Enga’s Song By Sandra Anthony

Enga’s Song By Sandra Anthony

Do you believe in destiny? That invisible line that pulls us onward until we’ve reached some unknown, and often unwanted, end. I want to say that I do not, yet I did not choose this path, and here I am.

I was only a child when I was handed this burden, barely eight summers along in my journey. Our stone cottage at the edge of the village was my world. I never dreamed of far-off places, princes and kingdoms, worlds beyond my own. Even the village market felt too big and too far away. A circle of women surrounded me, and that was enough. My mother and grandmother, along with the other women—the kvenna—that regularly crossed our threshold.

Change came as it often does; stealthily, without warning. Mam and I had spent a peaceful day gathering herbs in the forest. Sunlight flickered through a canopy of green leaves, and bird twitter filled the air. My childish mind skipped from tree to earth to flowers and back again, much like the squirrels skittering through the branches above me.

My basket overflowed with the new herb I was to learn that day. Feverfew: the green stems topped with tiny white flowers that filled the air with their bitter odor. My Amma had told me the healing properties, but I could not readily remember.

A fiery orange butterfly flitted past, drawing my attention further from my task. I stepped toward the butterfly and disturbed a frog hiding in a clump of grass. It leaped away, beckoning me to follow. I chased it across the damp earth to catch it for myself. His long legs carried him out of my reach each time I lunged.

Mam’s song floated to me on the breeze, her special song, just for me.

          “My child flies with fledgling wings,
          Ever growing,
          Finding life,
          Filling heart and soul with song,
          Bring her ever back to me.”

The frog stopped and leaned towards her voice, seeming to listen intently. The grass rippled, the flowers brightened, the trees sighed. As if the growing things felt the irresistible pull towards her, just as I did. My feet turned without hesitation, skipping away from my distractions.

“Come Enga. Bring your basket. Time to go home.”

Her warm hand enveloped mine as we walked through the green. My basket swayed with each step along the path, the scent mingling with the sweetness of the herbs in Mam’s basket. An all-encompassing contentment suffused the air.

Amma joined us as we reached the gate. Her brow creased. I did not catch the words of their hurried conversation, but something in the air had changed. Uneasiness sifted through me. I scurried to match their pace as they hastened on towards our cottage. The sudden breeze caught at their skirts as if the air, too, was in a rush.

Mam’s outward calm never faltered, but I felt her growing disquiet as she gathered herbs and unguents in a bundle. I always knew my mother’s frame of mind. Some invisible, unbreakable thread held our essences in sync. I thought everyone carried this connecting strand to their mothers. How was I to know I was different, that we were different?

“We must go to a healing, Enga.” Mam knelt in front of me, hands on my shoulders, her eyes level with mine. “I need Amma with me, so you must come, too.”

A feeling of importance surged inside me, of inclusion in something innately grown up. We bustled out the door, each carrying a bundle, mine the smallest, to match my tiny stature. Even for my age I was undersized, although Mam and Amma, too, were noticeably smaller than the other kvenna. My legs burned with the effort of trying to keep pace with them.

& & &

The silent, relentless journey felt unending. Thick trees lined the pathway as we walked through the deepening darkness. At last, tiny squares of light cut through the night, the windows of a small cottage. Scattered weeds and dirt surrounded the cob walls topped with a thatched roof. No garden or flowers brightened the space, only murky shadows. A shaft of light cut through the darkness as the wooden door opened. A stranger beckoned us in.

The coarse features and calloused hands were strange to me. I had never encountered a being so tall and rough looking. I hung back, hiding behind Mam’s skirts as she spoke to the stranger.

“How far along?” Mam’s soothing voice held no trace of the tension I felt emanating from her.

“Barely seven months.” The deep voice resonated, filling the small room with fear.

“I will do what I can.” Mam carried her bundle up the wooden ladder into the loft. Soon her song drifted down to us. The healing song, different from the song she sang for me. A song I’d heard before when she helped people.

“We will need more wood and water.” Amma waved the strange one out the door before turning to me. “Bring our bundles to the table, Enga. We must hurry.”

I set the bundles on the table and pressed close to Amma, unnerved by the fear that floated around me.

“What is it?” My whisper was barely loud enough to reach Amma’s ears.

“What is what?”

I motioned towards the door. She glanced over, and the confusion left her face. “Oh, him. He is a man, a gumi. Pay no attention.”

