"Hi!"
Another woman, much younger than the one he'd seen, but with a look to her as if she were close kin. Around thirty, he thought, but paler and longer-faced, her abundant braided hair a light brown, with a stocky-strong build but not much spare flesh. She was dressed in a kilt and indigo-blue shirt, knee socks and low buckled shoes, with a stethoscope around her neck; there was the same matter of-fact competence in the way she helped him drink, listened to his chest, gave him some sharp tasting medicine in a spoon, then took his temperature with a glass thermometer and compared it to notes on a clipboard at the foot of the bed.
"Perfectly normal, Mr. Vogeler," she said. "For three days now, and the wound's been fully closed for a while. Mother will be pleased; she had to go back in to clean it out, you see. I'm Tamsin Barstow Mackenzie-call me Tamsin. You'll be able to stand a little in a couple of days."
She grinned at him. "And walk as far as the bathroom, with help. Won't that be nice, sure and it will?"
"It will! Could I have something to eat now, Miss Tamsin?" he asked. "Lord, I'm hungry!"
"You are getting better the now!"
Then he frowned; the lilting accent reminded him: "Ah… there was a lady, her name was Saba…"
She put a hand on his shoulder. "Saba Brannigan? I'm afraid… You fought very well, but she was killed. I'm sorry."
Humiliatingly, he felt tears coursing down his cheeks and couldn't stop them, which told him how weak he still was. Tamsin handed him a square of linen handkerchief and left, long enough for him to compose himself.
When she returned her mother was with her, and she carried a tray with a bowl of soup and pieces of fine white wheat bread and butter. The soup was chicken again, but this time with pieces of the meat in it, and carrots and noodles; there were herbs he'd never tasted before for seasoning, and he couldn't remember hav ing anything as good-though that was probably partly because it had been so long. He ate it all, expected to want more, and found that it exactly matched what he could take. While they propped him up by turning a crank under the bed he had a chance to look at his left arm again, knowing what he'd been told.
His eyebrows went up as he really looked at the thick purple scar. Men rarely recovered from such a serious wound if it mortified. He raised the limb and worked it carefully, wincing slightly. There was a tug and pull when he stretched it, and he'd have trouble lifting a feather, but the range of motion seemed good.
I'm not crippled, he thought, with a rush of relief. Aloud he went on: "That did turn real nasty, ma'am. I'm surprised I lived."
"So am I, with the pneumonia. You'd been pushing be yond what your body could bear, but it wasn't your time," the older woman said; this time he was alert enough that he noticed a reserve in her tone. The younger looked at her and smiled.
"Mother stayed up with you for days," she said.
Judy shrugged. "It wasn't your time to make ac counting to the Guardians," she repeated. "You'll be on light solids from now on, and your recovery ought to be very rapid. We'll start a physiotherapy program immediately."
When she saw he didn't know the word, she clarified: "Special exercises for the injured arm. There's scar tissue-you'll have to be careful to get full strength back."
"I'm most grateful, ma'am," he said. "To you and your folks. I hope I can do something in return."
Her gaze thawed a little. "Well, Mr. Vogeler, we would like you to answer some questions. And I think you're about strong enough to do that, soon, if not much else."
A yell came from somewhere not too far away. Ingolf started and paled; that was a woman crying out in pain. Judy Barstow shook her head. "Right on time," she said, and walked out.
Tamsin smiled at him before she followed, seeing the alarm on his face. "Childbirth," she said, and snorted. "It's Dechtire Smith. This is her third; she's strong as a plowhorse with hips like one too, but she always insists on the clinic and pretends she's dying."
"Well… it hurts," he said, relieved it was something so natural. "And it is dangerous."
Back home the men all went out and drank applejack when the midwife came, and pretended not to jump every time a shriek rang out. If it was bad enough for a real doctor, they drank more.
Tamsin nodded. "With two of my own, don't I know it hurts! But it doesn't hurt like that, when it goes well. We don't lose many mothers here, Mr. Vogeler-not one in a thousand. Believe me: that woman's not happy unless she's getting sympathy."
The brief flare of emotion had tired him, and the soup and bread were making him sleepy. He let his head fall back and slept once more.
Rudi Mackenzie bent and lifted the end of the Doug las fir onto the sledge, getting some of the sticky aromatic sap on his gloves as he heaved it up. Shouting and laughing, their breath puffing in the cold damp air amid the drifting snowflakes and the mealy scent of them, the others bent and heaved and the whole length was on it, and it was the work of a moment to lash it down.
He turned and bowed his head a last time to the stump while he rubbed the sap off the leather of his gauntlets; they'd made the usual apology and explanation when they cut it yesterday, which should satisfy Cernunnos. The tree was to represent His member, after all. Then he whistled.
A tall glossy-black horse brought her head up sharply not far away, where she'd been nosing the snow, more for something to do than from hope of finding anything edible; he could tell she was bored by the whole business. Despite the winter her midnight coat shone, and when she trotted over she seemed to float, barely tapping the earth with her hooves.
The reins leading to her light hackamore bridle were looped up over the saddlebow. Nobody had used a bit on Epona since they met; Rudi didn't need one, and it would be futile for anyone else to try. He'd had the horse since she was just under four and he was ten-that made her sixteen now, middle-aged in horse years, but even experienced wranglers usually put her at seven or eight at first sight.
"Well, you asked to come along," he said, scolding af fectionately as he stroked her neck and she lipped at his hair. "You get all pissy about me taking someone else out, even your own get, and then I bring you and you sulk because it's boring."
She'd never liked seeing him working with other horses, not even her own daughters Macha Mongruad and Rhiannon. Rudi put a hand on her withers and vaulted into the saddle. He still remembered how proud he'd been the first time he could do that-she was just a hair under seventeen hands. Now it was as easy as climb ing stairs… but he'd been able to ride her from the first, when nobody else could.
"We bring the Yule Tree!" he called. "On to the hall!"
That got him a cheer; everyone here was young, from his age down to six-year-olds running around pretending to help and pelting one another with snowballs; Mary and Ritva were doing that too, and giggling like the kids they'd been not too long ago. He smiled tolerantly-until one of theirs took him on the back of the head and knocked his bonnet off into a drift. They weren't kids anymore and they threw hard.
"Hey, watch that!" he called. "Not while I'm riding Epona!"
It wasn't that the big mare wasn't well trained. She'd spun under him in response to his shift of balance, mov ing as lightly as a deer. The problem was that she was trained for war, and fiercely protective of him besides, and didn't know the difference between a snowball and a rock meant to kill. He had to check rein her then, and she snorted and shook her head and showed her teeth.
Epona was a genius of horsekind, but their intelligence was of a different type and order. You had to understand how they saw the world. He grinned at the thought; he was pretty sure that there were times when she thought he was a bumbling idiot who needed constant protection.