Windhaven

"Or I could stay here, if there is something for me to do. If I don't find something to fill my days, something useful, my memories will drive me mad, Evan. I'm past my childbearing years — I decided against motherhood years ago. I can't sail a ship or carry a tune or build a house. The gardens I began always died, I'm hopeless at mending, and being cooped up in a shop, selling things all day, would drive me to drink."

"I see you've considered all the options," Evan said, the ghost of a smile about his lips.

"Yes, I have," Maris said seriously. "I don't know that I would have any skills as a healer — there is no reason for me to think so. But I'm willing to work hard, and I've got a flyer's memory. I wouldn't be likely to confuse poisons with healing potions. I can help you gather herbs, mix remedies, hold down your victims while you cut them up, or whatever. I've assisted at two births — I would do whatever you told me, whatever you needed another pair of hands for."

"I've worked alone for a long time, Maris. I have no patience with clumsiness, or ignorance, or mistakes."

Maris smiled at him. "Or opinions that contradict your own."

He laughed. "Yes. I suppose I could teach you, and I could use your help. But I don't know if I believe this 'I'll do whatever you say' of yours. You're starting a bit late in life to be a humble servant."

She looked at him, trying not to show the sudden panic she felt. If he refused her, what could she do?

She felt like begging him to let her stay.

He must have seen something of this in her face, for he caught hold of her hand and held it tightly. "We'll try it," he said. "If you are willing to try to learn, I am surely willing to teach. It is time I passed some of my learning on to someone else, so that if I am bitten by a blue tick or seized with liar's fever, everything will not be lost by my death."

Maris smiled her relief. "How do we start?"

Evan thought a moment. "There are small villages and encampments in the forest that I haven't visited in half a year. We'll travel for a week or two, making the rounds, and you'll gain some idea of what I do, and we'll learn if you have the stomach for it." He released her hand and stood up, walking toward the storeroom. "Come help me pack."

Maris learned many things during her travels with Evan through the forest, few of them pleasant.

It was hard work. Evan, so patient a healer, was a demanding teacher. But Maris was glad of it. It was good to be pushed to her limits, to work until she could work no longer. She had no time to think of her own loss, and she slept deeply every night.

But while she was pleased to be of use and gladly performed the tasks Evan set her, other requirements of this new life were harder for Maris to fulfill. It was difficult enough to comfort strangers, more difficult still when there was no comfort to be offered. Maris had nightmares about one woman whose child died.

It was Evan who told her, of course; but it was to Maris the woman turned in her sorrow and her rage, refusing to believe, demanding a miracle that no one could give. Maris marveled that Evan could give of himself so steadily, and absorb so much pain, fear, and grief, year after year, without breaking. She tried to copy his calm, and his firm, gentle manner, reminding herself that he had called her strong.

Maris wondered if she would gain more skill and inner certainty with time. Evan at times seemed to know what to do by instinct, Maris thought, just as some Wood-wingers took to the air as if born to it, while others struggled hopelessly, lacking that special feel for the air. Evan's very touch could soothe an ailing person, but Maris had no such gift.

As night began to fall on the nineteenth day of their travels, Maris and Evan did not stop to make camp, but only walked more quickly. Even Maris, to whom all trees looked alike, recognized this part of the forest. Soon Evan's house came into sight.

Suddenly Evan caught her wrist, stopping her. He was staring ahead, at the house. There was a light shining in the window, and smoke rising from the chimney.

"A friend?" she hazarded. "Someone who needs your help?"

"Perhaps," Evan said quietly. "But there are others… the homeless, people driven from their villages because of some crime or madness. They attack travelers, or break into houses, and wait…"

They approached the house quietly, Evan in the lead, going for the lighted window rather than the door.

"A man and a child… doesn't look bad," murmured Evan. It was a high window. Standing on the tips of her toes, leaning on Evan for support, Maris could just see in.

She saw a large, ruddy, bearded man sitting on a stool before the fire. At his feet sat a child, looking up into his face.

The man turned his head slightly, and the firelight brought out a glint of red in his dark hair. She saw his face in the light.

"Coll!" she cried, joyful. She tottered and nearly fell, but Evan caught her.

"Your brother?"