The Girl in the Red Cloak Ch. 01

Clara pulled the crimson hood of her cape over her head and mentally braced herself for the trek through the woods. It was late in the day to begin a forest journey, but the wails of the suffering children she left behind spurred her steps onward. Darkness would probably have fallen by the time she returned, but she'd been in and out of the woods so many times that she hardly needed light to find her path. Only in the heart of the forest could one harvest the valdir, and without the herb she might never break the fever of the children.

The plague had swept quickly through the town, the worst of it affecting the young children and the very old. Few strong healthy adults had been at its mercy for than a few days, but the elderly had sickened at an alarming rate, and the children had been almost universally affected. The babes cried in their cradles, unable to yet put into words their discomfort and pain, and Clara had worn herself down to near exhaustion trying to heal them.

Her red cloak marked her as a healer, ensuring that she was welcomed wherever she went, and given free room and board at any village. It also signified to any soldiers of Mahania that she was not to be harmed. Mahania and her own country, Lotharis, had been at war for years. Each wanted to claim supremacy over the other's country and resources, fueled onward by greedy monarchs. King Roderick of Lotharis was said to have an entire room where the furniture was entirely made of gold. Clara rather doubted the truth of this, but enemy soldiers seemed to have no trouble believing in it, spurring their desire for conquest of Lotharis.

Born with the innate ability to heal the sick, Clara had been identified at a young age and taken from her family to train at a special school for healers. Lotharis and Mahania agreed on almost nothing, but a general truce had been made about the healers of either country: they would wear a uniform red cloak to identify themselves and be spared by either side, regardless of their country of origin. Healing was a rare and special gift, and useful to both sides. Clara had spent many years training, learning how to channel her own inner magic as well as using healing herbs and remedies to supplement her own skills and energy. Every healer was required to spend 2 years at the border of Mahania and Lotharis, where attacks and battles were common and sudden. It had been draining both on her energies and on her spirit, to see the atrocities the men committed against each other, and she had been relieved when her years were over and she was allowed to roam the countryside, providing aid to whatever village or town she came upon or that called for her services.

She could still recall the stench of sickness and death, a smell her teachers at the school had not prepared her for. At school, working alone or as a group, they had healed all but one of the sick who were brought to them, and the one fatality could not compare to the horror of a battlefield. Men cried out to her to help them even as they held their insides in their own hands, and she knew they were beyond saving. Heart torn and tears streaming, she offered them the one gift she could bestow: the healers kiss. She breathed energy and will between their lips, and a numbing sensation would sweep downward from their lips, throughout their ravaged bodies, as the pain slipped away. They were still relaxed and numb when the kiss took its full effect and stopped their hearts. This, she had learned in school, was the kindest thing you could do for one suffering and beyond a healer's abilities.

Here, near the border, she still sometimes saw the aftermath of attacks from Maharia, but they were few and far between. Most soldiers did not venture this far inland without being stopped, or if they did, they generally headed north to the capital city, and would not bother with trifling little villages. Her main work consisted of healing the sick, setting a broken limb or two to rights, and aiding in childbirth. Occasionally she was even called upon to heal livestock. Although some healers felt this beneath them, Clara was always glad to help a poor family hang on to the cow they so desperately needed, or mend a lamb's broken leg so it could be sold at the market. She found the work much more fulfilling than the endless stream of wounded men at the front lines who would only be sent out to fight again once she healed them.

Right now she sought the valdir, which would help relieve the fever and in turn save more of her own energy for driving the sickness out. She could have sent a villager, but they harbored a fear of the woods, claiming they were haunted. Clara scorned such superstitions; she'd been in many woods and never come across anything remotely resembling a ghost. Wild animals were a minor concern, but if she avoided the big game trails she could generally keep out of the way of bears or wolves, and unless they were very hungry indeed they usually avoided humans. There was a little more risk at night, she knew, but she was willing to take a chance to replenish her stores of herbs. A healer who relied on her magic alone would not have the strength to care for than a couple people at a time. She had already sent word out for more healers to come and help with this terrible plague, but for now she would have to rely on her own strength and supplies.

