Chapter Two: Blessed Angels Come
Still holding the marble wand box, the Healer turned from the window to cross the sunlit room to the birch chest, above which hung a small altar bearing sacred elements of Blessing, Healing, and Protection, dedicated to Brighid, Mother Goddess, Patroness of Healers. Gareth trusted his Goddess and the Guardian Spirits of the house would insure the wand from falling into Darkness. Having concealed the wand box in the farthest reaches of the chest, he returned to sit on the edge of the bed, contemplating the face of the man whose life -- or death -- was now in his keeping.
“I must enter your thoughts again, if you will permit me.” As before, he laid his hands upon heart and brow, steeling himself against what he knew he must encounter. The tide of suffering that swept over him was staggering. Advancing cautiously on a fragile bridge of thought, Gareth sensed a presence retreating deep into hiding, fighting to maintain tenuous control, but faltering.
Speaking aloud so his voice would begin to become familiar, while simultaneously reaching out in thought, Gareth addressed his patient.
“Wizard, do not fear me. I hold no power over you, and am not your enemy. I am Gareth Islwyn, a Healer. Your wand is near, safely guarded, and your true name hidden from me. Neirin Maldwyn is the only name by which I will know you. Find shelter within this name, Wizard -- it is intended to conceal and protect you.”
Summoning an image of Minerva and Hagrid, he sent this thought forth into the darkness, hoping to offer some anchor of stability to the hidden presence. “I am sworn to aid you in whatever way I am able. My Word is given, my Vow made.”
As though treading on brittle glass, Gareth prepared to step back across his bridge of thought, halting suddenly as a ragged scrap of whisper brushed past him, surfacing out of the abyss from which the next wave of agony surged forward.
“There is no one… ”
He shuddered in empathy as the cruel wave swept inexorably forward and the whisper died.
Understanding the urgency, Gareth hurriedly scrubbed his hands and arms in a decoction of purifying herbs before dressing in spotless linen. Knowing a long and awful battle lay ahead, he paused for a moment in prayer.
“Mother Goddess, be with me. My skills to heal come from You. Fill my heart with courage and compassion. Grant wisdom without fear or doubt. Let my hands be guided to do only what is just and good.”
Hagrid had vanished the wizard’s ruined robes, cleansed all traces of blood, venom, and sweat from the lank hair and rigid body, and desperately seeking to bring warmth, had swathed him in a cocoon of woolen blankets and soft quilts. Gareth noticed an assortment of bottles, vials, boxes, pouches, and small implements, situated on the bedside table -- no doubt carefully and respectfully placed there by Hagrid. The Healer resolved to examine these things closely as soon as possible, for surely a Potions master would always carry on his person the elements and tools most necessary to his Craft.
His first crucial tasks were to warm the wizard’s icy body and replenish blood. From a small deerskin pouch he had placed nearby, he drew forth five perfectly matched sets of stones, each the size and shape of a birch leaf, wafer thin, carved with a single rune. A student of the ancient would have recognized these “Blue Stones” from Carn Menyn -- source of the mystical stones carried, some said by Merlin himself, to the first circle of Stonehenge. Channeling profound Magic of the Otherworld, birthed from the depths of the earth, washed for millennia by the healing springs of sacred mountains, they were treasured by Celtic Healers above all else for their ability to focus and strengthen the Flow of Life. Each pair bore the rune of a specific deity -- Dagda, Don, Gwydyon, Lenus, and Andraste, and had been handed down through a myriad of generations, from Healer to Healer, the most cherished of gifts.
To reassure his patient while he readied the Stones for bandaging at ten crucial pulse points, Gareth began singing softly -- an old lullaby of blessed angels gathered around a sleeping child. Sung for generations to Valley children, the message of the song was rooted in ancient beliefs -- if called upon with humility, the Guardians of the Otherworld would gather to encircle and defend the helpless. How odd, the Healer thought, to sing a lullaby to a dying wizard -- yet somehow this poignant sweet song seemed fitting. Who other than a Healer and the Angels might protect such a man, whose need was so great?
Lifting his patient, shifting the blankets to position the Healing Stones, Gareth was shocked at the man’s thinness, his body close to emaciation. He began speaking to the wounded man, as though in conversation with an old friend.
“Well then, Neirin Maldwyn, whatever sins you may have on your soul, gluttony certainly wasn’t one of them, was it?”
What he saw when he turned the man’s slight body dismayed him. “Whose work was this then, lad?”
His eyes swept over the web of scars and wounds that covered much of the gaunt body, some the faint silvery threads and shadows of traumas long past, others much more recently acquired.
