Alea studied her patient closely. “Not really, but I keep hoping.”
Versey nodded. “She may yet live.”
“What else can we do?” Alea burst out.
Versey shrugged. “The ancients used to pour blood from one person into another, but even if we could work out the manner of it, the blood might be wrong. There are different kinds of blood, you see, and we’ve lost the knack of telling the one from the other.”
Alea flirted with the idea of calling Herkimer for directions on blood typing, but decided against it; she might be handing Linda from a natural death to burning for witchcraft. Herself, too, of course. “There must be something!”
“There are some herbs that might help, in that broth of yours.” Versey rose. “I’ll see what these Gregors have by way of a garden.” Briefly, he rested a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, daughter. She’ll live, or I mistake the signs. You’ve done well, very well indeed.”
Then he left, and Alea stared after him, wondering why he had called her “daughter” when he hadn’t said that to any of the others.
After dinner, while others watched Linda, Versey and Alea talked shop. He told her which herbs were good for what ills, and little verses to help her remember. She, in turn, told him about the minor operations she had studied, and the importance of cleanliness for surgery. That led to germ theory, and she was surprised and delighted that Versey already knew of it, though he spoke of germs as creatures carried by the blood, so small that no one could see them and that could live on doorknobs or dishes or any surface. He sighed as he told Alea of his trials in trying to persuade the clans to be clean. He had even told them of brownies and fairies, and how they hated dirt and laziness. Questioning, she discovered that he truly believed in the spirits and remembering the fairies she and Gar had met, she could see why.
“You’ve heard that some of those tiny creatures you call ‘germs’ grow in our stomachs and help us digest our food, of course,” he said.
Alea was amazed how much knowledge had survived the collapse of the colony’s technological civilization. “Yes.” She smiled. “They live on a little of our food, and help our bodies to use it.”
Versey smiled, too. “That seems fair.” He turned to look at Linda’s door, worry creasing his forehead. “She could use some more of them now, I don’t doubt. The heat of the fever has probably killed a good many of them.”
“Of course!” Alea said with chagrin. “Yogurt! Why didn’t I think of that?”
Versey turned back to her in surprise. “Yogurt?”
“Sour milk left on the stove overnight,” Alea explained, “with the fire banked inside. It will pick up spores from the air and clabber. When it becomes—well, almost like butter—it’s sour but good to eat, and has bac … the same kind of tiny creatures as those in our stomachs.”
“A good thought.” Versey rose. “I’ll ask Hazel to set a bowl of milk on the stove.”
“And tomatoes!” Alea reached up to catch his sleeve. “I should have thought of that. We must give her tomato juice to drink!”
“Red as blood, and the same consistency.” Versey nodded. “Like calls to like, and it will bring blood into being. Very good, Alea. I should have thought of that, too.”
He went off to the kitchen, and Alea scolded herself for forgetting. The fever and the blood loss had both doubtless depleted Linda of electrolytes. She’d thought that at first and been angry because there were no oranges or lemons here, but they had served tomatoes at dinner, and she’d forgotten that tomatoes had citric acid! Not the best electrolyte, to be sure, but enough.
“They’ll see to it.” Versey smiled as he came back to her. “How did you learn of healing, Alea? I’ve never before met a peddler who knew anything of it. Did you learn it as a child?”
Time to be vague but truthful. “No, I learned it from a traveling companion. He’d been a soldier, so I suppose he learned it from a battlefield healer.”
“A healer on the battlefield!” Versey sighed. “Wouldn’t it be good if the clans had something of the sort!”
“Well, they do seem to know a little,” Alea said cautiously. “Are you the only healer in this region?”
“In the county, at least,” Versey said, shaking his head. “It would be good if there were more Druids, and if all of us learned healing, but it’s a hard life, enduring the hidden contempt of those you try to save.”
“Save?” Alea asked in surprise.
Versey gave her a sad smile. “The healer in me tries to save their bodies from death, Alea, and the priest in me tries to save their souls from dedication to killing and cruelty. But no one believes in the gods, not really, so they don’t respect the few of us who do.”
“Then why do you?” Alea asked, wondering.
“Well, I was raised knowing the old tales,” Versey said. “Parents tell them to their children at bedtime, and around the fire on long winter nights. But as you grow up, you learn that everyone really thinks they’re just that, stories—stories that teach you right from wrong and how to steer clear of the worst mistakes you can make—but only stories for all that.”
“Then what made you believe them?”
“Despair.” Versey looked straight into her eyes. Alea stared.
“I despaired of the killing ever coming to an end,” Versey explained. “I despaired of clans ever learning to forgive one another for their ancestors’ crimes and for the murdering that’s gone on ever since. I cast about for some way to end it, someone who could tell them ‘Stop!’ and make it happen and finally realized that only the gods could do that. If they would. That’s when I began to believe in them.”
“But if they can, why don’t they?” Alea asked.
“I understood that, too,” Versey said. “It all came to me in an instant that made me feel as though something, someone, was pulling me up by the hair. I realized that the gods must be real, but that they won’t make the clans stop, only tell them how.”
“The clans won’t listen, though,” Alea protested.
“No, they won’t.” Versey heaved a gusty sigh. “They won’t, though I’ve spent my life trying to tell them. ‘The gods are real,’ that’s my message—the gods are real, and they’re talking to you all the time, if you’ll only stop and listen.”
“I’ve listened,” Alea said. “I haven’t heard.”
“Haven’t you?” Versey’s eyes lit with zeal. “These are the gods of the forest, remember, the gods of field and brook, of thunder and rain, of rock and earth and all that grows from it. Haven’t you ever gone out to the fields and simply sat and listened?”
“Of course I have,” Alea said, “when people become too much for me.”
“Then you’ve heard the wind as it blows through the corn,” Versey said, “and the water as it runs in the brook. You’ve heard birdsong and thunder and the fallen leaves rustling as you walk through the forest in autumn.”
“Yes, of course.” Alea blinked. “Who hasn’t?”
“You’ve heard all that, and you say you’ve never heard the gods talking?” Versey leaned toward her with a smile of pity. “Listen again, lass, listen with your heart as well as your ears, and you’ll know suddenly what the gods want of you. You won’t hear it in words, just with a sudden certainty, here…”—he touched his temple—“…and here…”—he touched his heart—“…a. certainty, and all at once you’ll be sure what’s right and wrong.” He leaned back, hands on his knees, beaming. “Then it’s time for words-to tell it to other folk.”
“But they’ll say I’m crazed, that my mind is shattered!”