“Bring him here,” I say.
Her smile beams as she walks toward me. I have rejected seeing him, only having the energy to focus on Ella and not wanting to face my clouded emotions. Beatrice never quit trying though, and is clearly pleased that her efforts have finally paid off.
“He is very special, m’lord,” she boasts as she hands him to me.
“Aye, well, he gets that from his mother.”
I take my son from her and am surprised at how heavy he is. I hold him close, welcoming the comfort of having him in my arms. My finger glides across his rosy cheek, and I’m startled by the contrast of my scarred and calloused hand next to his soft and supple skin. Just then, his mouth opens to release a yawn that stretches wide and ends with his lips puckered out as if he were offering a kiss. I hear Beatrice laugh from behind me and can’t help but join in.
“He is quite adorable,” I agree, noticing the dark lashes resting against his cheeks.
I move closer to Ella so I can lay her hand on his head.
“He’s so healthy, Ella. Ye did…ye did good.” My voice breaks before I can say more as I fight to hold back the tears. It’s no use, though. Seeing her frail hand rest upon his vibrant cheek brings the fear and anger back to the surface, and I am unable to stop them from crashing together in my gut.
“Here now. Let me take the babe back to his nursery,” Beatrice says with sympathy. “Today was a good first step. He needs to know you’re here, sir, that you care. And now he does.”
I give him back to her and move to lie down next to Ella. I feel sick now. I’m weak and tired, I smell like a street wretch, and I can’t even bring myself to be strong for my newborn son. My hands are tied, and the only thing I can do for my dying wife is pray. And I have. I’ve prayed so much it hurts, and she’s only gotten worse.
“Ye should have been better by now, Ella,” I say, resting my head next to her hip. I can feel the heat of her fever through the blankets. “Yer so hot, my love. Do ye want me to remove some of these?” I ask, sitting up to pull the blankets further down over her legs. I turn to the window, noticing that it is shut, so I get up to open it and let in some fresh, cool air. After fidgeting with the latch, I pull the window open and let the breeze rush in as if it were waiting to gain entrance. It smells so good in contrast to the illness in this room that I stand there with my eyes closed and take several long deep breaths, relishing the noticeable boost of energy.
When I open my eyes, I see the green grass and greener forest beyond. The sun is bright today and accentuates all the details of this complex landscape. I think about how much Ella loves the outdoors and how her faerie blood comes to life when she’s exposed to nature.
I quickly turn to Ella. “My God! Could that help her?” I ask myself through a strained whisper.
I turn to look back at the forest, recalling the story of her taking my father there to die. It was a generous thing to do for an aged man desperate to be reunited with his beloved wife in heaven. But could it bring life back to Ella?
“Ella!” I call as I turn and run back to her bed. “Ella, I’m taking ye to the forest! Do ye hear me? I’m taking ye to yer favorite place, faerie maiden,” I finish with a kiss on her damp forehead before scooping her and the blanket up in my arms and turning toward the door.
Her head is rested against my chest for the long walk to the entrance of the wood. I must force myself to walk gently so that she isn’t jostled, feeling a strong sense of hope replace the suffocating fear I’ve lived with for days. As soon as we enter the line of tall trees and thick undergrowth, I feel a shift within me. That sense of renewal and oneness that comes from a strong connection with nature.
“Can ye smell the trees, Ella? The plants? The air is especially fresh today,” I tell her as we make our way down the trail that leads to the ancient oak. “When yer all better, we can come here every day if ye want. You, me, and our son, just as we talked about so many times.”
I turn off the main trail and make my way to the massive oak that has fascinated me since I was a child. Once we reach its majestic canopy, I sit down on the grass and get Ella comfortable in my lap, pulling the blanket off so she can be touched by the cool fresh air.
“There we are, my love. Does that feel good on yer skin?” I ask, pushing the hairs away that are stuck to the dampness on her face. Her pallor is so different out here, so much whiter than it is indoors. She seems almost transparent, the faint blue of her veins crisscrossing under the surface of her skin.
I untie the ribbon of her shift to let more air in as I lean forward to press my lips to her brow. “I love you, Ella. I love you so much.” I begin to gently rock her, wanting her to wake up, so she will realize where she is and take a deep, fortifying breath of this healing air. This is where she gains her strength, I’ve seen it. I’ve seen her fully blossom in the cradling arms of nature.
My mind relaxes, and the tension releases from my body as the spirit of this land consumes me. Without thought, I start to hum, a gentle rhythm that began more than a thousand years ago. Before long, I am crooning her with the old Gaelic songs my grandmother taught me. The ones that sing to the beauty and magical powers of the forests and the glens, the rivers and streams, the songs that feel as if they are connected to my soul. I close my eyes, my forehead gently touching hers, and let the beautiful sound of the Gaelic melody vibrate around us.
We are surrounded by a peace I haven’t felt in many years.This feels so good, I think to myself as my hand rests on Ella’s chest, where I can feel the gentle beating of her heart and pray that it will only grow stronger.
The tickle of something landing on my wrist distracts me, so I lift my head and open my eyes to find there is a small flower resting upon my skin. Before long, there is another and then another. I still the rocking motion and watch as tiny leaves and flowers begin to rain down upon Ella from above. I’m frozen as my heart begins to pound inside my chest.Could it be?I wonder as my shaking hand picks up a tiny leaf. It is small and dense and clearly bruised to release its scent. I bring it to my nose and confirm the earthy musk of heather, the hearty plant whose resilience can withstand the harshest conditions and whose medicinal properties have been valued for thousands of years. But what is more, the delicate flowers that are now sprinkled all over her body and continue to fall from the sky are white and not the common purple of most Scottish heather. I pick up a tiny bloom and smile, recalling the legend that says when you happen upon the rare white heather, you are in the presence of faeries, a symbol of good fortune.
I keep my focus on the continuous flow of tiny leaves and bell-shaped blossoms. I will not disrespect them by trying to catch a glimpse as they put forth such effort to help my beloved wife. I am astounded by what is happening, and my gratitude gets lodged in my throat as it overwhelms me. I know they chose this plant for a reason, and I recall my mother’s remedy books that speak of the power of white heather, not only when steeped into teas or worked into poultices, but to smell it, to touch it, to be in its presence is said to bring forth its wisdom and the energies of healing and protection.
“Thank you,” I say with a thickened voice as the tears well up in my eyes.
I pick up a tiny sprig and roll it between my fingers to release the healing aroma. The herbal scent reaches my nose as I bring it closer to Ella’s. My stomach flutters. Did she just take a deeper breath?Perhaps it is my imagination, but I could swear she did. I quickly begin picking up more leaves, squeezing them, and breaking them before placing them on the slightly raised bone in the center of her chest, where she can easily smell them.
She did it again! I know this time it was real, and a tingle of excitement races through my body.
“Ella!” My hand caresses her face as I try to encourage her eyes to open.
Before I can say more, I am startled by the loud, shrieking cry of a hawk. I look up to find him perched upon a low branch of the oak tree. He is quite striking as his white feathers stand out in sharp contrast to the dark background of leaves and branches. But his piercing yellow eyes give me pause as they glare at me with unexpected intent. He calls again, seeming louder this time as I watch his mouth open wide, eyes still focusing solely on me. I can sense that he has a purpose but cannot fathom what that might be. It raises chills on my skin as he cries out again, the high-pitched scream echoing around us.
The stare down continues until the sound of rustling leaves distracts my attention. My head jerks to the right. “Christ!”