Crispin_ At the Edge of the World - Avi [9]
“Where’s she going?” I asked. Everything they did made me fearful.
“Water.”
“Why doesn’t she speak?”
The old woman shifted round to look at me with her one good eye. “Troth was born with a broken mouth,” she muttered. “People fear her. So Troth speaks little. Besides,” she added, peering up at me in her twisted way, “Aude’s gods say: The less that’s said, the more that’s understood.”
“Can she hear?” I asked, staring after the girl.
“Troth listens to Aude’s hands,” was the crone’s grudging reply.
The woman stuck her bony fingers into a small clay pot, which was filled with what appeared to be some kind of grease along with the smell of honey.
Clutching me for support, Aude went on her knees, and began to apply the ointment to Bear’s wound, his limbs, neck, and face. Hearing her mumble under her breath, I wondered if she were conjuring magic.
Alarmed, I gazed about in search of a cross, something, anything Christian.
I saw none.
“Good dame,” I blurted out, “are you … a Christian?”
My question made the hag pause in her work. She drew back on her haunches. Her frowning silence made me regret my question. After a while she said, “Why do you ask?”
“I … I fear for his soul.”
She fixed me fiercely with her eye. “Nay, it’s Aude … you fear.”
My face grew hot. “A … little,” I allowed.
“Oh, yes,” she said, gnawing on her toothless gums, “Aude is old. Aude is ugly. Aude … and Troth … live apart. Do you fear such things, boy?”
“Y … yes.
“Know then,” she said, “that Aude is of the old religion.”
“Old religion?” I cried, taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“The old gods—it’s they Aude worships.”
Shocked, for I had never ever heard anyone speak of “old gods,” I hardly knew what to say.
Her single eye remained sharp on me. “Do you still want Aude’s help?”
“In Jesus’s name,” I whispered, “I want him well.”
“Nerthus—my god—gives life,” she said. “What can you give?”
“What … do you … want?” I stammered, fearful that she might request my soul.
“It’s for you to offer.”
“I have … very little,” I said. “A few pennies.”
The crone held out a clawlike hand.
I went to Bear’s sack, scraped up our few remaining coins, and dropped them in her withered palm. She curled crumpled fingers over them and put them in a little bag tied round her waist with a leather thong.
“Old Aude shall try for life,” she muttered, and resumed daubing her grease mix on Bear’s limbs.
Afraid to press her further, my mouth dry with apprehension, I watched in silence. The dimness of the bower; the ruby-colored fire-glow; her ancient, tangled look; her multi-hued rags; her broken posture—all made the crone appear like some deep-wood demon, and the girl, with her disfigured face, an ill-begotten familiar.
Silently, I made urgent prayers, begging my all-powerful Lord that though this woman was not Christian, she might help my Bear.
8
TROTH CAME and set the heated helmet down next to the old woman. Spiraling vapors—like drifting spirits—curled up. “Lift his head,” Aude whispered.
I did as she bid. The old woman squeezed Bear’s cheeks so hard his mouth gaped opened. Troth, using the mazer, poured in some liquid. Bear gagged, coughed, but swallowed. This was repeated a few times.
“He must rest,” said Aude.
In the dim light we sat in silence watching Bear. Then the crone abruptly shifted round, leaned toward me and said, “You must tell Aude who you are.”
Alarmed, I managed to say, “What do you mean?”
“You are fleeing.”
“What … what makes you think so?”
“You are alone in the forest with nothing save your fear. He wears a juggler’s cap, but here you cannot sing and dance for coins. An arrow has wounded him. He has been abused. You were hiding. You must tell of these things to Aude and Troth.”
I was afraid to say I didn’t trust her.
“It will help,” Aude said.
“How?”
“To know how a man suffers, is to know how he lives … or dies.”
I glanced at Troth. The girl was staring at me, her dark brown eyes unfathomable.