REDEMPTION (𝓒𝓞𝓜𝓟𝓛𝓔𝓣𝓔)

CHAPTER TWO

[EARLY SUMMER - SECOND WEEK OF JUNE]

I have distilled a great deal of menthol and several other aromatic oils. I find myself unable to do any tinctures, however, due to my lack of alcohol, glycerine or if all else fails, vinegar. I also have to wonder what point there is in my labors, save to keep me busy. It is not as though there is any demand for my products. Indeed, I wonder if any of the folk hereabouts would trust them. Except, perhaps, the lady cleric.

In retrospect, I believe I was both overly sensitive and hasty in my reaction to the cleric's words. It is a given that she seeks something from me, but truly, she gave me no reason to behave so and I owe her an apology. This is not the Ossuary keep. There is no  one looking to push me aside or step on me to get to a higher position. There is no need to guard myself with magic. I can only blame the stress of trying to settle into my new life here as well as learning to cope without using my magic. It is, I suspect, much like the difficulties one must have after an amputation. The 'ghost' of my abilities taunts me daily.

I wonder if I could contrive a message for Miss Roisin? Perhaps the delivery boy would take it to her, if I paid him in silver. That, of course, providing I can catch him before he bolts.  Ah, why did I allow myself to get into a temper? In truth it serves no purpose to rail against my circumstances. Moreover, the goodwill of their cleric would likely ease my way here.

It is also truth that I have no cause to be bitter. In all honesty I cannot fault the Council for their decision. It was, in fact, far more lenient that I expected. I am alive, after all, and not confined to a  dungeon. So, I must find a way to make some sort of life for myself here. I have to wonder, who am I—Niall—alone, without the Scarlet Ossuary or my magic? What do I have to look forward to? I have no gift of foresight, and cannot see the answer to that question. I wish I had more hope for the future.

Niall stood by the spring, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.  A bucket held a large quantity of water in which he was washing the beeswax he had collected. A clean cloth lay ready to receive the wax when he was done. He dipped and washed, meticulous and thorough.

It had been a fine, mild morning. He had spent most of it in his herb garden, tending the tender sprouts. When those were done, he decided to harvest the hives. Dredging up nearly buried memories of the times as a child when he had helped an old beekeeper, he had managed to smoke his bees and collect several brimming combs of honey. Not only was the honey exceptional, the wax was white and fine, perfect for salves.

His sharp ears caught a sound that was not the breeze, or the piping of bird song. His head tilted, trying to be sure of what he heard. Was it the distant clop of hooves? Yes. Would they turn toward the mountains or down to the river? Ah, they were coming this way. Would they turn into his lane or pass by? Was it a horse ... or a pony cart?

He finished cleaning the wax and lay it on the cloth. As he wrapped it, he heard the clop of hooves coming closer. Taking up the wax, he tucked it safely in the fold of his cowl and made his way to the cottage. By the time he rounded the corner to his kitchen yard, a graceful female figure garbed this day in forest green was descending from the cart.

"Good day, Master Niall," she said brightly. "I trust you are feeling more amenable today?" She pulled a box from the back of the cart, turned and handed it to him. "The roots I promised," she said, turning back to grab a small cask, "and your willow bark."

Niall was dumbstruck. He stood, box in hand, looking at her with incomprehension. There was no cajoling, no attempt to flay him with guilt, no recriminations for his previous behavior. She had, it seemed, considered it and dismissed it for the inconsequential tantrum it was.