Sanctuary Pack Stories: The Herbalist [Part Three]
[Eight and Dace continue on their journey to track down an expert herbalist in an effort help cure the illness ravaging The Sanctuary Pack]
It’s good to be on the move again; a blue, brilliant winter morning, the air crisp and clear as glacial runoff. A few stubborn birds perch in the barren trees, trying their songs against the silence.
Dace clears her throat. "Eight. I wanted to say."
"Hm?" Eight looks up, half-startled. She's been deep in thought all morning; 'hunting clouds', as Saturn would say.
And no wonder. There had been a moment, the night before, when Dace had made a mistake. Had made Eight uncomfortable-- had made things uncomfortable, between them.
Eight’s eyes meeting hers; her breath fogging in the winter air, and Dace had thought, I’ve missed this more than I can say. Something must have showed in her face; Eight had stepped away, fast, turning her head.
She has been quiet, since.
"Just: last night. If I made you uncomfortable, or something." Dace shrugs, keeps her eyes fixed forward. "You know-- sorry. Won’t happen again."
"Oh!" Eight shakes her head. "Oh no, Dace, that's-- No, I wasn't. Uncomfortable, I mean! It's fine."
Dace does twist, now, to look over Eight. She's not looking back; has her head craned around, staring with great intensity into the trees.
"Alright," Dace says. Resolves to keep a little more distance, anyway, if Eight’s going to be too polite to admit when she’s wrong-footed.
The walk on, the loudest sound for miles the crunching of their paws through the crusty snow. The sun creeps its slow way across the sky.
Eight clears her throat, venture: “Um, so-- how is it?”
Dace looks up.
“Being a-- scout. Or a loner? I mean--” she shrugs, looks briefly at Dace and then away again. “I don’t know. Is it-- fun? I guess? Do you like it?”
Dace nods. “It’s alright. It’s good, actually.” She looks out at the frozen wood: at the towering trees, bark black against the snow, the sharp pine-needle smell. At the sky, a piercing, thorn-sharp blue above. “I do like it. In fact…”
In fact, they're right by that old pond, aren't they? The frogs will be dug into the mud hibernating-- they could dig some out, like that crow had shown Dace last spring, and--
She looks sideways at Eight. Remembers her odd stiffness the night before. Clears her throat. “In fact, though, it can get a little boring.”
“Oh?” Eight cocks her head.
“Sometimes.” Dace shrugs. “And you? Healing? That seems-- interesting.”
A stiff pause. Eight huffs. “Well, I guess-- a little too interesting, lately. Um.”
Dace winces. “Of course. Scat, Eight, I’m sorry-”
“No--” Eight shakes herself. “No, it’s okay. It is- not just now, I mean- interesting.” She laughs, a little awkwardly.
They walk along for a while. Dace watches her paws; studies the prints she makes, tries not to think about much else.
After a while, Eight laughs again. “I’m sorry, Dace-- I don’t really know-- there aren't. Sorta, fun anecdotes, I guess? It isn’t--”
“No, you’re fine!” Dace huffs. “Just uh, not used to travelling with someone else. Probably getting too chatty.”
“No.” Eight sighs. “If it was spring- or summer or even fall, really- I could show you plants and stuff? Like herbs? But.” She looks out over the forest; undergrowth buried under months of snow, the trees dormant, roots all locked away beneath the frost.
“Sure,” Dace says, easily. “Bad season for it. Maybe--” I can come by in spring, and you can show me then. She almost says it. Clears her throat. “Maybe this would have been a little more fun in spring,” she settles on instead, trying to keep her voice light.
“Less cold,” Eight says, by way of agreement.
They walk on-- endlessly, they walk on.
It’s five more days of travel to reach the bear, and even Dace is starting to get a little footsore. The hard, icy surface of the snow is wearing away at her pawpads, sure as rough stone would.
Eight isn’t any better, facing all the same strain of long travel with none of the practice Dace has. She limps up to where Dace has paused on the edge of the forest, and comes to a stop, breath fogging as she catches her breath.
They’ve come to the edge of the forest.
Beyond, the prairie goes on forever. White, flat land, rolling endlessly on until the blue curve of the horizon. It seems very exposed. Dace imagines living there, without shelter of tree or rock, without shadow or undergrowth, and shivers, despite her thick winter coat.
