The Power of a Miracle

Note/Trigger Warning: This story includes mention of sexual violence and termination of pregnancy. Nothing is graphically described.

Wisteria tucks an errant lock of red-brown hair back under the scarf tied over her head, then wipes the sweat from her brow. Brewing medicine for Miss Myrtle is hot, sticky work. But Miss Myrtle has been lying in bed for three days, weak as a newborn fawn and wracked with violent coughing fits from time to time, and cannot possibly be expected to make medicine for herself, not that Wisteria would ask such a thing of her guardian and mentor.

"It's my turn to take care of her," she reminds herself as she grinds seeds and herbs with her mortar and pestle, as she stirs the thickening brew in the cauldron, as she pours some of the medicine into Miss Myrtle's ox-horn teacup and mixes it with the lavender camomile tea already inside.

Wisteria walks with light footsteps to Miss Myrtle's bedroom door. Another rattling bout of coughing overtakes the older woman as Wisteria enters the room.

"Easy there," Wisteria soothes, pulling another pillow behind Miss Myrtle's bony shoulders. "Here, I've brought you some tea with medicine in it. I followed your instructions exactly."

"Thank you, dearie," Miss Myrtle croaks. She takes the teacup in trembling hands and sips the hot liquid within. "Just right. I knew you could do it."

"You taught me well."

"The Forest's Gift is strong in you." Miss Myrtle pauses to cough again and take another sip of her tea. "With it, we make miracles happen."

"The only miracle I want is for you to get well."

"I will, dearie, with you taking care of me. I just need rest."

"Sleep well, then." Wisteria leaves Miss Myrtle's room and closes the door softly behind her. Perhaps I'll go outside and tend the herb garden, to make sure Miss Myrtle has peace and quiet, she muses, but then there is a knock at the door.

"Who could that be?" Wisteria mutters aloud. She and Miss Myrtle are not accustomed to receiving visitors, at least not on a regular basis. They have a stand at the edge of the forest where at least one of them will go, every few days, to trade with folk from nearby villages. Very few come to see them at their cottage in the woods.

When she opens the door, Wisteria finds herself face to face with a young blonde woman, slim, frantic, disheveled. Her eyes are wide with panic.

"Oh, thank God, someone does live here. I was starting to think all hope was lost...." she cries, tears welling in her blue eyes.

"Shhhh, shhhh. Come in and have a seat. I'll make some tea," Wisteria tries to calm her guest. The young woman can only be a few years older than her, at most, but her distress is palpable. Wisteria hopes that some lavender camomile tea will help quiet her. The last thing she wants is for a guest to disturb Miss Myrtle.

The blonde woman drops into Wisteria's favorite wooden rocking chair and puts her head in her hands, muttering to herself, while Wisteria prepares two cups of tea in the kitchen. Since she'd already had the kettle on, it only takes a few moments.

"Here you are. What's your name, ma'am?" Wisteria hands the blonde woman a cup of tea.

"Sorry. I should have said.... I'm Isolde. From Vegryn, by the River Cholis," she answers before taking a sip of tea. "This is...perfect. Thank you so much."

"Of course, Isolde. What brings you here?"

"Well...My parents gave me to a man--my husband--this past harvest. And he...." Isolde tells Wisteria, in halting, tearful half-sentences, how her husband has beaten her regularly, spoken harshly to her, called her a useless slave, demanded and forced her complete submission in their bed. "And then.... My moon blood hasn't come. For at least a moon or two. I'm afraid...for the child, not just for me. Who would give a child to such a father? I can't...."

"I understand," Wisteria tells Isolde.

"I went to the priest for help, to ask him to release me from this marriage. But he said it's impossible. I just have to learn to submit better, to be what my husband requires me to be. And I can't run away on my own. He'll find me, and then...." Isolde swallows hard and then sobs. "I just want to escape from him, somehow, but I'm afraid it'll take a miracle. But there are some, in Vegryn, who say that miracles are for sale in this cottage. Can you help me?" Her tearstained blue eyes meet Wisteria's forest-green ones, desperate, pleading.

"I believe so. Wait here, and enjoy your tea," Wisteria instructs with newfound confidence. "You're safe here."

Wisteria returns to the kitchen, determined to give Isolde what she came for. She's helped Miss Myrtle fulfill such requests before. Pots and pans clatter as Wisteria bustles about, pulling herbs and berries and secret substances from various places in the kitchen. Some she mixes in one bowl, others in another. She grinds herbs and boils liquids. She mixes and stirs. Fragrant smoke fills the air around her. She's never been so sure of herself in her work. For the first time, she believes what Miss Myrtle has always told her: With the Forest's Gift, we can make miracles.

A short while later, Wisteria returns to Isolde, who is dozing in the rocking chair, her teacup empty. A gentle touch of Isolde's shoulder wakes her, and the old panic returns to her eyes for a moment before she remembers where she is.

"I have two gifts for you," Wisteria tells her, handing her two glass vials that look, to the untrained eye, like they might be perfume or some sort of cosmetic. One contains clear liquid, while the other is tinted pink. "This clear one is for your husband. It has no taste or smell. Mix it into his soup or his drink, and he will stop tormenting you in short order. This pink one is for you. Stir it into your tea and drink it, and the moon blood will come. You will have great pain. If you can seclude yourself for a few days, it will help."

Isolde's eyes shine with gratitude. "Thank you so much. What do I owe you for this?"

"Another visit, once those vials are empty. Come with bread or milk or eggs, and we can share a meal together."

"I will. Thank you. Thank you. I must go, before he suspects, but.... Thank you. I will return."

***~O~***

A few days later, Miss Myrtle is feeling much better, bustling about in the kitchen while Wisteria works outside, weeding and tending their herb garden. Sprigs of lavender find their way into her basket thanks to her skillful fingers, and despite the bees' best efforts to interfere. She sets her basket down to stretch her back and catches sight of a slim blonde woman, a black shawl around her shoulders and a basket on her arm, picking her way down the narrow deer path towards the cottage.

"Isolde. Welcome back," Wisteria greets her.

Isolde smiles, looking newly relaxed and self-assured despite the sadness in her eyes. "I've brought milk and eggs and bread. I cannot thank you enough--"

"There's no need to thank me--"

"My husband is dead. I put the clear liquid in his soup, just like you said, and the next day he was burning up with fever and couldn't get out of bed. I called the apothecary, tried everything I could to help him, but...nothing worked. He's gone. And the moon blood has come." Tears run down Isolde's cheeks, but she's smiling at the same time. "You're a miracle worker. You've set me free."

Wisteria smiles in return. "You deserved a miracle, Isolde. Come inside. Let's have some tea."