The sun was just beginning its descent as she entered the woods. Instantly she felt the change in temperature as the cool shade enveloped her. The birdsong and lush, green smell were comforting to her, and she breathed deeply, allowing herself a moment of respite from the day's work. Clara always felt more energized after spending time out in the woods, as if somehow she could draw energy from the very trees and earth. Her closest teacher, Bimi, had felt the same, and it had been she who had taught Clara how to find the herbs that would help and heal in the woods, while avoiding the toxic and poisonous ones. Valdir only grew in the depths of a forest, near the heart trees of the wood. Every wood of sizable nature boasted at least one heart tree, and most had several. Clara loved the heart trees, they were the very soul of the forest, pure and yet mighty and forceful. When she laid hands on a heart tree she could nearly feel its soothing energies pouring into her. Bimi had laughed at this, and declared that Clara was romanticizing what were merely very old and rare trees, but Clara would not be dissuaded.

She had been in this wood in particular several times before, she enjoyed this more quiet corner of the country and had spent much time in its villages. She knew there were several heart trees in the depths, and she allowed her instinct to guide her to it as she made her way through the trees. A squirrel darted in front of her feet, and she smiled to see the little creature make his way up the tree and watch her intently, as if she might be a very small, hairless bear who fancied a squirrel dinner. She reflected on the nature of the plague as she walked. Where had it come from? The water was good, so that was not the source. There was seemingly no connection in food between the afflicted families, and many of the infants could not eat solid food anyway. The town was not overrun with rodents, ruling out rats as the carriers.

She knew that sometimes these things were just carried by air or from person to person, but it would be better if she could find a source. The villagers were already whispering that such a plague must be Maharia, either by curse or some other method, and the last thing Clara wanted was for such rumors to get out. Those in power might take it as fodder to refuel the stagnant war effort, which had lost enthusiasm as the years went by and neither side seemed to gain or lose any ground for long. Villagers like those in this town were quite sick of the whole thing, as they were always short of men who were sent to front lines, and the supplies which were commandeered by the king's men to be sent to front lines as well. A notion like this plague coming from the enemy could renew interest and prolong things even more.

The patriotic among the citizens would swear that it was their time honored duty and sworn right to battle Maharia until Lotharis finally triumphed, but Clara and many of the other healers were holding out hope that Prince Randall would put an end to it when he assumed the throne. He was not much in the public eye but the few reports of him that reached the general public indicated he didn't hold much enthusiasm for the war. It had dragged on for decades, surely a new ruler would be able to see the logic in ending things for good; assuming the Maharian rulers could be convinced of that as well. Clara knew there was a Maharian princess close in age to Prince Randall, perhaps marriage of the two could unite the countries. She wasn't sure how such a union would affect the economies of the nations, but anything was better than this never-ending war.

Her musings were disrupted by a low groan, and she froze in her tracks. It had sounded.... human. She held her breath and waited. A few moments later, there was another groan, and the sound of something being hauled through the underbrush. Clara's had went to the knife she kept strapped to her side. It was sharp,suitable for cutting through human flesh when the occasion called. She'd never heard of a healer being attacked by bandits or robbers, but she was alone and chose to be cautious. She crept forward carefully and quietly, placing each foot with precision, working her way toward the sound. It could be a hurt woodcutter or peasant, and it was her duty to investigate and heal the injured if it was needed.

The noise was coming from a small clearing. The trees overhead were especially dense and verdant and at first Clara could make out nothing, but then she spotted the blood on the ground. Caution thrown to the wind, she raced forward, following the trail. The first thing she saw was a foot, poking out from under a bush. She leaned down to brush aside the small branches in estimation of where a head would be based on the foot's placement, and and hand burst forth from the bush, grasping her wrist tight. Clara gasped and tried to pull away but the grip was unrelenting. A man's face, smeared with blood, rose up slightly from the bush. His lips were pulled back in a snarl, and Clara was terrified for an instant that he was going to kill her. His eyes lit on her red cloak and his hold on her arm loosened.