Eight makes a low, uncertain sound in the back of her throat. She’s hunched up into herself; ears flat, tail tucking under, and Dace’s chest squeezes.
“Pretty weird,” she says, to break the silence.
And she hasn’t been saying as much, lately. Been trying to give Eight her space. But it’s worth it, now, to see Eight relax, a little. To see her stand up straighter.
“Pretty weird,” she agrees.
And still the prairie stretches on. Beyond the shelter of the trees, a wind kicks up, and a tumbleweed of snow goes skating out across the plain, silver against the brilliant, endless blue of the sky.
“Hoot,” Dace says, and finds her voice comes out a bit hushed. She clears her throat. Tries again. “Hoot used to talk about-- where she came from.”
“Mhm.” Eight can’t seem to find the words to respond; that’s okay.
Dace goes on. “On hunting trips- back when I was hunting- She's say about the ocean. You know?”
“Yes,” Eight says, low.
“About how there was somewhere the land stops. And it’s just water forever, after that. Until the-- the edge. Do you think...”
She doesn’t know how to put it. But Eight nods, eyes still fixed rigidly forward. “Yes,” she says, again. “This is-- it seems like--”
The both look out over the prairie again. Flat land, stretching on. It must end, somewhere. But--
Dace shakes herself. “Well,” she says, sounding just short of upbeat. “Well. Our bear lives out there, somewhere.”
Eight nods. “Yes,” she says. “Right.”
And if she sticks a little closer to Dace’s side, as they step out onto the plains-- Well. Dace can’t blame her, for it.
It makes her feel better, too.
They reach the bear that evening. A low hill, a copse of cottonwoods, the ceaseless, piercing howling of the wind, unbroken across the whole of the prairie.
“Strange place for a bear to den,” Eight says, her voice very low. “Isn’t it? I mean--”
“Yes,” Dace says. Finds herself speaking very softly, involuntarily. She tries again, clearing her throat. “But from what I’ve heard, he’s a strange bear. He couldn’t help us if he wasn’t.”
Her voice comes out a little more strongly, and Eight straightens up. Nods.
The cottonwoods grow close together, trunks dark and strangely straight, an unnatural quality to them. The wind breaks as they come through the trees, and leaves an eerie silence- not much better- in its absence.
Dace’s own breath is loud in her ears. Something brushes her shoulder-- Eight, drawing close. They look at one another for just an instant. Dace lets out a breath, slowly. Is suddenly very glad to have Eight here with her, in this strange place.
The ground is rucked up by the roots of one enormous tree, in the very center of the grove; its bark is nearly black against the snow, the sharp white-blue of the sky. A dark space peeks out between the gnarled roots.
They have come to the bear’s den, at last.
Dace thinks, for a wild, stupid moment, of the stories Rover tells to pups; a great Rowan tree, a pack of monstrous wolves.
She stares up at the giant cottonwood. Shakes herself. “Hello?” Her voice, thankfully, does not waver. “We’ve come from far away, seeking medicine.” She pauses. Looks sideways at Eight.
Eight looks back at her, ears pulled down in uncertainty. “I’m a healer myself,” she tries, and Dace touches her shoulder, briefly, encouraging. “But I can’t heal this sickness-- we need your help.”
Another pause. The den is all shadow, before them; a deep pit, an open mouth, plunging down into the frozen earth. Dace can’t quite make herself step towards it; shivers at the idea of it, squeezing herself blind and helpless between the roots, towards who knows what.
She tries again, instead. I will go, she tells herself, sternly, if he does not answer this time, I will go in. “Great-- bear healer. May we speak with you?”
Nothing, for a long moment. Dace takes a breath-- wrenches herself away from Eight’s warm side and pads forward to the mouth of the den. Here goes, she thinks, and then--
“Dace!” Eight says, tight with alarm, and at the same time another, deeper voice sounds out.
“Well,” it says. “There’s no need to shout.”
Dace turns, slowly, and there is the bear.
A massive shape, almost unreal. His huge, blunt head dips down beside Eight, nearly the size of her entire torso. His shoulders, humped with muscle, could put pause to a bison. He crouches, peering at Dace, and when he curls his lip up to sniff, his teeth flash long and white.
Eight is stiff as if she’s frozen solid, only a paw’s length away from the creature. The whites of her eyes show, plainly frightened, and Dace wrenches herself into action.
