surgeon wiped his hands on his stained apron, I pictured the girl’s naked legs. There was no time to waste. “One of the milkmaids gashed her leg and it’s corrupted. Mother needs your help right away.”
“Corrupted?” The surgeon picked something out from under his fingernail. “How corrupted?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I didn’t get a good look. But Mother says it’s bad. She wants you right away.”
The assistant had already begun to collect the surgeon’s things, which he arranged in a small wooden case. “I’ll head straight over,” the surgeon said. Then he winked at me. “Don’t want you losing one of your pretty milkmaids.”
As I followed the surgeon outside, Bartholomew Raisin jumped in front of me like an overgrown frog. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“Got to get home and load the wagon. It’s almost time to open the shop.”
“Hold up there. You’ll listen to me, Owen Oak. You got to hear this. It concerns you.”
As the surgeon climbed into his wagon and headed down the street, I folded my arms and looked down into Bartholomew’s puffy eyes. There’d be no getting rid of him. He’d follow me around like a tail. “I’m listening.”
Bartholomew smiled. “You remember the guy with the missing eye, the one you fought? The win that
got you that pretty prize?” He pointed to my belt.
“Course I remember. It was only last night. I didn’t get punched in the head.”
“He said he was leaving, right? You remember him saying he was leaving?”
“Yeah. He said he was just passing through.”
Bartholomew rubbed his hands together. “Well, he never did leave. He’s still here and he wants to fight you again. Surgeon stitched up his forehead good and tight and he says he’s ready. Tonight.”
“Tonight?” Surprised by this news, I took a long breath. I’d hit the one-eyed man hard. He was a big lout, a laborer of some kind so his thick arms were used to lifting and hauling, not throwing swift punches. My hand still ached. “I already fought him,” I said, heading for my horse. “It’s done.”
“But I’m collecting the wagers,” Bartholomew said, keeping close to my heels. His pockets jiggled, heavy with coin.
“I never agreed to the fight. The wagers aren’t my problem.” I untied Father’s horse.
“Listen to me, Owen Oak.” Bartholomew grabbed the reins. “The wagers are mostly against you.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why would they be against me? I beat him. I won.”
“Sure, you beat him. You won. But he’s bigger than you. And he’s mad this time. Real mad. He’s not the kind to take to losing.” Bartholomew held his tongue for a moment, watching while I considered this news. Then, knowing exactly how to goad his best fighter, Bartholomew stood on tiptoe and said, “He says it was luck that brought your victory. Said you don’t deserve that belt. Said you need to be taught a lesson.”
I clenched my jaw. Father had told me not to fight until spring had passed so as not to bring more sorrow to my mother. Spring days might have been blessed by gentle sunshine, but they were also tainted by the memory of a daughter’s death.
“You’ll fight him, won’t you?” Bartholomew asked. “You can’t let him say you won because of luck. You can’t let him say you don’t deserve that belt. You’ll fight him? Tonight?”
Even knowing that Bartholomew only wanted to make a profit, I couldn’t ignore the challenge. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll fight him.”
The Sweetest Spell Page 5