Page 6 of The Vampire's Thirst
Chapter Two
NearOrofino, Idaho, Present Day
Chiara Flores waved her finger around like a divining rod. Hundreds of alphabetized labeled jars filled the shelves in the pantry. Alfalfa to zedoary. Some plants she gathered from the woods to process. Others she grew in her garden or ordered online.
“Ginger root, wild. Ginger root, wild. There it is.” She removed the glass container which was parked between garlic and gingko leaf.
In her kitchen, an old man in faded jeans sat at the marred pine table where she consulted with her clients, usually neighbors from the bordering Nez Perce Reservation. He pushed his white waist-length hair behind his ears before resting his head onto elbow-propped palms. When he moaned, his lids closed against the bright light streaming in through the windows.
“How long have you been getting these migraines?” Chiara dumped a few dried stems into a mortar. With a firm grasp on the pestle, she ground the roots until they wore to a fine powder.
“Just a few weeks now.”
She poured the pulverized wild ginger into a plastic bag, offering it to the man. “This should last a month, but if your headaches don’t disappear by then, you need to go to a doctor in Orofino.”
“Sure thing.” He crammed the powdered root into his pocket.
“Put about a dime-size portion on a flat surface or plate. Pinch one nostril closed. Sniff through the other. Do the same on each side. No more than four times a day.”
With his fingers rubbing his temples, he rose on old, unsteady legs. She placed a palm on his shoulder to guide him out while lending a little sympathy.
While Chiara watched, wondering how the man had managed to walk to her house, a young woman with straight black hair woven into a thick braid stepped onto the porch. She bounced a boy wrapped in a wool blanket on her hip.
Chiara waved her inside. “You’re next. What can I do for you?”
“Jake has a cough. He’s barely getting any sleep at night. So I’m awake, too. But I gotta work every day.”
“I’ll fix something for him.” Chiara pulled out a chair for the mother while she touched Jake’s cheek with the back of her hand. “No fever is a good sign.”
Returning from the pantry, she carried a tall jar filled with a thick liquid. “Is he allergic to anything, Angie?”
Cough. Cough.
“No. Nothing.”
Cough. Cough.
Before she rattled off directions, two men shoved through the door, the younger with an arm around the older’s waist to steady him. “Quick. My dad was chopping wood when he hit the side of his foot with the axe. Not bad enough for a doc, but something for the wound would be good.”
The father hopped into the kitchen, his injured foot bobbing with each jump.
Chiara raised a hand, signaling her intent to finish with the mother and son. “This is a syrup made from wild onion. One to two teaspoons per hour. If Jake’s cough gets worse, you know what to do. Go to a doctor.”
“Thanks.” The mother hefted the boy onto her hip, gaping at the man’s injury while blood dripped on Chiara’s linoleum.
“Here.” She pointed to a seat, moving a stool in front of it for his foot. “I’m Chiara. Nice to meet you … uh.”
After he flung himself down, he propped his heel on the offered footrest. “George Tano from over near Kamiah. Son’s Edgar. Sit, boy.”
“It’s okay. I’ll just stand out of the way.” The man folded his arms across his chest, his denim shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows as he leaned against a cabinet.
Chiara slipped on surgical gloves, fingering the man’s dirty toes, wiggling them one by one. The cut was in the fleshy part of his foot, but she’d examine it more carefully once she cleaned away the blood. “I’ll be right back.” She disappeared into the storage room, reappearing with a jar labeled Yarrow. “I have just the stuff.” The glass clinked onto the table.
She removed a small basin from under the sink, ran warm water in it, and brought out a clean cloth to wash around George’s wound. He’d sliced some blood vessels but not much damage to bone. When finished, she scooped salve from the jar, smoothing it onto the cut. “This should work, but if you don’t see a little improvement each day, you need to go to the doctor. I doubt you chopped into the bone. A miracle.” She wrapped the foot with a bandage. When Edgar aided his father out the door, he dug into his pocket to deposit cash in a box by the entrance.
Wiping an errant strand of curly dark hair from her forehead, Chiara sighed. Busy day. More and more people arrived on the doorstep with regularity. The little bit of money they left helped with supplies, but she preferred privacy. Her house was becoming party central for the injured or ill.
She marched to the kitchen, pulled out the tea kettle, and turned on the faucet.