“But what …”

“Not now, Enga.” Amma’s stern look silenced me. My earlier feeling of inclusion faded, and I felt my smallness.

The gumi returned to the house, wood under one huge arm, the other carrying a bucket of fresh water. Without a word, he dumped the wood near the fireplace, set the water on the table, and moved to a chair at the other end of the room. He slumped forward, head held in hands.

I sat on a stool, keeping close to Amma and as far from the gumi as possible. His presence felt alien to me.

Moans from the loft punctuated Mam’s healing song. A lantern sat on the table, its flame constantly shifting, echoing a myriad of unfamiliar emotions that floated around me, pressing against me.

I watched Amma move between the table and the stove, banking the fire, boiling a large kettle of water. The moans from the loft became anguished groans.

Amma glanced toward the loft as she added the carefully selected herbs. A sharp tang filled the air. The room felt lighter, my tired legs stronger. The gumi lifted his head, watching her carry the steaming kettle up the ladder to the loft.

I wanted to follow her, afraid to be left here with the gumi, but then I would be closer to the suffering. In my indecision, I stood and took half a step forward. The cry from the loft pierced my heart. Unspeakable pain drenched my being. Darkness carried me away.

& & &

Sensation slowly returned, telling me little by little that I was not dead. I lay in my small cot, safe from whatever had gripped me. A murmur of voices from the other room drew me to the door. I watched Mam and Amma from the doorway, reluctant to intrude, yet wanting to know what had happened. The room felt draped in grief.

“She is too young.” Mam’s voice sounded hollow.

“Not so much younger than you were.” Amma’s hand stroked Mam’s long braid.

“But it is so hard when I cannot save them.” Tears dropped from Mam’s cheeks. “It is too much. I would not choose this life for her.”

“Is it a choice? The way of the empath comes to us whether we choose it or not. We can only learn to use it wisely. Learn to live with the joy and the pain.” Amma’s hand dropped Mam’s braid, and she turned to me. “Enga. Come, my little elska. Don’t be afraid.”

I moved toward them, standing close. “Did I die?”

Mam’s arm encircled me, warm across my shoulders. “It is hard to explain and harder to understand.” Mam’s eyes held mine. “You felt the pain of dying but, no, you did not die.”

I buried my head in the crook of her shoulder, uncertain what to think. The memory of that pain was so fresh in my mind. More than anything, I never wanted to experience it again.

“Enga.” Amma’s voice was soft but firm. “Remember the story of the witch and the healer? How they each had to choose their way?”

I nodded. Amma had told me the story many times. About how the empath chose the good and used her power for healing. All the people of the village loved and respected her. The witch chose the bad and used her power for harm until it overcame her, and she withered into nothing. The story always made me sad.

“You know your mother and I are both empaths and healers.” Amma’s warm hand covered mine, like a lifeline, pulsing strength up my arm and into my heart. “And there was every chance that you would be too. Like the healer in the story.” Again, I nodded, afraid of what she would say next. The words of the story danced in my mind filled with meaning I had never understood until now. Was this pain part of being an empath? If so, I wanted no part in it.

“Last night we could not heal. Both the mother and her unborn child slipped through our hands.” Tears welled in her eyes, and I felt the sting of my own. “You felt the pain of their leaving. Only an empath would feel that pain.”

The tears spilled freely down my small cheeks. “It hurt. I don’t want that. Please make it go away.” Surely, Mam and Amma could help me. They were healers, after all.

Mam hugged me tighter. “If we could take it away, we would. I hoped you would not have to travel this path, but …” Sadness choked her words.

“Did you feel the pain?” My eyes darted between them. “Will it come again?”

A look passed between them, a silent communication. Mam nodded, tears spilling onto her dress. “I felt it. But the first time is aways the worst.”

“We can protect you for a little longer.” Amma’s hand stroked my hair. “It is best if you come to my cottage for a while. Your Mam will come to see us often. It will be better there. Away from the village. Until you are stronger.”

I clung to Amma’s words. Thoughts of her cozy cottage nestled at the edge of the forest hushed my fears. She and Mam were my world. As much as I wanted to be with Mam, the promise of escape from the pain was enough.

& & &

Amma was right. Mam came often, bringing me trinkets or treats. I never ventured far from the safety of Amma’s cottage. Gradually, the pain faded into memory.

Amma taught me new songs. We sang as we worked together in the garden or tended to the chickens and goats. We made up songs together too. Songs for eating, sleeping, playing. Songs for joy and for sadness.

