Buying Trouble
The Seed Moon - by Catnip
Death in itself is nothing, said a poet.
In itself, no. The dead have no more say in the matter, no feelings about the subject. But death is always so painful for the loved ones we leave behind.
I remember when Quiaius' wife died.
Sweet Claudia. Always smiling, always a delight to be around. She had a smile that could outshine the mighty sun god, and the gift of putting people at ease right away, as though she'd known you forever.
I used to tend to their small infrequent illnesses, trade herb plants with Claudia, and treat any sick cats. It was our little joke that they would send for me whenever one of their many queens were about to give birth. The self-assured cats never needed anyone's help; it was simply an excuse for us to sit on the floor and watch the Goddess' gift of creation once again.
The emotions are still raw, even after five years.
It hurt when she died – even more than any of the other times I'd watched someone pass from this life. For two days I sat with her, trying my best to keep the pain away, but I knew she was dying. I'd seen this twice before in my twenty-five years as a midwife – a baby developing outside of the womb and the mother in such pain – and both times it ended the same way.
Quiaius was devastated when she died. He was destroyed.
I had never seen a man so consumed in grief and pain. At first he still held her hand for over an hour, silent, not moving, not breathing. Staring at her face. Looking for I don't know what. I don't know if he even blinked. Her mother had already left her chair next to the bed and I could hear her in the kitchen, moving pots and pans together. Finally I put my hand on his shoulder and then carefully removed her hand from his.
It was that loss of contact that finally broke him. He had always been a strong man, but that day he crumbled before my eyes. It was so shocking that I recall it in all its horrific detail. I can still see him falling to his knees, covering his face with his hands, and rocking himself like a child, as the tears and the pain and the songs of sorrow flowed out of his soul in an endless river.
His grief was like a solid, living creature – black and bottomless and sharp like shards of broken glass – and it threatened to tear into me as well, even though I could only imagine the terrible, aching emptiness that you can never touch, never soothe. It is a part of your soul that you give away to the dead and never take back, and it doesn't stop hurting until you learn, one day, not to look at it anymore. But still, it's there.
I hardened my heart and I watched as his grief came pouring out like the torrents of hot spring rain. Only his tears would not taste as sweet as the rain, of that I was sure. Claudia's mother and I worked quickly and quietly to prepare her remains.
Quiaius still crouched on the floor, hugging himself as he cried. He looked so alone. While it honours the dead to see such a display of devotion, it frightened me to see him so totally consumed by his sorrow. I feared him. I feared being sucked into the black void of his desperation. I feared losing a part of my own soul. And so I kept my distance as he wept, alone. Claudia's mother tried to coax him from the bedside, but he would not leave and so she finally gave up.
I left quietly, my sad work done. Claudia's family would take care of any other matters.
I have not spoken to him since that day over five years ago. Sometimes I see him in the market with a basket on his arm. If he sees me he smiles, but his smiles are always sad. I try and smile back but all I feel is shame, that I could not save his Claudia and that I left him alone with his pain.
I thought after Claudia died that maybe I should stop trying to take care of humans and stick to cats and dogs. But I could not turn away the people who still came to my door asking for help. There are too many who can't afford the regular physicians. And it is my duty to help them.
Besides, my husband has been away for over two years, fighting in the northern campaigns with the army, and the only money I have comes from offering my gift. My two daughters are both grown and have their own families to take care of now, so I must support myself. Besides, it keeps me from being a hermit.
So it is with surprise that, at this very moment, I find myself trotting through the light woods to the north of the city with Quiaius and his beloved Eab.
At first glance, you might think them an odd pair – Quiaius with his tall, quiet strength and handsome Roman physique, and Eab with flaming red hair that just screams at you even though he has barely said a word – but there is something much more to them than just outward appearances. There is something about them that makes me smile and suspect that they have found a home in each other's soul. At this moment they are smiling and holding hands as we make our way across uneven fields and stiff brush. I have to admit that Eab makes me a little nervous. I've heard about the crazy Celts from some of my husband's comrades who have returned to Rome from the northern lands. But he seems clean and polite and not like the godless barbarians they describe.
My friend, Sima, told me last week that Quiaius wanted some new plants for Claudia's old garden. She had a lovely garden, comfortable and friendly – just like its owner. Quiaius never seemed like much of a gardener to me, but I sense that young Eab will be the one who nurtures it back into full bloom.
So, here we are, about to add more herbs to their garden.
We started off well before sunrise, since sunrise is the best time to gather herbs, and I chose this day in particular, when the moon lingers in the sign of the scales. The air is still cool, but it carries the perfume of the warm earth and the irrepressible lifeforce within it.
Our destination is just before us. The trees are mainly ash and chestnut, and although there is no shrine here, every grove is sacred. Silently, I whisper a prayer to the Great Mother as we enter, and I feel her blessing touch me in return.
The two men behind me can't see me smile as we make our way among the trees. My daughters were conceived in similar groves at Nemi in the Alban hills, during the sacred rites dedicated to our Mother.
I stop and turn to them, meaning to ask them if they want to stop and rest. But my words are caught up short by Eab. The young man is standing next to a tree, his eyes closed, and both hands resting lightly on the trunk. He says nothing, but I can feel that he is honouring the grove in his own way.
