Chapter 5 It was a few days after the night of the Festival of the Ancestors when Rowan found the stoke.
She had been on her usual journey along the footpath to the sacred pool,
Swishing through the brown dying bracken and twirling a stick between her fingers before throwing it high into the air and catching it again.
She imagined holding a spear,
Hurling it as hard as she could,
Higher than anyone else,
Allowing the energy to transfer through her arm to the sphere,
Which finally met its target with precision.
But what would a young girl such as herself ever be expected to defend in such a way?
A moment in the undergrowth caught her attention and Rowan stopped short.
Probably nothing more than a bird,
Maybe a rabbit,
Of which there were many to be found.
Perhaps she could use her hunting skills to capture and take it home for the cooking pot,
Which might help to find favour with her father once more after the recent events which had left her in disgrace.
The events on the Night of the Ancestors were still rumbling around the village,
Causing talk and disbelief amongst the people.
For Rowan,
One of the worst things was that Crow's words concerning her were true,
And she clearly recalled the knowledge and sadness reflected in her father's eyes.
Rowan stopped.
No sound.
She waited.
A rustle.
Bracken moved and silence descended once again.
Holding her breath,
Rowan crept closer,
One step at a time,
Carefully,
Making no noise.
And then she peered down through the bracken at the place she had heard the last rustle.
Staring back at her were a pair of nut-brown eyes.
Rowan gasped.
No bird or rabbit then.
The creature stirred,
Aware of Rowan's presence.
She felt its fear,
But saw its light-brown coat was matted with blood,
And it was wounded,
Unable to move.
Slowly,
She reached out her hand towards the animal,
Part of her knowing it was entirely the wrong thing to do,
For however badly wounded,
The stoat would fight for its life and cause her serious injury should it sink its sharp teeth into the pale and vulnerable flesh of her arm.
She had seen it happen to some of the villagers who had returned wounded from hunting,
The wounds swollen and filled with foul-smelling pus,
And more than one man had lost his life.
But something told Rowan there was no danger,
And without even thinking,
She followed her instinct.
There,
It's all right.
She slipped her hand around the warm body,
Feeling for the first time the rough,
Wiry hair of a living stoat.
As she lifted and cradled it to her chest,
The stoat turned and settled itself into her arms.
It gazed up,
A look of utter trust in its eyes,
And Rowan's heart filled with wonder.
There,
She repeated,
Come with me and we'll see if we can make you better.
She headed for the sacred pool,
For once not minding her duty,
Only knowing her actions were worthwhile.
Beside the pool,
With the stoat curled trustingly in her lap,
Rowan examined its wound.
It looked as if it might have been in a fight with some other creature,
A fox maybe,
And sustained a bite causing the loss of a good deal of blood,
Which matted its fur but,
In the process,
Staunched the flow.
Painstakingly,
With a piece of cloth torn from the bottom of her tunic and soaked in water,
Rowan gently dabbed at the dried blood.
Initially,
The stoat winced.
Then,
After a while,
Perhaps soothed by the rhythmic movements,
Its eyes closed and it lay completely still,
Save for its gentle breathing.
Rowan worked on,
Completely absorbed in her task.
When,
Finally,
All the blood had been cleared away,
She could see that the wound was not as bad as it had first appeared.
Now,
What would her mother have used?
She racked her brains,
Wishing she had paid more attention to the skills of healing,
As she had repeatedly been told but stubbornly ignored.
Finally,
She remembered juniper was good for cleaning wounds,
And yarrow for the clotting of blood,
Both of which grew nearby.
So,
Laying the stoat in a safe place amidst a bed of bracken and dried grass,
She went in search of the healing herbs further along the valley.
After collecting what she hoped would be enough juniper berries and a bunch of yarrow,
Rowan returned to the pool and peeped at the stoat.
It lay just as she had left it,
Curled up on a bed of bracken and grass,
But there seemed to be more of a rested air about the animal now,
Its nose turned into the dark hair of its bushy tail,
And its little body rising and falling steadily.
Rowan worked swiftly and deftly.
She ground the juniper berries,
Their tangy scent assailing her senses,
Then added water,
Mixed some more,
Added the yarrow,
Mixed it again into a smooth paste,
And finally it was ready.
Before applying it to her patient,
Rowan placed her little earthenware bowl containing glisalve by the side of the pool and walked to the edge of the enclosure.
She stood for a moment surveying the valley before her,
The river rushing below,
The rise of the hill on the other side and the tops of the villagers' huts to her left.
Further along lay the remains of the fire,
Now a dark circle of ash,
But even the memory of recent events and her disgrace could not take away the feeling of wonder and contentment Rowan felt in rescuing the stoat and mixing the salve.
She was certain now the animal would live,
And its survival would be partly due to her.
She turned back to the pool.
Maybe at last she had discovered her place in the world.
Perhaps she was destined to become a healer rather than the warrior she had always longed to be.
Humming softly and feeling unusually at one with everything around her,
Rowan arrived at the pool and stopped short.
The little bowl containing the salve had completely disappeared,
And when she peeped into the bed of bracken and grass where she had left it safely sleeping,
Of the stoat there was no sign at all.