“How many of these were dealt you when you were just a boy, then? I imagine you learned to protect yourself early on. Probably gave as good as you got, didn’t you. Hagrid calls you an old dragon… says you are a bitter, lonely man. I do not doubt it. I’m sorry to say, you’ll carry yet another scar soon, but what a tale we’ll have to tell, if we manage to pull you through, eh, lad?”
Turning the left arm gently to wrap two Stones with soft flannel bandages at the pulse of wrist and elbow, the Healer drew a sharp breath. On that forearm was a grotesque scar, faded but still showing clearly the gruesome image of a twisting serpent emerging from a Death’s Head. Frowning, the Healer signed against evil. “That’s the darkest magic you carry there, Neirin. What could have caused you to accept such a brand, I wonder.”
Examining the slender, scarred hand, the fingers long and tapering, a reflection of the wizard’s wand, Gareth continued his soothing soliloquy.
“You’ve Healer’s hands, an artist’s hands, don’t you, lad. Most likely, the only thing about you anyone ever considered beautiful. You are not blessed with a fine face, Neirin, but I am told you are exceedingly brilliant and quite powerful. I imagine you wield that ebony wand of yours like a swordsman, swift and elegant. I hope I may see that for myself one day… ”
Thus, the Healer continued, interspersing gentle speech with quiet song, until all Stones were positioned. One final Stone, larger than the rest, marked with the rune of Brighid the Mother, he bound gently in place upon the wizard’s heart, to sustain and strengthen the Wellspring of Life. Taking both glacial hands into his own, he spoke aloud a prayer of intervention.
“My Mother, Lady of Fire, great Brighid, this man is dying. I ask You to bestow Your Healing Flame, bringing the warmth and flow of Life into him, burning away all that is destroying him. Yet, should it be Your wish that he join You in the Otherworld, I pray You take him swiftly and gently. I ask this humbly, always having cause to praise You.”
So saying, he released the man’s hands and bent to examine the blackened, swollen neck where a ghastly wound punctured deep into the flesh, grazing the artery.
“How is it you didn’t bleed to death, Neirin, or die from the venom of such a snake?” the Healer pondered.
With deft hands, he bathed the wound, dressing it with linen bandages treated with a poultice of cattail, sophora, and sedum to slow further bleeding. Slipping his arm behind the wizard’s bony shoulders, with infinite patience he coaxed three medicines, drop by drop, down the ravaged throat -- burdock, rosemary and linden to induce replenishment of blood, an anodyne of wine laced with turmeric, saffron and monkshood to ease deep pain, and tincture of valerian, chamomile, passionflower and skullcap to lessen mental torment.
Finally, pulling a soft linen sleeping robe over the wizard’s rigid body, and pushing the long black hair back from the icy brow, Gareth wrapped him securely again in the blankets and quilts, before settling him gently onto the mound of pillows positioned to ease his breathing. The faintest of moans issued as before from the wizard’s spectral lips. Thoughts of a lonely, unloved child passed through the Healer’s mind, and he wondered if such simple comforts had ever been afforded this man.
Hours, even days, must now pass before the effects of the Healing Stones would begin to be evident. The medicines would encourage renewal of lost blood, and a dreamless, sedated state would offer some small measure of relief from the unrelenting agonies inflicted by the venom. The witch had said the snake was horrible, and had served an evil master, which Gareth understood meant Dark Arts had strengthened the intensity of the bite. He would consider carefully before proceeding, but knew all traces of venom would need purging, by Bridgid’s Fire, and skillful use of medicines and time-honored healing practices. Gareth was pleased to note the wizard’s breathing, while still shallow, was less labored, and his heartbeat, though still faint, was more constant. Silently, he thanked the Goddess for Her kindness to his patient.
Seating himself in a chair at the bedside, the Healer began to examine each of the items taken from the wizard’s vanished robes, jotting notes and commenting aloud in a quiet, steady tone, as though in consultation with a colleague.
Picking up one of several small objects, misshapen, but smooth. Gareth cocked his head to one side, a slight smile playing across his face.
“Now then, is this an assortment of bezoars we have here? I have used these as well -- very helpful in most cases of poisoning. I learned of these in Crete, many years ago. Lumps of charcoal, and terra sigillata, too. The Healers of Egypt and North Africa prefer those, don’t they? Effective in certain circumstances, that’s true… but trifles against anything as potent as what’s afflicted you.”
A rolled leather case, supple and soft from years of use, revealed a silver knife, its blade honed to a pristine edge, along with assorted measuring implements and other tools bearing strange symbols. Padded pouches contained a small crystal mortar and pestle, and a set of compact copper scales. Gareth perused the labels on the many bottles, vials, and boxes, noting the precise labeling, and the meticulous care with which all these items were maintained.
