Ayla was pleased to find that water was close by. There was a smaller cave at the back of the sheltered depression and just inside it was a spring-fed pool of fresh water that ran off in a ditch that had formed along the cliff wall. She told Solaban where to set up a fireplace with the wood he and Brameval, and a few others, had brought.
When Ayla asked, several people volunteered their sleeping rolls, which were piled on top of each other to create a slightly raised bed. The injured man had awakened when they moved him onto the stretcher, but was unconscious by the time he arrived at the shelter. He moaned in pain when they moved him to the bed and awoke again, grimacing and struggling to breathe. Ayla folded another bedroll and propped him up on it to try to make him more comfortable. He tried to smile his thanks, but coughed up blood instead. She wiped his chin with a piece of soft rabbit skin, an item she usually kept with her medicinals.
Ayla went through the limited supplies in her medicine bag and tried to think if there was anything she might have forgotten that would help allay his pain. Gentian roots might help, or a wash of arnica. Both could relieve the internal pain of bruises and other aches, but she had neither with her. The fine hairs on the fruit of hops could be used as a sedative to help him relax, just by breathing the air near them, but they were not readily available. Maybe something in smoke would help, since swallowing liquid was not going to be possible. No, it would probably make him cough, which would be worse. She knew it was hopeless, it was just a matter of time, but she had to do something, at least for his pain.
Wait, she thought. Didn’t I see that plant from the valerian family on the way here? The one with the aromatic roots? One of the Mamuti at that Summer Meeting called it spikenard. I don’t know the name in Zelandonii. She looked up at the people around her and saw the young woman that Manvelar seemed to have a lot of respect for, the lookout from the Third Cave, Thefona.
Thefona had stayed to help clean out the small shelter she found and was still there, watching Ayla. The foreign woman intrigued her. There was something about her that made people pay attention to her, and she seemed to have gained the respect of the Ninth Cave in the short time she had been there. Thefona wondered how much the woman really knew about healing. She didn’t have any kind of tattoo marks like the zelandonia did, but the people she came from might have different ways. Some people tried to fool others about what they knew, but the stranger didn’t seem to be trying to impress anyone by bragging or talking big. Instead, she did things that were genuinely impressive, like the way she used that spear-throwing thing. Thefona had been thinking about Ayla, but was surprised when the woman called her name.
“Thefona, may I ask you something?” Ayla said.
“Yes,” Thefona said, and thought, She does have a strange way of talking. Not her words, but the way they sound. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t talk much.
“Do you know much about plants?”
“Everyone knows something about plants,” Thefona said.
“I’m thinking about one whose leaves resemble foxglove, but it has yellow flowers, like dandelions. The name I know it by is ‘spikenard,’ but that’s a Mamutoi word.”
“I’m sorry. I know some food plants. I don’t know much about medicine plants. You would need a Zelandoni for that,” Thefona said.
Ayla paused, then said, “Would you watch Shevonar, Thefona? I thought I noticed some spikenard on my way here. I’m going back the way we came and look for it. If he wakes up again, or if there is any change at all, would you send someone to find me?” Ayla said. Then she decided to add an explanation, though explaining her actions as a medicine woman was not something she usually did. “If it is what I think it is, it could be helpful. I’ve used the mashed roots as a poultice to help mend bone fractures, but it is easily absorbed and has soothing powers. If I mix it with a little datura and maybe some pulverized yarrow leaves, I think it might help ease his pain. I want to see if I can find it.”
“Yes, of course I’ll watch him,” Thefona said, pleased, for some unknown reason, that the foreign woman had asked for her help.
Joharran and Manvelar were talking to Ranokol in quiet tones, but even though they were right next to her, Ayla hardly heard them. She was concentrating on the wounded man and watching the water heating—far too slowly. Wolf was lying on the ground nearby, with his head between his paws, watching her every move. When the water began to steam, she added the spikenard roots so they would soften enough to be pounded into a mash for a poultice. She had been glad to find comfrey as well. A wet dressing of the fresh crushed roots and leaves was also good for bruises and fractures, and while she didn’t think it would mend Shevonar’s injuries, she was willing to try anything that might ease his pain.
When it was ready, she plastered the warm mashed root directly on the almost black bruise that was spreading down his chest to his stomach. She noticed his abdomen was getting hard. His eyes opened while she was covering it with a piece of leather to keep it warm.
“Shevonar?” she said. His eyes seemed aware, but puzzled. Perhaps he didn’t recognize her, she thought. “My name is Ayla. Your mate,” she hesitated, then remembered her name, “Relona is on her way here.” He took a breath and winced with pain. It seemed to surprise him. “You were hurt, Shevonar, by a bison. Zelandoni is on her way, too. I am trying to help until she gets here. I put a poultice on your chest to draw out some of the pain.”
He nodded, but even that was an effort.
“Do you want to see your brother? He’s been waiting to see you.”
He nodded again, and Ayla got up and went to the men waiting nearby. “He’s awake. He’d like to see you,” she said to Ranokol.
The young man quickly got up and went to his brother’s bed. Ayla followed, along with Joharran and Manvelar.
“How are you feeling?” Ranokol said.
Shevonar tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace of pain as an unexpected cough brought up a drool of red out of the corner of his mouth. A look of panic filled his brother’s eyes, then he noticed the plaster on his brother’s chest.
“What is this?” Ranokol said, his voice taut, almost a squeal.
“It is a poultice for his pain.” Ayla’s voice was normally rather low-pitched, and she said the words slowly and calmly. She understood the panic and fear of the man’s brother.
“Who told you to do anything to him? It’s probably making him worse. Get this off him!” he screamed.
“No, Ranokol,” Shevonar said. The voice of the injured man could hardly be heard. “Not her fault. Helps.” He tried to sit up, then collapsed, unconscious.
“Shevonar. Wake up, Shevonar! He’s dead! Oh Great Mother, he’s dead!” Ranokol cried, slumping down on the bed beside his brother.
Ayla checked Shevonar’s pulse, while Joharran pulled Ranokol away. “No. He’s not dead, yet,” she said. “But he doesn’t have long. I hope his mate arrives soon.”
“He’s not dead, Ranokol, but he could have been,” Joharran said angrily. “This woman may not be zelandoni, but she knows how to help. You’re the one who is making him worse. Who knows if he’ll wake up again to say his last words to Relona.”
“No one can make him worse, Joharran. There is no hope for him. He may go anytime. Don’t blame a man grieving for his brother,” Ayla said, then moved to get up. “Let me make some tea, to settle everyone.”