"Healer?" he asked.

His slight accent gave him away instantly. Clara had never heard it from anyone so young before. The man was near her own age, by approximation, and the only others she'd heard it from had been very old indeed. Ever since the war started, there were no others crossing the border with that accent; only those who retained it from their youth still spoke it. Maharian.

Slowly, Clara nodded.

Officially, the policy of both Maharia and Lotharis was that a healer would heal whoever she came across who required help, regardless of nationality or status. The status part was enforced, and healers were free to aid all those in need, not just the wealthy. Unofficially, the policy of Lotharis was to never heal a Maharian. Clara's teachers had been divided upon the matter, with some agreeing that it was in their own best interest not heal one of enemy nationality, and others who felt it was their duty to heal all, no matter what their country of origin. Clara had never before encountered a full blooded Maharian who had not married into Lotharisian blood. Even at the front lines of the battle, the wounded had been carefully separated, preventing any Lotharisian from crossing to the enemy side and vice versa.

Now, the injured man stared at her, his gaze loose and somewhat unfocused, probably due to loss of blood. He let go of her arm and pulled the branches aside to reveal his abdomen – a raw, red mess. The sight of the blood made up Clara's mind. She knelt beside him, trampling the branches of the bush flat as she did. She pressed her hands against his body and felt. It was a stab wound, and he'd lost a lot of blood. The blade had been jabbed upwards, under the ribs and into his lung. His labored, harsh breathing told her she didn't have much time. Weariness forgotten, she drew deep inside herself and found the energy needed to heal. It was delicate work, being mindful of the body and healing without hurting. It was impossible to protect the body from all pain, but with care it could be minimized. Her power flowed out through her fingers while she closed her eyes and visualized the lung healing, the wounded tissues and muscles repairing themselves, knitting back together. The man drew in air sharply as his collapsed lung re-inflated. Clara's brow furrowed as she focused, the body responding to her touch and her will as the wound became smaller and smaller.

When it was nearly healed, she sat back. The body could take it from here. It would take him a few more days before the worst of it was over, but if she completely exhausted herself now she would have nothing left for the sick villagers. In fact, she would probably need a rest before moving onward. Her eyes felt heavy and she belatedly realized she had expended more energy than she had thought. Darkness swam up in her vision and she felt herself falling backwards... it seemed a strong pair of hands grabbed her at the last minute before she hit the ground, but then the darkness claimed her and she knew no more.

* * *

Clara awoke to the sound of birds. Her head felt thick and and her eyes grainy, but she forced herself to open them and look around. The clearing. The Maharian. It all came flooding back to her and sat upright in a hurry. Her bleary eyes struggled to see. She was on the ground, her cloak tucked in around her, presumably by the Maharian. The nights were warm enough now that her cloak was ample cover, and she was grateful for that, after her helplessness of the night before. If it had been winter when she'd keeled over like that she might not have lived to tell about it. She chided herself for her carelessness. She'd put herself in danger, and for what? A Maharian who appeared to have run off without so much as a thank you, never mind the cloak tucking.

"Well what did you expect," she grumbled as she stood up and dusted herself off. "It's not as if he'd stick around to find out whether I'd turn him in or not." She wondered what a Maharian was doing this far from the border, and in the middle of the woods, no less. Was he a spy? Part of a covert group sent to infiltrate deeper into the heart of Lotharis? She'd probably never know. "Probably best not to know," she said, still annoyed with herself.

"Do you always talk to yourself in the mornings, or just when you're alone in the woods with strange men?"

Clara whirled around at the sound of the voice behind her. The Maharian was leaning against a tree, largely obscured by the underbrush.

"I – I thought you'd gone," she stammered.

"No, Healer. I appreciate your efforts but I won't be up for long journeys for a few days yet. Besides, who would watch over you when you pass out and snore loud enough to wake a hibernating bear?"

