“The marten,” Hastings yelled even as she was sliding from Marella’s back. “He drank some wine that was mayhap poisoned.”
Severin pulled Trist from his tunic. He was limp. He looked quite dead. Severin’s hand was shaking. He looked at the Healer. “Please,” he said. “I do not wish to lose him.”
“I have no knowledge of this animal. I am a healer of people. Go away.”
“Healer, please.” Hastings didn’t realize tears were streaming down her face. “Please, help him. He is dear to both of us.”
“Oh very well,” the Healer said, took the limp marten from Severin, and carried him inside her cottage.
Alfred snapped his tail but didn’t make a sound.
Severin went after her, but the Healer shouted, “Nay, stay out, my lord. Hastings, help me.” But Severin ignored her. He stood behind Hastings, his face tense and white.
“Open his mouth, Hastings, wide, and keep it wide.”
Severin said, “What will you do?”
“I will make him vomit, just as I would do to a human. Will it be enough? Does this animal even vomit? I do not know, my lord. Go outside. You fill up too much of my cottage.”
“Your cat is outside. There is now enough room for me.”
The Healer actually smiled, then she snapped at Hastings, “Wider, Hastings. That’s right. Now, let me get this down his throat.”
Trist didn’t move. The Healer continued to spoon the liquid down his throat.
Time passed. It seemed an eternity. The marten’s body was still and limp. Hastings was feeling for his heart. She found it. “He’s alive,” she whispered. “Here, Severin, feel.”
Severin slipped his hand beneath Trist’s body and held it close to him. He thought there was a slight beat but he couldn’t be sure. He looked at his wife, at the tears that were still dripping down her face. She was unaware that she was crying.
Suddenly, the Healer took Trist, raised him in front of her, and began to shake him. Then she laid him again atop the small scarred table and began to press into his body, pressing, then moving upward in a long, single motion. Again and again.
“I do not know where the creature’s belly is. It must be somewhere along my path.”
The marten jerked.
A paw slid over to Severin’s hand.
The marten bunched up onto himself, then heaved forward. Food and liquid flew from his mouth. His small body shuddered and he twisted and heaved again and again.
“He’ll heave himself to death.”
“It’s the only way, Hastings. If he can vomit up the poison, then he has a chance.”
Severin reached down and began to press lightly on Trist’s belly, pushing upward.
The marten continued to vomit until at last he simply fell flat, still as death.
The Healer raised his head with her hands and stared at his face. Then she lifted each of his front paws. She slid her hand beneath him, searching for a heartbeat.
She straightened, shaking her head. She looked at Severin, then at Hastings. “I am sorry, my lord, Hastings. The animal is so very small. He fought, but it was not enough. He is dead.”
Severin was white and still, staring down at Trist. Then he raised his head and yelled, “No!”
He lifted the marten in one large hand and pressed him against his chest inside his tunic. He smoothed Trist against his own heart, stroking his fur, lightly squeezing the long body, again and again, whispering to the marten, saying over and over, “You cannot leave me, Trist. No, you will not die. You cannot.”
He continued to rub his hands over the marten. The Healer said nothing, merely cleaned up the animal’s vomit. Hastings felt bowed down with the pain of it.
Alfred came into the cottage. He looked at each of the occupants and meowed loudly. He jumped onto the table, turned to look at Severin, and meowed even more loudly. He stood on his hind paws and steadied himself against Severin’s stomach. He was sniffing. He meowed again.