While the nameless patient looked around curiously, Kraghtol was preparing the poultice, mashing the sturdy green leaves of Woundwort from the forest and Comfrey from the garden with Frostmint ointment they had prepared last winter. As expected, the sharp, minty smell of the Frostmint quickly dominated the kitchen area.
“I think your patient might have more issues than just his ankle…” Merrick whispered.
“Without a doubt,” Kraghtol agreed. His muffled voice sounded more like two stones rubbing together, and he liked it even less than his normal voice.
“But I know nothing we can do about that. Perhaps it’s just a temporary loss of memory. Or perhaps it’s his age.”
“Hm. You are right that it is unlikely that we can heal that illness. But you can give him tea of Bitterleaf. That might help his mind clear up a bit. Just…”
Kraghtol nodded. “Yes, I know. Not too much Bitterleaf. Otherwise, he might get sick.”
“Judging by the color of his skin, you might want to give him even less than the normal amount. Just one or two leaves. We don’t want to risk anything.”
His foster father’s superior experience always left him amazed.
“Oh, and one more thing, Kragh. You did really well in examining your patient. I remember I was incredibly nervous when I had to diagnose my first.”
Merrick smiled proudly, but it was hard for Kraghtol to accept the praise. After all, Merrick had probably had his first patient as little more than a child, not as an adult of 19 years, like he was. And it was unclear when he could treat his next patient, even if the mad old man would praise his skills on the streets. But did that really matter? One thing was indisputable: hewastreating his first patient, and he did it well.
Applying the poultice wasn’t hard, and soon, the gnarly old man had his ankle dressed in a clean wet bandage and was enjoying his Bitterleaf tea. And, miraculously, he actuallywasenjoying the tea. Bitterleaf tea was among the most unpleasant tastes Kraghtol could imagine, but his patient didn’t seem to mind as he drank the hot and steaming brew from the metal mug.
“So,” he finally chuckled after he emptied the cup. “I don’t have a name right now, but you do, do you not? Kragh, was it? Sounds a bit like a cracked teapot, if you ask me.”
“It’s Kraghtol, actually,” Kraghtol admitted. He didn’t know why he had shared that, but it was unlikely that the old patient knew the Orcish language enough to understand what it meant.
“Kragh…tol. That’s not very nice, is it now?”
Well, so much for that. This patient was getting more mysterious by the minute. As far as Kraghtol was aware, only very few people in Wardenreach understood Orcish. It was not directly forbidden, but for most people, it was just impossible to learn it. Since Kraghtol was an aspiring healer, he had been officially allowed to learn how to read and write, and Merrick had found a short treatise on the Orcish language in the wares of a traveling merchant, meant for military officers on the border. Well, the old man seemed to be a wanderer of sorts. Perhaps he had been at the border and learned a few words from the soldiers.
“No, it is not,” Kraghtol confirmed. “That’s why I go by Kragh whenever possible.”
“Understandable.” The old man chuckled again. “After all, ‘beast’ is better than ‘bastard of the beast’.”
Kraghtol felt really uncomfortable with the conversation. The name was a ‘gift’ from his human mother when she left him with Merrick, and not from his Orcish father, as one might suspect. He learned the meaning of the word many years later, when Merrick bought him that book, and by then, he couldn’t very well change hisname anymore. So, shortening it to ‘Kragh’ was the best he could do — save for confronting his mother about it, should he ever meet her.
“Yes. Luckily, nobody knows what it means, and I would prefer it to stay that way.”
“Oh, a secret. I love secrets.” The old man was still amused beyond measure. “But you can trust me, can you not? I won’t tell any of your friends, no, I will not.”
He was not afraid the patient would tell his friends — their non-existence alone made that no concern — but if word about the meaning of his name came out, Fennew and his friends would have enough to mock him with for years to come. He felt the anger rise again.
The crazy patient fell back into cackling, and Kraghtol suspected that the conversation was over, when suddenly, the wrinkly face became rather serious again.
“You do seem to know a lot about herbs and plants, do you not? Woundwort, Comfrey, Frostmint and Bitterleaf. A fine selection for a healer, and a solid base for an apothecary. What else do you know?”
“I… know a few more helpful plants, if that’s what you mean. Like Mossfern against fever, or Stonewort if your stomach is in turmoil.”
“Yes, Stonewort and Mossfern… Do you know the Mandrake?”
Kraghtol wasn’t sure where this interview was going, but it was obvious that the nameless patient knew a lot about herbology. Perhaps there was even something to learn here.
“Mandrake. That plant is pretty rare here. I think I saw one, years ago, but as far as I know, it doesn’t have any beneficial properties. It is slightly poisonous if eaten, though.”
“Ah, ha-ha. So right, and yet so wrong. Yes, yes, it is rare here, and yes, you shouldn’t eat it. But it is so important, so beneficial. I trust you are not an alchemist, then, are you?”
An alchemist? Kraghtol shook his head.
“No, we don’t have one in Mistpine. There is just no reason for the guild to send one up here. Nobody here could afford what they offer.”