"I do not snore!" Clara was indignant and instantly furious. How dare he, and after she'd expended her power to save his life! "You sir, are an ungrateful cad!" She turned with a flounce and made her way out of the clearing.

"Wait, wait, I'm joking! At least let me introduce myself. Truly, madame, I am in your debt, and you have my most profound gratitude. I think almost dying has made me forget my manners. Please."

Clara reluctantly turned, her own good manners preventing her from turning her back on the man. He made a kind of half bow from his seated position.

"Lukas Wulff, at your service. So long as you don't require anything too strenuous. I seem to have this terrible stitch in my side." His tone was joking, but his grimace as he gingerly touched his wound told her the pain was real. She felt equal parts glad and bothered by it; the healer in her wanting to relieve his suffering, the woman in her mollified to see the bounder get what was coming to him.

"Clara," she said, grudgingly introducing herself. "But as you seem well enough to no longer require my services, I must be on my way. There is a village of sick children I must return to." She turned and walked away again.

"Aren't you going the wrong way?" Lukas called. "You're going deeper, the nearest village is the other way."

"I need herbs that grow further in," Clara responded without looking back. The rustling sounds behind her told her that Lukas was following her.

"What kind of herbs?" he asked.

"The kind a healer uses," she said evasively. "You really should stay still and try not to move much for a few days. Your wound will heal faster." She brushed aside an overhanging cobweb and tried to gather her bearings. She needed to find the heart tree grove and get back to town.

"But I'm curious now, I must know these secret mystical herbs that healers use." His breathing seemed a little short, but not dangerously so. Clara snorted.

"It's no secret, anyone may harness the power of medicinal herbs if they know how to find them and use them. In that respect, healers are like anyone else." She glanced over her shoulder. Lukas was behind her, his pace slow but steady. "You're going to aggravate your wound if you keep following me. You need to lie down."

"And miss all the excitement? Or do you just want me to stay where you left me, to make it easier to lead a squad of Lotharisian men to me later?" His tone was dry and serious.

"I wouldn't do that!" she said, truthfully. She was curious what a Maharian was doing this far in Lotharis, but to lead a crowd of angry men to capture – or kill – an injured person was like leading lambs to the slaughter, and every bone in her healer's body railed against it. "I don't know what dealings you've had with your Maharian healers, but here in Lotharis, our mission is to heal and help the sick, not to ferret out spies and get involved in brutal, bloody war politics. I would have left you there and never said a word to anyone." This was also true, and if her silence was as much for her own protection after healing an enemy soldier as his, well, it should hardly matter to him.

"You seem so sincere I could almost believe you, Red." He nodded slightly at her cloak. "But a man can't be too careful."

Clara's heart thudded hard against her ribs. What did that mean? Surely he didn't mean to kill her just to stave off any chance of her saying something? Her fear must have showed on her face, for his next words were of reassurance.

"I can never repay my debt to you for saving my life. I am humbly your servant, but that doesn't mean I have to trust you. Once you're out of sight, I'll make my own way, and neither of us will have to worry about the other, hmm? But for now, let me escort you on this fine morning. I've never seen a healer in action before and I am curious."

Clara felt relieved, annoyed, and somehow pleased that he wanted to accompany her. As there seemed to be no getting rid of him, she paused until he caught up and then they proceeded to walk side by side. Lukas made as if to offer her his arm, then thought better of it, instead pressing his hand ever so gently against his ribs as he strolled.

"How did you get injured anyway," she asked finally, feeling as if she had a right to know.

"Got into a fight with a Lotharisian soldier," he promptly replied. Clara froze.

"Is he wounded? Does he need healing?" The healing instinct in her was strong and could not be denied. Lukas shook his head.

"No. No amount of healing could save him."

Clara felt a shudder of fear at the coldness in his voice, but dismissed it and kept moving forward. If the soldier was dead he was dead, and there was no point in worrying over it. A healer could not raise the dead, and those who tried often drained themselves to the point of death. She continued toward the valdir, and Lukas followed.