This is very definitely not what I would expect of the barbaric Celts that have been described to me.
After a moment he opens his eyes again and we find the sturdy trunk of a fallen tree to sit on, sharing a little water, goat's cheese and bread. As we eat, the sun is rising, peeking through the trees and painting trunks and groundcover in a beautiful golden pink. I slide my foot into the path of a sunbeam just to see it light up.
Once we're finished eating, I unhook a woolen pouch from my belt and check the contents. There is a damp cloth for wrapping roots in; a broad, pointed wooden blade for digging the plants out of the ground; a small bronze knife for cutting; and a wrapped piece of honeycomb to be broken up and left behind in return for the Mother's gift of the herbs.
I come here often to collect my healing plants, so I knew what grows here. Quiaius and Eab are content to follow at a slower pace. Eab is describing to Quiaius the qualities of the plants that he recognizes, and I am surprised to find his knowledge of healing plants is quite good.
I'm beginning to wonder if he is a Celt at all, or if the descriptions I'd heard of these people was just plain wrong.
I straighten my white linen stola and kick my sandals off. The rich, thick humus is soft against the soles of my feet, and I can't resist the urge to dig my toes into the earth.
Kneeling in the dirt to address each plant, we dig carefully around the roots with the wooden knife, and gently ease each plant from the earth. I tell them we must use our left hand in deference to the Goddess. Eab carefully accepts each plant and wraps each one in the damp cloth before tucking it away in a large cloth bag. Into each hole we leave a small piece of honeycomb as a gift to the earth.
I can forego the rest of the rituals, since we're only gathering plants for transplanting and not for healing. And also, there are some rituals that are only for me to know. Besides, there are heavy clouds rolling in and we should be quick about our business if we want to stay dry.
By mid-afternoon we've collected many plants – the lemony tasting Sweet Balm; Synkefoyle with its cape of yellow blossoms for breaking a fever; sweet and sour Lavose for flavouring stews; Lurk in the Ditch which makes a nice minty tisane – but was also sacred to our Great Mother Ceres and given to prospective candidates for initiation into her Eleusian Mysteries; Waybread which was made into poultices to draw out poisons, and helped cure the flux; Setewale for lessening headache and cats like it; and Old Woman, a silvery fern-like bush whose leaves provided a bitter, digestive tonic.
There are some plants that I don't recognize, but Eab does, and he tells me about Verbena, how some of his countrymen use it to sweep clean their sacred places and alters. He makes a small bundle of the tall narrow flower stalks that are full of tiny pink flowers, and hands it to me for inspection. It is indeed a mystery to be contemplated; the Mother has once again, by her hand, laid the most intricate and perfect detail on the tiniest of flowers, and I gaze at it in awe. It is beautiful.
I stand up and brush off of my stola but the dirt and humus cling to my knees, and I look worse than a temple prostitute. I pick at one very dirty spot on my clothes and I glance over at the men. They are staring at the crude tattoo of a snake I have curled around my left ankle. It is an area of my body that is normally hidden, but today I have been a little less formal than usual.
I expect the usual look of suspicion and disgust I normally receive from people who think that all midwives are witches – and none of them have even seen my tattoo. But what I get instead is a look of mild interest from Quiaius and one of fascination from Eab.
He begins to say something, but then he stops, looking both shy and apologetic. It is probably just as well, because he is still a stranger and my tattoo is a very private matter. Perhaps, some day ...
A gust of cool air causes us all to look up at the same time. Not so far away the dark clouds are opening up and blessing the woods and green rolling hills with their contents. I don't think we're going to make it back to the city in time, but we give it a try.
With a half hour's walk still to go, we lose our race against the rain, and it covers us, warm and soft against our faces, flattening our hair and our clothes against us. I love the sound of rain hitting the ground and the trees. It is a complete sound, full of depth and tone and even rhythm. The sound of the rain hitting my head is different from the sound of it hitting the ground at my feet. And the sound of rain hitting the leaves on a tree is the best of all. It is all around us.
The distant, hazy outline of the city disappears into the gray curtain of rain. Our loose linen clothes are clinging now, sodden, as the rain falls in a constant downpour. Even the palla across my shoulders is soaked and heavy, offering me little protection today. I see that Eab has taken his sandals off and is spinning around with his arms outward and his face tilted up to catch the drops. I almost laugh because he is mud up to his knees. Quiaius is looking at him with the oddest expression on his face – but slowly it turns into a soul-deep smile that warms his lovely blue eyes. I recognize that smile, even though I haven't seen it in over five years.
Quiaius approaches him and catches first his arms, stopping his whirling motion, and then steps closer so that their bodies are touching. I can see Eab fruitlessly wiping the strands of wet hair and rain out of his eyes as he looks up at Quiaius. In one exquisite breath their lips gently touch, and I look away. And smile.
And suddenly I feel lighter and happier than I have since Claudia died. Dear Claudia, who I think may be watching them right now. Yes, she would be happy to know that her good quiet Quiaius has finally found someone to gift his heart to again. To travel a new road with. To plant a new garden.
And I have found forgiveness where I never looked for it – in my own heart. I feel it growing, like a sun-fed vine, reaching out beyond the confines of this brittle, mortal shell. And with it, new seeds of understanding and love for old friends as well as new ones.
THE END
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