Chapter Two
Death
Two mornings later,Aveta rose to find that clouds had moved in and rain fell from the sky. Her plans to tend to her garden would have to wait.
She settled in to work in her tiny cottage. There were herbs to be dried and several potions and poultices she had promised to villagers in a few days time.
The rain fell harder as the morning transitioned into afternoon and the wind howled outside the shutters. In the midst of the tempest, someone pounded on her door. The force of the blows shook the heavy wooden portal.
Worried, Aveta rushed over and found a man hunched in front of the doorway, a long cloak shielding his features from the cold drops that fell fast and furious.
“You are needed urgently,” he stated, his voice nearly carried away by the wind.
Aveta realized he was the servant of one of the most prosperous men in town. A man whose wife was approaching the end of a difficult pregnancy.
“Come in for a moment so I may gather my things,” she invited. As she moved to her worktable, she asked, “Is it Branwen?”
“Yes,” he answered. “The baby comes but it has been more than a day.”
Her back to the man, Aveta scowled. She warned Drust that Branwen’s labor would be difficult and that he should send for her as soon as it began. Caderyn, the village healer, had been in attendance and scoffed at her demand. No doubt the man had convinced Drust that her presence was unnecessary.
Aveta quickly placed everything she might need in a basket and covered it with a heavy cloth. Then she threw a cloak over her shoulders, pulling the hood down low to protect her face from the stinging rain.
“I’m ready,” she assured him.
The walk into the village was difficult. More than once, the servant had to hold onto her arm to prevent the wind from knocking her to her knees.
By the time they arrived at their destination, Aveta was soaked to her skin and chilled. As she entered the house, she was glad to see that it was warm, almost hot. Quickly, she removed her dripping cloak and moved into the other room.
Her heart began to race when she saw the small mound of Branwen’s figure on the bed. Even pregnant, she was tiny and delicate. The young woman’s face was pale and still and she groaned softly. Drust and Caderyn stood together near the bed and Aveta felt a surge of fury in her blood.
It was clear that Branwen was greatly weakened from her ordeal. Aveta did not greet the men aloud, afraid that she would not be able to control herself if she spoke. She rarely cast spells, preferring to use potions and poultices to solve problems for those who came to her, but she feared her rage would overwhelm her reason. If she opened her mouth, she would curse them to suffer until the end of their days for what they had done to this sweet girl. Branwen was barely more than a child and her pregnancy had been difficult.
The fear and ignorance of the men in Branwen’s life led her to this precipice, for Aveta knew that she hovered between life and death. Like many of the other villagers, Drust did not understand Aveta. The lack of comprehension led to fear and aversion.
Caderyn despised her because she saw him for what he was. It was tradition for the healers to be blessed by the god and goddess. If the deities blessed a healer, they became the vessel for their power. Caderyn was not a vessel. While he did have some knowledge of healing, he allowed pride and bias to affect his treatment of the villagers.
Nodding to the men, who stood over the bed as though their mere presence would save Branwen, Aveta got to work. When she looked beneath the blanket, placed her palm on the girl’s swollen abdomen, and allowed the healing power of the goddess to flow through her hand, her heart sank. The baby was dead.
Though her heart broke for the loss of the child, Aveta focused on now saving the mother. She managed to rouse Branwen enough to have her drink a tea made from herbs that she brought.
For hours, she worked to help the young woman give birth to a babe that no one but she knew was dead. When the baby was finally born, Aveta quickly wrapped it. She held it out to Drust first, but he shook his head, his face ashen. Caderyn would not take the child either. The servant who had fetched Aveta stepped forward and took the small, motionless bundle.
“The baby,” Branwen mumbled. “My baby.”
“The babe is fine,” Aveta lied.
Branwen reached for Drust, who moved closer but did not take his wife’s hand.
Her anger returning with a vengeance, Aveta went back to Branwen and did everything she could to save the young woman’s life.
But it was too late.
Two hours after the stillbirth, Branwen released her last breath on a sigh. Caderyn removed Drust from the room. The man allowed himself to be guided out without a word.
Aveta stared after them, hoping that Drust was merely overwhelmed by grief rather than as uncaring as he seemed.
She moved to the bed and looked down at Branwen. “I’m sorry, little one. May you be at peace.”
