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It is the season of the white hare. Snow covers the land, and the Snake tribe shivers in its winter home. This eetalday is a small village, with half-a-dozen huts, hidden in a mountain pass; there are only two paths in, and those are easily defended.
But this year, the enemy is not shtoontee from the north or manoo from the west. When the first orkums arrived here, early this winter, a mad doomla had been living in their homes. Though the thraka drove her away, their dowmgas could not remove her curse, and a disease is loose in the village
No adult ork has died form it, but some wish they had. It often lasts more than seven days, and those afflicted feel hot, then cold, anve a horrible wracking cough, and ache all over. Three children have died; all the rest are ill, barely able to move from their furs. They sleep fitfully, day and night; when they are not crying out from the pain of the coughs, the sound of their soft whimpers fills the camp.
Ealers and dowmga check each orkum every day, sending dayla and dowmgaday into the woods every afternoon to fetch herbs. They prepare teas and compresses, and administer them around the camp.
* * *
Nahteena is a young dowmga who gave birth just weeks ago. She has much skill at shayshum; children she has treated cry less and heal quickly. She is exhausted.
One night, she wakes up one of her thraka.
"Dorshan! Get up!"
"Whassa … umm?" Dorshan opens his eyes slowly. Nahteena is standing over him, baby in a sling on her right hip, wooden spoon in her left hand. She pokes him in the ribs with it.
"Get up, I said."
Dorshan rises. When she sees that he's vertical, and at least half awake, she says, "Get your cloak. Go down to the river; there are three willow trees near where we gather water. Bring me two handsfull of the bark from them. Use a knife; I need all the bark, not just the surface that peels off."
Dorshan blinks. Twice. He looks into her eyes, shrugs, and grabs his cloak. Then he stumbles off toward the river, mumbling about the craziness of dowmga and midnight missions. He sees another thraka who looks equally sleepy, stumbling in the same direction.
"Willow bark?" He asks.
"Willow bark. And leaves from the river-reeds," the other answers. They walk together in silence, pulling their cloaks around themselves to keep out the chill. When they reach the trees, it's obvious other orks have been here; large patches are missing from the bark. They each find a spot and cut off a few hand's lengths of bark. The other ork gathers some leaves from the reeds. Dorshan starts to turn back, pauses, and gets a few of the leaves as well. He does not want to make this trip twice.
When he returns, Nahteena is sitting by the fire, putting herbs into a pot suspended over the fire. She is nursing the new baby; the two older children are curled up near her. One of them is half-awake, fidgeting; every few seconds she reaches over to him and strokes his hair. She stirs the mixture, then looks up at Dorshan. As he fumbles with his pouch, she moves the baby onto a pile of furs.
She holds out her hand, and Dorshan places all the bark and leaves into it. She looks at it, and gives a quick nod of surprise. "Good. Need these too." She puts the whole pile into the pot and stirs. She's quiet; Dorshan is not sure what to do. She looks up again, motions for him to sit. As she turns back to the pot, she speaks in a tired monotone.
"Stir this often. Don't let any of it stick to the side and get burned." She keeps stirring, not looking at him. "When it foams up on top, scrape the foam into this bowl," and she motions to a wooden bowl at the side of the fire circle. "When it stops making foam, take it off the fire. As soon as it's cool enough, give the children each a cup." She hands him a braided rag, two hands long and half a hand wide. "Use this for the baby."
He looks at it, confused. "Spuh … use … ah … how?"
She looks at him, raises her eyebrows, and says, in a voice usually reserved for small children, "Fill a cup." Pause. "Dip the rag in the cup." Pause. "Put the rag in his mouth." Pause. "Keep doing it until the cup is empty." Pause. "Try not to spill."
Dorshan starts to panic. He fidgets where he sits. His eyes dart around the room, looking for someone to share this with. He sees his two brother-thraka, deep asleep, and the dayla who helps Nahteena, also very deeply asleep. "But," he stammers, "this is dowmshay," his voice shakes, "mother-magic. I can't … thraka can't …" his head swims with words like "sacred" and "forbidden" and "secret" and "dire punishment."
*WHAP*
Nahteena hits him on the side of his head with the long spoon.
He grows very still. She stares at him for a long, long moment, and he feels the weight of weeks of sleepless nights behind her gaze. Her eyes are steady, firm, almost glazed over with exhaustion; she is focused on a point just behind his eyes, as if she's looking through him.
He hunches his shoulders, unconsciously trying to make himself smaller. It doesn't work. She's still looking at him. Her arms are crossed, fingers of one hand tapping dangerously. There is no expression on her face.
No expression at all.
He realizes he would rather be outside in the cold again. He would rather be facing a room full of elves than this dowmga, whom he'd give his life to protect. He would rather be doing anything than facing her eyes right now.
He thinks, The ork who kills Gorlam will have those eyes.
And then … her eyes close … slowly … and flickers of emotion play on her face. When she opens her eyes, they are softer. She is smiling, a wry half-smile. She stands, walks around the fire, and gently takes his head in her hands. She kisses him tenderly on the forehead.
"Tonight," she says, in a soft, clear voice, "tonight you get to be the dowmga."
She steps back, turns away, and lays down on her furs. "I am going to sleep."
* * *
At that moment, his little-brother doubles over, coughing, and Dorshan moves to hold him. When he settles again, Dorshan remembers the pot, and stirs it. Then the baby cries, and Dorshan picks it up, trying to place it on his shoulder as he's seen the dowmgas do; then the pot starts to foam up, and he scraps the foam off, and his little-brother cries again …
The next morning, he steps out to relieve himself, and sees the other ork who was gathering herbs. He sees red eyes, with dark circles underneath, and Dorshan knows he looks the same. He nods hello. The other ork nods back, and speaks.
"Give me trals, any day."
Dorshan nods vigorously. "Trals. Bears. Caves full of white scorpions. My back would break under the weight my dowmga carries."