The dream. I saw this there…wherever that was, in the cottage where I would take the herbs I had collected and store them or mix them into various concoctions. It was lying open on a nearby table, its unique handwriting easy to distinguish, flowing, and precise.Isla Sutherland – Healer’s Journal.
I smile at her beautiful script. She clearly put effort into making this special and took pride in her work. How strange it is that I have a sense of my own pride. The next few pages are filled with what she considered basic tonics and remedies for the most common ailments. She drew detailed illustrations of leaves and flowers to help identify them, noting if certain ones had close similarities and how to distinguish one from another. Her descriptions are neatly presented and easy to read and understand.
About five pages in, she started journaling the various patients she saw—the first one is dated September 7th, 1571. I feel a tickle of excitement as if I have found some hidden treasure. Isla continues, describing a festering wound on an elderly man’s foot. She believes his healing time will be long as his age is working against him to help it close with fresh skin. In another entry, a young family has been stricken with food poisoning, likely from tainted meat. She feels certain they will recover but has concerns about the youngest, a boy of only two years. There are several instances of teeth that need to be pulled. Most did not seem serious, but one woman needed to be treated for a festering rot in the gum and possibly the bone. Isla packed the wound with a paste of wild garlic and added clove for pain.
“Dear Lord, that sounds dreadful, poor woman,” Again, I voice my thoughts aloud. I can’t imagine how terrible it must have been. Although, I’m sure she was relieved when Isla changed the dressing and had her rinse with a tincture of honey and whisky. She probably asked for a little extra of that sweet concoction to take home.
Thumbing through the pages of her journal takes me back to the time and place I visited in my mind after Callen was born. How strange it is that I have such a connection to that dream and now to Isla’s journal. Seeing her beautiful script and reading her detailed recollections is like visiting an old friend I’ve longed to see for ages. It’s as if she’s talking to me, teaching me about the medicinal remedies she used to heal the sick and wounded.
Through her writing, I can sense her emotions. She cares deeply for her patients and their well-being. I can feel her satisfaction in successfully treating an ailment, be it minor or serious. Yet, when I happen upon her first loss, a young man with a severe battle wound in his abdomen, I have to blink away the tears that blur my vision. She was deeply distraught and sought out the guidance of her mentor to help her through.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper as my fingers glide along her words of sorrow and defeat. I have a deep yearning to comfort her and let her know that she is a gifted, compassionate healer, but sometimes life and death are given up to a higher power. Perhaps with time, it was something that became easier for her to accept.
I turn the page. “My God!” I gasp, my hand quickly going to my chest. Staring at me from the yellowed page is a man so striking and so familiar I feel my stomach sink as if the floor dropped out from under me. He is handsome yet intimidating, and through this sketch, Isla managed to capture the intensity of his glare. Why does my heart seem like it will pound right out of my chest? Why did she draw his portrait? And why does he remind me of Alasdair?
On the facing page, she answers my question but leaves more that I am desperate to ask.
The MacLeod chief’s eldest son came back today. Lachlan MacLeod is his name. I didn’t know why he was here—I figured it had to do with his brother’s death, that perhaps he had more questions. But what could he ask? It was obvious that Duncan had lost too much blood and that the wound could not be repaired. Lachlan waited a long time before speaking, staring at me with a severity that made my chest hurt. I could sense a deep longing within him that awakened my feminine spirit. He finally spoke, offering his gratitude for helping his brother pass from this life to the next. He said it was a gift that I gave his brother and their family, letting Duncan know that he was safe and he could let go and begin his next journey. I could sense that Lachlan wanted to say more, and I desperately wished that he would. Instead, he came close, forcing me to look up at him. I felt my knees go weak, then he gently caressed my face, and I could have sworn his hand was trembling. How could this powerful man be so tender, and what could ever make him afraid? Certainly not me. Yet the look in his eyes said otherwise. He offered me compliments, even jested a bit, surprising me with his laughter. Then he asked my name. Something about my answer displeased him, and he turned and left without another word, leaving me with a terrible urge to weep.
I quickly turn the page, hoping to find more, wanting to know if he came back to her. Did Isla ever see him again? Why did he act as if he cared for her, then turn and leave when she told him her name? A thousand other questions are racing through my mind, but there was nothing more about him. I skim through the rest of the journal, my eyes searching for the name Lachlan or MacLeod, but find nothing. I pull more journals off the shelf, five of which were Isla’s, and hurry through the pages, desperate to find something that would tell me if they ever met again, but to my dismay…I fear I will never know.