She folds into a bow, back hunching, tail tucking automatically. They don’t hold with submission much, at Sanctuary, but it is nearly instinctive to do it now.
“Great bear,” she says, eyes fixed firmly on the ground- on the bear’s immense paws, heavy and clawtipped, digging furrows into the snow. “I have heard of your healing from other creatures--”
“Yes, yes,” the bear says, his deep voice strangely cheerful. “The geese, was it? They do love to gossip.”
Dace looks up at him, startled, for a moment, and then drops her eyes again, hastily. “It-- was the geese, sir.”
If the bear notices her surprise, he says nothing of it. “Hm. Just as well. Follow me, then!” And he shoulders past Dace- a brush of immense strength, something like one of the human’s cars blowing past on their roads- a near miss, an impression of power- and then he is by, lumbering awkwardly down into his den, and there is nothing left to do except to follow.
[The last part of this story!Eight and Dace finally find the expert herbalist they’ve been looking for, and ask him to help cure the illness that’s been ravaging The Sanctuary Pack]
In the cramped, low space of the den, the bear's bulk is only magnified; Dace is glad he went down first. She's not sure they could have squeezed past him to get out again, if he were sitting by the exit.
It’s a strange place; the roof a tangle of gnarled roots, many hung with drying plants, and the air is thick with the smell of them. Heady, almost overpowering. Strange piles of-- things, lay up against the walls; the skins of dead animals, bones, feathers, pinecones, seashells. Dace tries not to look too closely.
The Bear, of course, notices nothing unusual about his own den, and trundles his way straight back to start scraping at his herbs without another word.
Eight peers around his shoulder as best she can without getting any closer, and Dace watches her with a kind of helpless fondness. Ever the herbalist.
The bear maybe senses Eight's curiosity; he turns and says- through a mouthful of leaves- "Keeps me awake, right? Hibernating time, I'd go right to sleep otherwise! I'll send you home with a clipping, you’ll propagate the stuff yourself. Yes, that’ll be nice.”
The bear doesn't seem to need a reply. He turns back to his work, humming a little; a deep, resonant sound, in the immense barrel of his chest.
Eight gives Dace a sideways look, ears twitching in amusement, and Dace feels her tail tap, once, involuntary.
It's easier to be entertained by the bear here, with his back turned. If anything happens, the low ceiling will hamper the bear more than them, and they're closer to the exit than he is. Dace is pretty sure she could get both Eight and herself out before he'd catch them. And on flat ground like the prairie there's no question they could outrun him, once they were free of the den. Even tired, a wolf can outdistance a bear.
So she lets herself relax, a little, and enjoy the warmth of the den-- with all three of them packed in, their body heat makes it practically cozy, and it's good to rest for a second, after their long march.
At last, the bear turns, and Dace ducks her head again, submissively. Eight follows her lead.
"Well, none of that," the bear says. "No time to waste. Which one of you is the healer?"
A brief pause. And then--
"I am." Eight's voice comes out soft.
The bear nods his great, broad head, and reaches forward to sniff her.
Eight flinches back a little, and Dace half-rises, heart hammering-- although what she could actually do if the bear chose to attack Eight directly, she has no idea. Distract him? Buy time for her to get away? Her instincts pay no attention to the impossibility of fighting-- her blood goes hot, and saliva floods her mouth to wet down her teeth.
But the bear only pulls back after a moment, nodding to himself. "Yes, you smell like it indeed! Carrionflower, I think? Yes.” He doesn’t pause long enough for Eight to answer. ”Well, and what's wrong then?"
Eight hesitates-- but only for a second. "We're-- not quite sure? Sir. I've never seen- and my mentor never taught me about it, either- so I don't know what it is."
The bear snorts; a waft of hot breath, smelling of herbs and meat. "Well, are you a healer or aren't you? Haven't you tried anything?"
Eight straightens. "Yes, of course!" She sounds almost indignant. "Goldenseal and Kava for their coughing, and it helps a little, but they don't get better. Bed rest, food, water, and I dose them with pineapple leaf when I can get it, too, which is rarely.”
She rattles off the list with growing confidence, voice firm and clear, and Dace has to stop her tail from wagging. When did you get so rotting smart?
The bear nods. "Good, Good. A cough then? Other symptoms?"
