A Hound in the Woods

Remedies

One should strive to act with compassion and empathy toward all creatures in accordance with reason.

Angharad awoke to a gentle shake. Ray spoke softly, "It's time to switch watch."

Angharad rubbed her neck and stretched her legs. She rose from her mattress, sleep still clinging to her eyes. The only light in the room was the glow of a low burning fire in the hearth. It cast a faint glow to the one room cottage. Ray lay down on the bed while Angharad added another log to the fire. The man was still unconscious and unmoved on her table.

His face would twitch and he would let out a ragged breath every now and then. Angharad picked  up her spinning basket and sat by the mans head, facing the fire. She was spinning wool roving into thread when the mans breathing became shallow and rapid. He was shivering under the blanket. Angharad sprang out of her chair to figure out what was wrong. She pressed her cheek to the mans forehead. He was burning with a high fever. She could see a light sheen on his face now. His temperature had to be lowered soon, or he would succumb to it.

She fetched the bucket of drinking water from its hook near the door. She quickly untied her linen apron and dunked it into the cool water. As the apron soaked up the water, she jerked the blanket from the sleeping giant. Without wringing the excess water from her apron, she tossed it over the mans chest. Water sloshed onto her well packed dirt floor.

She wet another rag and tended to the mans head. His brow twitched and indiscernible words were attempted to be uttered in his delirium. Time seemed to stand still, it felt like an entire night passed before his breathing gradually became more normal. Even though his fever had broken, he was still unsettled. His head rolled from side to side, he squeezed his eyes and furrowed his brow. His hands grasped at nothing.

"Sshhhh," Angharad soothed softly. She dabbed his brow with the wet rag. This was by far the worst shape anyone had ever been brought to her in. Mild fevers, cuts needing stitches, upset bellies, coughs, theses were things that she was most comfortable treating. A few babies challenged her, but there was always the reward of a pink squalling babe and a tearfully grateful mother to thank her.

The mans face was that of someone being tortured. Not only by sickness, but by the ghosts of his past. Angharad felt her heart ache for him. She remembered when her mother became ill in the past winter. Before delirium took hold, she had begged her daughter to sing to her.

"Please, my best beloved. Sing to me the Jenny of Oldstones."  The ghosts of Angharad's heart echoed. Angharad obliged the ghosts and the man who lay helpless before her.

'High in the halls of the kings who are gone,

Jenny would dance with her ghosts.

The ones she had lost, and the ones she had found

and the ones who had loved her the most.

The ones who'd been gone for so very long

she couldn't remember their names,"

The mans face softened. Angharad continued to sing softly, as to not wake Ray. It was a few hours before the fever dipped lower and nearly disappeared. The man seemed at peace and Angharad drifted into sleep herself, resting her head on the table next to the mans head.

.....................................

The first streams of early morning light kissed Angharad's arm. The man had made it through the night. He would have more of a fighting chance now than he did before. Angharad knew the treat of fever could return at any time, so she had to prepare some willow bark remedies.