Healing Hand

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A man walking in a forest as the sun shines. Photo by Pixabay: https://www.pexels.com/photo/man-walking-in-the-forest-160636/

I never wanted to be a soldier. The closest I ever came was when my brothers and I would fight. We would use wooden swords to stage mock battles in the courtyard, my mother and sister watching from a balcony above. My father was usually away on a campaign; while he waged a real war I played. That’s all it ever was to me – play. I knew I would never follow in his footsteps. It took me till my sixteenth summer to discover the path that I would walk.

For once father was home. Mother had convinced him to make the most of the warm summer day and spend time with us. We sat in the meadow at the edge of our estate. My brothers tested their skills at mounted combat, the pair of them riding in circles, battering each other with blunted swords, while my sister and I ventured to the stream at the end of the meadow.

Our parents had insisted we wait till noon to eat. To satisfy her hunger my sister picked wild berries from the brambles that lined the edge of the stream. She offered me a handful but I refused, not wanting to take the few that she had collected. I sat above the river bank watching her plod back and forth barefoot through the stream.

As the midday sun crept above, she declared that she was going to go to the meadow and collect flowers to weave a crown for me. As she left the stream and approached where I sat I watched the blood drain from her face. Her skin became as white as a winter frost and her eyes rolled back into her head. She fell to the floor, I darted forward and caught her before she hit the ground.

Panic swept through my body. Fuelled by fear, I scooped her into my arms to carry her to my parents. Her dead weight slowed me down; I remember moving as though I wadded through wet sand. I entered the meadow and my parents saw me cradling her unconscious form. They ran towards us, yelling, wanting to know what had happened. As I tried to explain, we crowded round my sister's body, her lips turning a deep blue with each passing second.

From behind us we heard a man yelling, “Move aside!” At the time, it seemed as if he appeared suddenly, a ghostly figure emerging from nowhere. Looking back I realise he was likely using the road on the edge of our estate, the other side of the stream. No doubt he was drawn by my parents yelling.

Everyone but my father had jumped back at the man's shout. My father stayed perched over my sister's body. This man ran up and shoved my father out of the way. My father, who had commanded thousands of men, who had sacked cities and helped forge an empire. That man was now being shoved aside like a beggar in the street.

After moving my father out of the way, this stranger unfolded a small woven sack and laid it next to my sister's body. He leaned forward, opened her mouth and smelled her breath. He used a small pestle and mortar to grind a handful of dried leaves and poured in a grey oil from a small vial. His hands worked rapidly but with the delicate nature of an expert. He lifted my sister's head and poured the strange concoction down her throat and clamped his hand over her nose and mouth. 

For a moment the whole world was still. None of us dared speak. The silence was only broken when my sister lurched upright and vomited a dark mixture of oil, berries and bile. My mother darted forward and wrapped my sister in a long embrace, tears streaming down my mother's face.

The man quietly packed up his belongings and stood to leave. He looked to my father and said, “The brambles at the edge of your property are not all edible, they are a mix of wild and Bittersweet berries.” He leaned forward and stroked my sister’s hair with an affectionate smile and said, “I suggest you be more cautious picking berries next time.”

My father stepped forward and said, “Thank you, we owe you a debt of gratitude.” He reached out and embraced the man's forearm in a warrior's embrace.

With nothing left to say the man turned and left. I noticed that his otherwise featureless brown tunic had the outline of hand stitched in the centre, directly over his heart. When I asked my father who that man was he told me, a member of the White Hands. This group travelled the realm and healed all those in need. They were individuals who earned respect not because they can take life, but because they can save it.

From that moment, I knew I would never be a soldier. I would never take a life, but I could save them.