"Hardened pawpads and nose, fatigue, fever, loss of appetite, and then they sort of-- waste away." Her voice only wavers on the last point, and Dace can't blame her.
Dane lost, Seven sick, and who knew who else, since they'd left?
"Yes." The bear has gone very serious, sitting back and frowning deeply. "And it's contagious?"
"Yes."
"Hmm. Distemper, I think. Nasty, but it's treatable." The bear pauses for a long moment, his deep, whistling breaths the only sound.
Eight looks at Dace, uncertain, and Dace nods at her. Well done, she wants to add, but holds her tongue.
The bear speaks, at last, picking up as if he hadn't gone silent at all. "And do you know to craft medicines, or just give the raw plant?"
"Both, depending on the need." Eight pauses. "Is that-- alright? Should I not--"
"No, no, that's all well." The bear waves a paw in dismissal, and Dace has to stop herself from backing away-- even an incidental swipe from those massive claws could kill a wolf, or at least maim one. "This one, you will have to craft-- stew it in water, equal parts Mullein and Goldenseal, half as much Guaiacum."
"We have no Guaiacum."
"Hm. I will send you with some. I don't suppose you live anywhere tropical?"
"No, we’re-- no. Up in the mountains."
The bear huffs. "Well, you won't be able to grow more, then, and a shame, because it is very tasty on venison." He shrugs. "Well, you know where to find me-- and the birds are sometimes good for it, if you ask them before they migrate. I don't suppose you speak with birds very much?"
But it's an idea. Dace wonders if they couldn't leave some seed out, in the spring, and make a truce-- the migratory birds surely have a better sense of the land then they do, and they could bring all sorts of things back, and-- Dace cuts the thought off, frowning.
Of course, she won't be with the pack, by spring. A brief pain in her chest, something like a phantom limb-- she hasn’t managed to shake the instinct, all these long months as a loner, to think first of the pack.
The bear shrugs. “Well enough, well enough. A thought for later, then. I will get your bundles, never fear."
And he turns from them, without another word, and sets to his herbs.
After a moment Eight pads up next to him to watch, and the bear sidles over to make space, giving instructions in his low, rumbling voice.
Dace watches them- watches Eight, truthfully. She is very confident at her work, asking questions Dace wouldn't even think of, let alone know the answer to.
With no one looking at her, Dace lets herself feel- just for a second- that horrible, looming grief that's been biting at her heels all this long journey, like a wolf after a wounded buck, harrying.
It might be the last time she sees Eight at her work.
Dace has a brief, bright flash of memory-- Eight gangly with adolescence, trotting after Saturn to go foraging in the bright, warm sun of early autumn. The smell of herbs on her fur when she returned, bursting with new knowledge. Talking into the night about their training until the other adolescents got up to tell them off, for keeping everyone awake.
Dace's head droops. She should try and enjoy the time she has left, she knows. But their imminent parting looms, and just for now- just for a second- she lets herself mope.
When Eight turns back with her mouth full of hides- the precious herbs bundled safely within- Dace has straightened up again, and can speak without her voice going all gloomy. "Ready to go?"
"Yesh," Eight says, muffled by the bundle, and drops it, ears flattening back, embarrassed. Dace's chest gives a helpless squeeze.
"Yes," Eight says, more clearly, and turns to the bear. "Thank you very much!"
"Yes," the bear says, and yawns enormously, teeth flashing. "Glad to help. I will take a nap, now."
And he turns without another word, curling up to sleep.
Eight looks at him, for a second, and then shrugs at Dace. Dace shakes her head. No explaining bears, really. She crouches to pick up the bundle.
"Oh-- thanks!" Eight steps back to let her take it. "We can take turns?"
Dace nods, grateful for the excuse not to talk. She follows after Eight, lost in thought.
Dace and Eight set out in search of skilled healer- a bear- who is rumored to have a cure for any illness. [all art assets wolvden’s]
It is one of those hard, bitter, winter days, when there has not been fresh snowfall in some time. The old snow has been melted and refrozen by the sun, day after day, until a fine, hard crust of ice covers all the world, and glitters like quartz in the light.
It is good weather, in short, for travelling. Or as good as weather gets in the thick of winter: the sky is clear, at least, and the the ground is firm underfoot. Dace still thinks of trying to hunt in that long stretch of blizzards, her first winter, with a sort of instinctive horror.