Stacked carefully next to the other items, were several texts on potions, brews, and medicines, all in the original Greek, Latin, or German, with notations scribbled in the margins. Curiously, a volume of Muggle verse, Dante’s “Divine Comedy” in Italian, was also present, a frayed scrap of green ribbon serving as the bookmark. Clearly, this Potions Master respected, perhaps even cherished, the tools and elements of his Craft, and was a man of keen intellect who did not limit himself to Magical writings only.
The Healer recognized many of the tinctures and potions, but others were unknown, their components beyond even his extensive knowledge. His brow wrinkled with concern and distaste when he discovered one vial containing an infusion of Asphodel and Wormwood, for he knew its purpose. Finally only two items remained, one a small bottle of amber glass. Reading the label before removing the stopper, he took a small sniff of the remaining dregs.
“An interesting concoction, this one, Potions master -- bistort, yarrow, nettle, rue, red clover, alchemilla, Bach flower, and several ingredients I don’t recognize. You must have kept this with you at all times. A daily dose no doubt, to develop resilience against severe bleeding and restore blood loss. Was this what slowed your hemorrhaging long enough for someone to find you? That was your intention I expect.” He put the bottle carefully back on the table. “I am treating you with similar medicines of my own. I hope we may compare notes when you’re well.”
Gareth hesitated for a moment before picking up the final item from the table. A small box of old bronze with a deep patina, oblong and flat, the size of a man’s palm, adorned with the ancient Greek symbols of the Alpha and the Omega -- the Beginning and the End -- the label, “Virus Infinitas”, written in the same precise, spiked hand, as all the others. The Healer translated the words aloud, with dread.
“The Venom of Eternity.”
Opening the box gingerly, he noted a layer of thick, odiferous paste, marred by fingerprints where countless small quantities had been pinched away. The Healer snapped the lid shut, angry and dismayed.
“Have you been dosing with this? An arrogant attempt, Potions master, however skilled you may be. Did you believe yourself stronger than this concoction, or were you simply indifferent to your own wellbeing? This vile brew may have kept you alive, but you may soon wish it had not, considering the toll it will demand. From the look of you, I expect that has already begun. Why would a brilliant man be so foolhardy… ?”
Gareth understood the bitter humor of the labeling. Any Healer trained in ancient poisons, hexes and curses, knew this substance -- the Mithridatum -- composed of hundreds of complex elements, its origins going back millennia. Preparing even the smallest quantity required years, and was a feat attempted by only the most skilled Potions Masters and alchemists. Once prized as the Universal Antidote, it would hasten recovery and provide immunity from the most virulent of poisons and venoms, but at a terrible cost. Most Healers shunned it.
Created and refined by an ancient king who sacrificed the lives of thousands of slaves to perfect the mixture, there was a curse upon the brew. Its dark inception, combined with ingredients that included powdered vipers flesh and strongly addictive opiates, condemned the user to a vicious and unforgiving dependency, were the substance used more than once. Even those with the strongest disciplines were unable to withstand the devastating effects of sustained dosage.
The Healer studied the harsh features of his unconscious patient, realizing he would have two formidable enemies to battle -- the power of the venom, and the addiction of the attempted preventative.
“May the Goddess have mercy on you, Neirin. The scar of Darkness on your arm, and this in your pocket? Yet, people of obvious great goodness grieve for you, asking that I protect and heal you? I hope I do not come to regret my Vow… ”
Whatever the sins of his patient, Gareth was a Healer, sworn to do no harm, to shelter and sustain life. Moving deliberately around the room, he began assembling his own tinctures, potions, and medicines, allowing his thoughts to drift back in memory to another man, with fathomless eyes, who had knocked at his door long ago, seeking shelter in the night. Desiring no conversation, he had sought only a place to exist upon the earth until the morning. Leaving at first light, the man had flung a bitter challenge over his shoulder.
“Pray for me… if you can. There is no one else… Heaven would not have me, and Hell will not take me.” He had said nothing more, and was not seen again.
Now standing at the bedside of still another man in torment, Gareth clasped one of the beautiful scarred hands in his own, recalling the echo of the ragged whisper that had struggled from the depths of suffering to reach him.
”There is no one… ”
The Healer bowed his head, mourning for all broken souls, before whispering aloud “There is someone.”
In His Name by Moira of the Mountain
Chapter Notes: The Healer determines more about his mysterious patient, and discovers the use of a Dark Potion.