‘She made all sorts of remedies – elixirs and tonics, tinctures and salves,’ Fox continues. ‘And she would take them to those in need.’
‘She didn’t sell them?’ I ask.
He shakes his head as he kneels to inspect a patch of wild mushrooms. ‘My grandmother never charged. Most of her patients were Fidra, and many couldn’t afford to pay for medicine. But often they would give her something in return, anything they could spare – a loaf of bread, shoelaces, that kind of thing.’ He smiles a little, remembering. ‘And she didn’t just treat people; she helped animals, too. A wild dog that had been mauled, a bird with a broken wing. She would take them in and nurse them back to health.’
‘She certainly sounds very different to my grandmother,’ I muse, biting back a grin.
‘She was different from everybody,’ he says. ‘She was one of the most extraordinary people I ever knew, and yet she lived so simply. Lived off the land. She used to tell me that the forest has everything we need to survive, so long as you know where to look.’
‘And how do you know where to look?’
Fox pauses, considering the question, then shrugs. ‘I can show you, if you like.’
I return the shrug in what I hope is a nonchalant manner. ‘All right.’
Fox chuckles as Cedar nudges him gently with his muzzle.
‘If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you could speak to that horse,’ I mutter as we set off through the trees.
‘What a vivid imagination you have, Storm Weaver,’ Fox says mildly.
The morning air is cool and fresh, heavy with the scent of wild garlic. I pick my way across the forest floor with newfound ease, having gradually grown accustomed to the tangle of roots and twisting plants that once threatened to trip me up at any given moment.
I catch Fox watching me. ‘What?’
‘You just seem like you’ve got used to it, that’s all,’ he says. ‘Being here.’
‘Being here in the Wildlands or being here with you?’
‘Both, I suppose.’
I smile sweetly. ‘I confess that I now consider you to be merely aggravating as opposed to wholly insufferable.’
Fox lays a hand on his chest in mock gratitude. ‘High praise indeed.’
‘As for the Wildlands,’ I continue, ‘I can’t say that I hate it here. In fact, I find it strangely … peaceful.’
‘Peaceful,’ he murmurs.
The dappled white-gold light filtering through the branches dances across his face. I watch as he absent-mindedly reaches out his gloved hand to skim every tree we pass, as though marking an invisible trail.
It’s not long before we slow to a stop.
‘This is as good a place as any,’ Fox declares, crouching to examine a patch of jagged purple plants. ‘Shall we start with roots?’
‘Ah, so it’s your grandmother I have to thank for all those root stews,’ I say dryly.
‘Precisely.’
I kneel beside him in the undergrowth, close enough to breathe in the scent of fresh mint and pine.
‘Now, this one is called burdock,’ he begins. ‘Not only can you eat the root but it can also be used to draw out toxins in the blood.’ His voice is animated, almost boyish. ‘Then over here we have bull thistle, which is similar in appearance and good for joint pain.’
Arrowroot. Evening primrose. Mandrake. Goldenseal. Wood sorrel.
I listen intently as Fox explains the healing properties of each, telling me which parts are edible, which aren’t. Some he digs up and shows me, then pockets for later use.
I point at a cluster of pinkish flowers. ‘What’s that?’