She shakes the thought away, like shooing a fly, and pauses to take her bearings.
They are in the west part of the wood--south of the camp proper, but still well north of those human settlements which sprout up like toadstools at the base of the mountain.
Eight comes to a stop beside her, breath fogging in the bitter cold.
Dace nods. "We're on the right course," she says. "If we keep following the sun's path, we'll find him."
"Dace-- this bear we're after..." She trails off, and Dace nods for her to go on. "I mean-- you think he'll really help us? You're certain? It's a long way to go, if--" she pauses, again, tension coming off her in waves.
"It's a long time to be away, you mean," Dace says, "in a time of sickness. And-- to be away from your pup. Right?"
Eight ducks her head. "I worry about them. Ceda, I mean. I know they're old enough to look after themself. But--" she trails off again, tail drooping with uncertainty.
Dace huffs, briefly touching Eight's shoulder with her own. "I'm in no place to give advice, Eight, about that. I fear-- I know I wasn't the mother to Perch I should have been, at that age. But if-- I may?"
Eight nods.
"I think-- you have been a better mother to them, until now, than I was. What I saw, I mean, before--" she clears her throat. Before I left. "In any case. If it's hard for them to see you leave-- they must know it isn't for lack of affection, Eight. You have your duties as a healer. You aren't simply running off in order to--"
She stops, bitter at herself once more. to prove something to yourself? It is an effort of will, to stop her tail from drooping.
Eight makes a low, soft sound. "She has grown up into a fine wolf, you know. Perch has. She admires you."
A long pause. A cloud drifts over the sun, and the forest grays out into storm cloud colours, cold and uninviting.
"We should move on," Dace decides. "There's no time to waste."
Eight opens her mouth, as if to say something more-- and seems to decide against it.
She follows Dace back out into the woods.
The sun is low and red on the horizon, when next Dace speaks. "Rime says she had a son."
"Rime?" Eight stops, startled. "No, she hasn't had the time! I haven't gotten the sense she-- wants that, anyway. Mates and everything."
"No--" Dace huffs at herself. Just because she has been thinking of Perch all this while doesn't mean Eight will follow her. "No, I meant Perch. Rime says that Perch has a son."
"Oh!" Eight laughs at herself. "Sorry. I should have guessed that. Yes: he's small, but very healthy." A firmer tone coming into her voice, the confidence of a medical opinion.
"And she--" Dace clears her throat. "What has she named him?"
Eight looks at her, deep sympathy in her eyes. "Catfish. They call him Kit, but-- Catfish."
"Oh," Dace says, struggling to control her voice. "That's good, then. That's a good name."
A fish name. Like hers. So Perch had seen fit to keep the tradition, after all. That's-- good.
"It is," Eight says, gently. "A good name. It suits him."
Dace meets her eyes, for a moment, and then looks away, hot beneath her pelt. They continue on, in silence.
[Eight and Dace continue on their journey to track down an expert herbalist to help cure the illness ravaging The Sanctuary Pack]
Eight watches Dace, as night falls around them.
They'd found a spot to sleep the night-- a great old cedar, one of the real giants, half-uprooted. It leans drunkenly against its neighbours, and beneath its mat of roots is a dry, warm hollow. A perfect place to spend the night.
It smells like Dace, already, a little, and the earth is packed down near the back of the hollow, where the roots still tie the tree down. How many places are there like this? Eight wonders. Where Dace has spent a lonely night?
Dace herself is still looking out into the wood, her eyes distant.
"What are you thinking?" Eight says, gently, and Dace startles. Turns.
“Nothing important. Just-- how much this clearing is different, in the winter. This ground, here--" she scratches at the snow, a harsh skrnch-skrnch of claws on the ice. "In the summer, It's all over with wildflowers-- flowers like you wouldn't believe, the smell is-- is dizzying. And there's a creek- right by that old log there- which the snow has all covered up. And..." She trails off, sounding almost wistful. "Well. Nevermind. I was just-- thinking how Rover brought me here, our first day out together. I doubt if she'd recognize it like this. She doesn't come this way often."
Eight blinks at her. "And you do?"
Dace shrugs. "Not here in particular. I guess I go all over. I had this idea about-- mapping the territory."
"Mapping it?"
