“Yes, I heard about that,” said the learned father. “Took a bit of a risk, didn’t you?”

“I know my dosages,” I said.

“You do, better than most of us, Sorcha. But as I said, this patient has been dosed, and anointed, and prayed over. He was—he had a number of hurts, and these I have attended to as well as I could. Although he will never be quite as he was, his body is healing well enough. His mind is another matter.”

“You mean—he went crazy because of what they did to him? Like that man that used to work in the mill, Fergal his name was—he turned very odd after the little people had him overnight. Is that what you mean?” I remembered the miller, slack-mouthed, trembling, crouched by the hearth covered in dirt.

Father Brien sighed. “Crazy—no, not quite. This one is of stronger fabric than the Fergals of this world. He may be young, but he is a warrior; it’s in his nature to fight back. He resisted his tormentors all through that long night, and I don’t doubt that not one word escaped his lips. He’s been very sick. He had a raging fever, and some of his injuries might have killed a weaker man outright. He fought death hard, and for a while I thought he had won. But his next battle is the hardest; the battle against himself. He is, after all, not much more than a boy, and the strongest of men suffers damage when his own kind turns against him in evil. The lad will not admit that he is hurt and frightened; instead, he turns his anguish inward and torments himself.”

I tried to get my mind around this.

“You mean he wants to die?”

“I don’t think he knows what he wants. What he needs is peace of mind, a space of time without hate, to put body and spirit together again. I thought to send him to the brothers in the west; but he is too weak to be moved, and cannot yet be trusted in other hands.”

There was quiet for a time, save for the gentle thudding of hooves and a sigh of wind among the rocks. We were getting closer now. The track grew narrow and steep, and the trees closed in. Up here there were great oaks, their upper reaches bare of leaves, but shawled with goldenwood, and the depths of the forest were dark with ancient growth. The old horse knew his way, and ambled steadily on.

“Father, if you couldn’t heal this boy, I’m sure I can’t. As my brothers keep telling me, I’m only a child. Maybe I can fix a wheezy chest, or a case of nettle rash, but this—I hardly know where to start.”

The cart jolted over a stone, and Father Brien’s hand shot out to steady me.

“Nonetheless,” he said in his measured way, “if you cannot, none here can. Conor was sure you were the one to help me. I believe you will know what to do, when you see him. I also believe he will not fear you as he does me. And fear is a great barrier to healing.”