Sleepiness overtakes me from treading water, and I climb clumsily out of the pool. The lumps smart terribly, but I tumble out feeling refreshed, warmth permeating my whole being. I find an Edyth-sized space among the roots and nestle silently against the tree to dry off, watching the sun set, dipping for sip after sip of the delicious, sweet, warm water.
— 37 —
It’s a moment before twilight when I wake, lying among the roots of the tree. I pull the green gown back over my head and rebraid my hair in a disheveled mess.
But something is different.
I run out of the woods and burst through the gate, past a surprised, bleating goat desperate to be milked, and stop myself short on the threshold of the chapel. Its door is carelessly left open. Mason’s on a scaffold working with a fine chisel, putting the finishing touches on a capital ringed with lions that I drew. Again and again he wipes his eyes with his sleeve. My heart breaks for what he must be thinking.
I stand in the doorway until he sees me in his periphery and stops chiseling. He turns his head, and I see tears making dark paths through his dusty cheeks.
“I tried to catch up to you!” he says. “I didn’t know where you—”
I motion for him to be quiet and follow me. He grabs a torch, and I swipe a little bucket sitting outside the chapel door.
When we pass through the gate into the woods, I finally address him.
“Mason, I’m sorry I ran away. But it’s all clear now. I have to—”
“Edyth, you’re not well. You should be in bed. You know what’s going to happen.”
“I found it!” I grin, running to follow the color through the trees again, until at last we come to the yew tree.
“A spring!” Mason says. “I haven’t seen clean water in…” He sticks his torch in a knot in the tree trunk, drops to his knees and starts scooping handfuls of water into his mouth.
“It’s so sweet! And warm, like tea!” He splashes it over his dusty head and face, and laughs with relief.
“It’s not just any spring, Mason. Look.” I pull my sleeve down off my shoulder and lift my bare arm. “Look.”
Mason puts his face right up to my armpit, holds my arm and looks for any trace of the blotches. “But…”
“That’s right.”
“Your arm was turning as black as peat this afternoon.”
“I know.”
“No one survives this, Edyth. It spares no one. Are you sure you don’t have the lumps anywhere else?”
“I’m sure,” I laugh. “They’re completely gone.”
Mason stares as I pull my sleeve back on. “Are you telling me—”
“I’m healed, Mason. This is the spring from the book, from my dream. It was right here all along. And it wasn’t just about me living or dying. It’s going to heal everyone.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, nudging my cheek. “I thought you might be crazy, Edie. The end of the disease is like that.” Mason hovers above me, his warm cedar breath surrounding me. Comfort waves off his body like tones of summer. I press into him with my whole body and put my arms around his neck.
“Help me bring this water to the sick,” I say earnestly.
Beaming with excitement, we make our plan: Give the water first to Alice, Muriel and Anne, in hopes it might protect them from the disease. Return with larger vessels tomorrow—at midnight, to keep the spring secret. And let this place be our sanctuary.
We fill the little bucket to take back with us, and we talk, and drink, and kiss until the first tone of blue dawn reveals the shape of the trees.
* * *
—
The first thing I do is bring a cup to Alice. I write the story on her wax tablet, then tiptoe over to the scriptorium and tell Muriel and Anne about my healing. I don’t know if the water will protect them from getting sick. They’re skeptical, but they listen.
“It’s all well and good to read about miracles,” says Anne. “I’m just saying I’ve never seen one.”
“Edyth’s not the type to make things up,” says Muriel.
“Well, I’m sick of warm ale in any case,” says Anne. “Let’s drink.” They clink their cups of water together and drain them to the bottom.
The thrill of last night wears off, and I can’t keep myself awake any longer. I know it’s urgent that we get water to the infirmary, but we’ve got to wait until dark. A few hours of sleep in the scriptorium, and I go to the chapel to meet Mason.
* * *
—
“You gave them the water?” Mason confirms as we head back into the wood tonight, this time with bigger containers.
“Alice was all for it. Muriel and Anne didn’t believe me at first. But they drank it anyway.”
“Maybe there’s a chance for them, then.”
Through the columns of ash and elm, past the oaks, our pace picks up to a run. The leaves part alongside us like the Red Sea, sending smears of light blue and lilac along my periphery until we arrive at the grove where the yew tree’s arms rise, embracing the sky. Out from the roots of the yew tree, the spring still effervesces. The pool has doubled in size from last night.
“Edyth, come see this!” Mason says from the other side of the yew. He climbs into the tree, and I follow. The expanse inside is as big as my dormitory cell, cool and sheltered.
“You could make a nice little home in here,” he says.
“Maybe we’ll have to,” I respond, sitting on the bed of dry needles. It feels so safe in here. I scoot next to Mason, and he puts his cloak around both of our shoulders. I kiss him without fear. “It’s time,” I say. “Let’s get the water and see what happens.”
We kneel by the pool, our knees wet and muddy, filling our buckets. We sit at the edge of the spring and stare at the hazy reflection of the moon, feeling the warmth rising from the water, listening to the crickets and the sounds of the autumn night. But it’s still, too still. We can’t pretend people aren’t dying while we stay here. I move his hand from my waist and squeeze it.
“Let’s go.”
We pick up our vessels and set off toward the infirmary, walking silently under the waxing moon.
— 38 —
So slowly our feet tread in the autumn leaves, under the woad sky, carrying the water we hope, believe, doubt, plead, will bring life to the dying. It was one thing to give it to Alice, Muriel and Anne—they’re quarantined. I’m suddenly sober. This will be the real test.