‘Do not chew on the bread,’ she said. ‘Your teeth are already loose, and we don’t want them falling out. Just dip it into the soup.’
‘She won’t die, will she?’ whispered Banny.
‘Not if I have a say in it,’ said Aunt Maev. ‘Now eat your soup, Banny. Take it slow.’
It was almost a week since Banny had eaten solid food, and that had been a gnarled root his mother had dug from the edge of the forest. It had been bitter, and had made him nauseous. His stomach was still queasy and, when he gazed down at the soup, he felt suddenly sick and dizzy.
‘Be strong now,’ said Aunt Maev, moving swiftly alongside him. She tore off a small hunk of bread and dipped it in the warm soup. ‘Here. Just hold it in your mouth and let the juices run.’ Banny opened his mouth, allowing her to feed him like a babe. The juices of the meat flowed on his tongue, awakening his hunger. His stomach cramped and he almost choked on the bread. Carefully he chewed the morsel, then swallowed it. It tasted divine. ‘That’s good, Banny,’ whispered Aunt Maev. ‘Take a little more now.’
Banny sat very still, staring down at the soup bowl. It was white-glazed, but only on the inside – the outer was the golden brown of lowlands clay. It was a pretty bowl. His mind swam and he felt himself falling. He didn’t care. Maev’s arms held him close, and when he opened his eyes he found, to his surprise, that he was still sitting at the table. It seemed to Banny that he had fallen from the world, spinning down and down into a blessed darkness, where there was no hunger, no pain, no fear. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I have fleas.’
Maev said nothing, but she dipped more bread into the now cold soup and lifted it to his lips. Banny ate until both the soup and the bread were gone. ‘I think we’ll forget about the bath for now,’ said Maev. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’
Banny’s legs were unsteady, but Maev helped him up the stairs to a small room. The window shutters were closed, but thin lines of golden light could be seen between the slats. They shone on a patchwork blanket which covered the single bed of pine that nestled against the far wall. Maev drew back the coverlet and the two thick blankets beneath. ‘Let’s get you out of these clothes,’ she said. She took hold of the torn and filthy shirt he was wearing. Banny raised his arms and she lifted it clear. His ragged trews were held up by a length of string. He fumbled with the knot. Maev gently moved his hands aside and swiftly undid it. Banny stepped out of the garment, too weary to feel shame at being naked before a woman.
He sat down upon the white undersheet, and became aware of the ingrained dirt on his arms and hands, and the red flea bites on his belly and thighs. ‘I should bathe,’ he said.
‘Later, Banny. Lay your head upon the pillow, there’s a good boy.’
He had no strength to refuse. The pillow yielded beneath him, soft and inviting, and he felt the blankets and a soft oversheet being drawn up around his thin shoulders.
Once more the world spun away, and Banny’s mind cried out in the joy of it.
Apothecary Ramus was a small man. Round-shouldered and stooping, he rarely looked into the eyes of his customers. He would nod continuously as he listened to their requests and, when they had finished, mutter: ‘Good, yes, very good,’ as if complimenting them. His movements were quick and sure, his judgement of weight uncanny. He would tip powder, or shredded leaf, into small bags of muslin and rarely weigh them. Occasionally a new customer would ask to see the item weighed on his small brass scales. He would nod and smile and say: ‘Good, yes, very good.’ The scales would then show the exact weight in ounces they had asked for.
But then the silver-haired Ramus had been an apothecary for twenty-nine years. Judgement to the quarter ounce, he considered, was a small enough skill to acquire in almost three decades, and certainly not one to cause undue pride. Ramus was not wealthy, nor was he poor. He lived in a small house with a slate roof and a half acre of ground, on which he grew many herbs. Other plants and fungi were gathered for him by women who lived in the barren empty areas of the high hills. Apothecary Ramus had no friends and no wife, for he was not a man comfortable with intimacy of any kind. Neither did he have enemies. He was not even disliked -which was unusual for a Varlish living among clan folk. Ramus was punctiliously polite to all, Varlish or Keltoi, and never offered an opinion, save on matters herbal, and never entered into debate with anyone. It was, he had long ago decided, safer that way.