“What do you mean?” I asked, intrigued. “Wise ones? What wise ones?”

But he was already shuffling back inside, eager no doubt to warm his stiff joints by the little turf fire whose smoke curled up through the chimney opening.

I called on a young woman recently delivered, with much difficulty, of twin daughters. I had assisted the village women through the long night of this birth, and was keeping a close eye on the mother, making sure she took the herbal teas I had provided to tighten the womb and bring on the milk. I chose a bad time to make my departure, for the clouds opened as I was halfway home, drenching me to the skin and quickly coating my feet in liquid mud. I struggled on; the rumble of thunder deafened me to the squeak of cart wheels approaching, and suddenly there was Father Brien alongside me, an old sack over his head and shoulders. The horse stood stolid in the rain, ears back.

“Jump on,” shouted the father over the din of the storm, and stretched out a hand to haul me up onto the seat beside him.

“Thanks,” I managed. There wasn’t much point in talking against the roaring of the elements, so I sat quietly and pulled my cloak closer about me. There was a place where the track passed briefly into a grove of old pines, whose lower branches had been trimmed away. Once we reached this semishelter, Father Brien slowed the horse right down; the needled canopy filtered the worst of the rain off us, and the noise faded to a dull, distant rumbling.

“I need your help, Sorcha,” said Father Brien, relaxing his hold on the reins and letting the old horse lower his head to search for something to graze on.

I looked at him, taken aback. “You came down here to find me?”

“Indeed, and must travel home today. I would not venture out in such weather without a good reason. I have a patient who is beyond my power to heal; God knows I have tried, and made some ground. But he needs something now which I cannot give him.”

“You want me to help? To make an infusion, a decoction?”

Father Brien sighed, looking down at his hands.

“I wish it were so simple,” he said. “Brews and potions I have tried, some with good effect. I have employed many elements you have taught me, and some of my own. I have prayed, and talked, and counseled. I can do no more, and he is slipping away from me.”

I did not need to ask who this patient was.

“I’ll help, of course. But I don’t know if I’ll be much use. My skills are mainly with medicines. You make it sound as if something more is needed?”

There was no way I was going to ask him directly what was wrong with the boy; this was dangerous ground. I had no idea how much he knew, or what I was supposed to tell him.