The Riddle - Alison Croggon [98]
“Minikim?” repeated Maerad. She found Mirka’s broken Annaren hard to follow, and the Pilanel word defeated her.
“I forget the word. Witch? Dhilla? I mend people. Once.”
“Healer?” said Maerad, and then tried the Speech. “Dhillarearën?”
Mirka paused in her scrubbing. “Yes, once,” she said in the Speech. “You are a Dhillarearën?”
“Yes,” said Maerad; it was a relief not to have to struggle through barriers of language. “I don’t know. I haven’t had the right schooling to become a Bard.”
The woman cackled again. “Schooling? I am one of the Pilani. We don’t send all with the Voice down to Annar, although some go. But that was a long time ago. I live here now, and wait for death to come and visit me. But, instead, I find you. What does that mean, eh?”
“I don’t know,” said Maerad. She felt confused, and even this short conversation tired her. The old woman came closer and examined her face.
“You are pretty under those scabs, I can see that. Never fear, there will be no scars; the young heal quickly, and Mirka remembers healing, even if she forgets much else. You must sleep if you are to heal.” Mirka put her hand on Maerad’s brow, and sleep swept through her like a wave. But then she started up, remembering something with a sudden panic.
“What about my pack? Was my pack with me?”
“Yes, my chick. I couldn’t get your hands off it when you came in, you were holding it so tightly. What is so precious to you, that you cannot let it go? Nothing is that important. Sleep now. . . .”
Time began to run consecutively, and to differentiate into day and night. Maerad managed to get out of the bed the day after first talking to Mirka, although her legs were so shaky she could scarcely walk across the hut. Mirka supported her, making clicking noises, with the dog walking at her heels, as if it too were helping. Just walking across the room made Maerad dizzy, and she had to sit down; Mirka waited until the trembling stopped, and then patiently made her do it again.
The day after that she went outside, her eyes watering in the bright daylight, and sat and watched as Mirka, who was much stronger than she looked, chopped wood and tended to her chickens, which scratched around in a little coop scarcely smaller than the hut itself. It looked as eccentric outside as it did inside, its single clay chimney crookedly defying gravity, its walls a patchwork mixture of mud daub and stones and wood, but it was strangely homelike.
In the merciless light of day, Mirka looked even odder; her clothes were shapeless, clearly once having belonged to many people — men, women, children — and scavenged for their warmth. They were now all worn down to the same gray-brown color and seemed to adhere to her skin. She obviously never bathed. Despite this, Mirka was not unpleasant to be around; she smelled like woodsmoke and earth and some bitter herb. The dog, whom Mirka called Inka, which Maerad later discovered was the Pilanel word for dog, followed her everywhere, always at her heels. When she fished, Inka curled up beside her and went to sleep, and Mirka slept at night with the dog, by the fire. Maerad never heard Inka bark or growl, and she took no notice of Maerad whatsoever, once she had sniffed her and decided she was harmless. She was, like Mirka herself, a scrawny, tough creature — a continuous silent presence who seemed, after a time, like an aspect of Mirka herself.
The hut was hidden in a small clearing in a forest of spruce that filled a little gully on the northern side of the Osidh Elanor. On one side was an ancient wild pear tree, its gnarled branches heavy with sour green fruits. Brambles twined themselves crazily about the walls of the chicken coop. A small stream, cold as ice and flickering with minnow and other fish,