Page 40 of The Thirteenth Child
I saved Kieron’s uncle.
And the boy with the broken femur.
The mother who went into labor too soon.
The king’s man who was thrown from his horse as he rode through our little village collecting taxes, his head split open like a melon grown too ripe.
I never did understand why my patients didn’t question my lack of credentials, why they didn’t wonder at my training. I couldn’t begin to reason that they’d allow a thirteen-year-old girl to treat them, taking my suggestions as if they were words from the Holy First herself.
They could have balked. They could have called me a witch. They could have sought treatment in other towns, far from our valley.
But they came.
And I healed them.
Merrick remained with me in those first weeks in Alletois, onlydisappearing for his own work late at night, while I slept. Occasionally I would wake to frantic raps on the door, called away to another sickbed, and I’d realize Merrick was gone, his usual seat beside the hearth emptied.
He always left a white clover blossom in his absence, as promise of a swift return.
Weeks turned into a month.
Kieron visited, first bringing a bushel of apples in payment for helping his uncle.
Then a cache of carrots.
Then an invitation to join his family during the Holy First’s feast day.
His parents’ smiles were warm but uneasy. It was the same look many of the villagers gave me, the strange girl who had arrived without family, blessed with talents far beyond her age. I could only smile back and hope my skills would be enough to silence doubts.
A month turned to two.
Word of my miraculous talents began to spread, and patients came from farther and farther away, bringing coins or provisions to pay me with.
After four months of living in Alletois, I had to have a chicken coop built to house all the birds I’d been given. My larder was always filled, and I ate well, fortified by my neighbors’ bounties.
It pleased me that I was able to provide for myself, that I didn’t need to rely upon Merrick’s graces to stay clothed and fed.
As summer turned to autumn, my workload doubled. There were more colds and cases of sickness as the weather fluctuated between frosty nights and steaming afternoons. There were more injuries too—farmers grown careless with their scythes at harvest,ranchers kicked in the gut as they tried to slaughter their sheep for winter provisions.
I treated them all, always finding the right plant, the right poultice. My salves soothed what was needed, my teas banished what they should.
My routine slowed in winter. So many of the townspeople hunkered away in their homes and wouldn’t venture out until spring. Without my own garden to tend, I spent the short daylight hours looking after my chickens and guinea fowl and wandering about my property with a pair of snowshoes given to me by an ailing fur trapper.
Kieron would sometimes visit, bringing a deck of cards or a jacquet set. It was nice to have someone my own age to talk with, and we became fast friends. One winter night, I even confessed to him who my godfather truly was. Kieron was aware I had one and that he was often called away for business, but knew little more than that. The second the truth slipped from me, I regretted my impulsive confidence. I worried he’d laugh, or think I was crazy. Part of me thought he’d run from the house, screaming all the way to the village. But Kieron surprised me and said he’d love to one day meethim.
As the months passed, Merrick left for greater stretches of time, sometimes for two or three days. Once an entire week went by before he returned, and though I missed his company, I found I didn’t mind as much as I once had. I was growing up. I had made a friend.
The days began to grow longer, the air warmer, and the ground softer. My birthday was fast approaching, and a tiny burr of worry grew in my middle as the day ticked closer.
Birthdays had never been a time of joyful anticipation for me,and I fretted over what might happen this year. I liked my life in Alletois and hoped Merrick had no plans to surprise me with a new cottage somewhere else or show me an unexpected facet of my gift to strengthen. I wanted things to remain as they’d been that year.
“Please let everything stay the same,” I’d whisper before bed each night as the burr grew larger, shifting into a prickle, a spur, a spike.
On the morning of my birthday, I went into the kitchen and spotted one of Merrick’s elaborately tiered cakes. It was pink—again—a vivid raspberry, with curlicues of frosting swooping around the edge of each layer. Shards of dark chocolate had been stabbed into the top, like a jagged crown worn by a barbaric king.
“Merrick?” I called, surprised to not find him in his armchair. I tilted my head, listening to the sounds of the cottage.
It felt empty.