Dace nods. "Only an idea. A pattern of scent marks and claw marks- in trees, and the like- by landmarks, so you'd always know where you were." Her voice grows louder, eager. "Like, 'This clearing has three marked trees, so I'm three hour's walk from camp.' That sort of thing"
Eight looks at her, surprised. There's real passion in Dace's voice; real conviction.
"And," Dace continues, "with the scent marks, too, even in a heavy blizzard- even if you couldn't see at all- if you could smell, you could never be lost, nowhere on the whole territory!"
She stops, eyes glittering; lost in thought, again.
Eight remembers a long, terrible night, in the worst blizzard of their lifetimes, waiting for Rime to come home. Remembers Dace wretched over her loss, over not being able to stay and search for her. Remembers how close they had come to losing her, altogether.
"Dace," Eight says, slowly, "that's--"
Her voice seems to snap Dace out of her excitement; she settles, tail drooping back down. "Well," she says, with a sort of forced nonchalance, "Just an old idea-- no good thinking of it now. That fur's been shed."
They sit in silence, for a time. The wood is still and blue in the winter night. The full moon casts long, stark shadows through the trees.
"I don't think I've heard you talk like that," Eight says.
"No?" Dace gives her a sideways look, amused, and puffs out her chest, puts on a little-pup voice. "I'll be the best hunter you ever saw! The bears better watch out for me!! I'll take ‘em all down!"
Eight laughs. "Well-- alright. I haven't heard it since we were little." She shakes her head. Sobers. "You've changed a lot, since then."
"Have I?" Dace looks out into the night. "I guess we've all grown up, a little."
“I just mean-- you seem so serious, sometimes. I remember…” she trails away. Can’t articulate it.
“Do I?” Dace’s voice is thoughtful. “I wonder if--”
Eight looks out at the forest, when Dace trails away-- and is abruptly bowled over. Dace has sprung at her out of the blue, tail wagging, and pinned her easily.
“Still serious now?” She says, laughing, and Eight goes limp under her weight.
“You great buffalo, you’re crushing me!”
Dace starts to get up immediately. “Sorry, Eight, I was only--”
The second her weight is shifted, Eight plants her back legs into Dace’s belly, and shoves her over, leaping away again and landing in a play-bow, her own tail wagging.
Speaking of serious. How long has it been since I played like this?
“Oh, I call that cheating!” Dace laughs and bounces after Eight again, her body loose and wiggly.
Eight skips easily out of the way, rearing up onto her back legs to shove at Dace’s shoulder.
Dace lets herself be rolled under Eight’s new attack, going easily over onto her back-- though this close, it’s clear how solid the muscle is under her shaggy winter coat. Eight feels something of a scrawny coyote, trying to wrestle with her.
She stands tall, anyway, forelegs braced on Dace’s chest.
“Sad days when a healer will turn to violence,” Dace says, her tail wagging tracks in the snow. “Have we truly fallen so low?”
“You’re the low one,” Eight says, lifting her chin, and when she looks back down, Dace is staring up at her, undisguised affection in her eyes. Eight’s chest tightens, almost painfully. She steps back immediately, letting Dace up.
After a moment, Dace rolls to her feet and shakes, scattering snow everywhere.
Eight snorts, caught in the spray. “Hey!”
“Ah, never let an enemy see you unguarded.” Dace’s voice is heavy with mock-wisdom. But the playfulness has gone out of the air; the moment is past.
Soon, they both pad their way back into the hollow of the cedar roots, and curl up against the snow.
Eight can feel Dace’s stiffness, now, hanging over them as they settle to sleep. She had noticed, surely, that Eight was-- uncomfortable, for a moment.
Uncomfortable? she asks herself, and blinks the thought away. Dace is uncomfortable, now. That’s the thing that matters.
“You know,” Eight says, voice low. “I’m-- I don’t know. I’m sorry. But I’m glad it’s you, I mean. That I’m going with. That we’re going-- together.”
A silence.
“Dace?”
Her breathing is deep and even, loud in the ringing silence of the winter night. Eight sighs. Already asleep. She shifts, trying to get comfortable herself.
And maybe it is her imagination-- but it seems that Dace shifts, too, for just a moment, and settles down more relaxed than she had been before, pressed tight against Eight’s side; a warm, strong comfort, in the bitter cold of winter.