One day I saw Mam coming up the path. Or, I should say, I felt her before I saw her. And I felt something else coming with her. A sadness that reminded me of the pain of dying I had felt months earlier. It seemed to grow as she neared. I sat on the front step waiting for her, wanting to see her but reluctant to feel what she was bringing with her.

A greyness surrounded her as if she walked in a rain cloud. I felt her sigh as she caught sight of me. The cloud lessened, as if she had stuffed it down to the bottom of the bag that hung from her shoulder. Amma stepped out of the open door behind me.

“We should sing for her, Enga. The happiest song we know.” Our blended voices floated towards her.

“The world is filled with all creation’s song,
Wings of softness carry music.
And harmony descends.
As each creature lends a voice,
Of peace and joy and love.”     

I felt Mam’s soul lift with our song, and the grey haze dispersed, replaced with shades of yellow, reminding me of sunshine. As she reached us, her smile showed her happiness. My heart lightened as the old pain slipped away, forgotten.

She scooped me up in her arms, and I felt my joy mingle with hers as it overflowed in the surrounding air. “Thank you.” She whispered into my heart. An indescribable warmth engulfed me. For the first time, I experienced a hint of the power of healing. Was there more to being an empath than pain?

& & &

My training began in earnest after that encounter. Amma’s teaching moved from songs and herb lore to healing. One day I found a rabbit by the chicken coop, injured from some scuffle in the woods. It was too weak to run away.

The pain of its suffering jarred, but with it came an intense desire to ease that pain. I carefully gathered it into my arms. Its soft fur quivered against my skin.

I sang a healing song as I carried it to the cottage, placing it carefully on a blanket. Then, turning to the stove, I banked the fire and boiled water. Amma smiled and nodded as she continued to sort the dried herbs we had gathered a few weeks ago.

I chose the herbs I wanted: yarrow, chamomile, and calendula. I sang as I added them to the simmering water.

“Rest your fears, ease your mind,
Let your heart be glad,
There is healing in the air.
Welcome it, embrace it,
Let your worries flee.
Be filled with peace and joy.”

The familiar scent of the herbs filled the room. I dipped a clean cloth into the infused water and bathed the rabbit’s wounds. Its dark eyes carefully followed me as I placed a small dish of the infusion on the floor beside it. My heart swelled with love for this little being. I stroked its fur, singing softly. It lay there for a long time, as if it were listening carefully to my song.

It shifted its legs as if testing them before easing onto all four. It took a careful sip from the water dish, then took a few small hops away from the blanket before coming back to the dish and drinking more. Its tiny nose quivered as it hopped to the open door. The dark eyes met mine once more. Of course, it couldn’t speak, but I felt its gratitude. The joyful warmth spread through me, surpassing anything I’d felt until then—every bit as overpowering as the pain of death I had felt before.

I looked at Amma; her face filled with understanding.

“You see, Enga. There is more to being an empath than pain.”

A deep yearning to feel more of that joy stayed with me, pushing the old pain far into the background.

& & &

Nearly a year had passed at Amma’s cottage. We rose early one spring morning, going through our usual routine, feeding the animals before settling down to our own breakfast.

“We are off to the village today.” Amma announced. My attention snapped from my wandering thoughts.

I cannot say I missed the village or the company of others before that day. But now something stirred inside me. A restlessness, or a yearning that I could not place or describe. Excitement was there, while part of me held back, uncertain about this new feeling.

I felt Amma’s tension grow as we walked to our destination. “Today is market day.” Caution tinted her voice. “We will probably see many people we have not seen for a while. You might feel differently in the village than you did before.”

I looked up at her and saw lines of strain settled around her eyes. Her head seemed surrounded by a faint purple glow, shimmering against the green forest crowding our path. My disquiet grew with each silent step. But that subtle yearning remained.

All too soon, we crested the last rise, and the village lay in the shallow valley before us. A faint rainbow of color floated above it, constantly fading and flaring as an echo of emotions other than my own gathered around me, subtly present yet disconnected from me. My hand clenched, squeezing Amma’s fingers.

Amma sang a quiet song. Our steps slowed to the rhythm of her voice as we neared Mam’s cottage. The sight of Mam standing in the open doorway brought my breath back. Her arms absorbed me. Everything else drifted away.

The heady aroma of mint drew me to the table, spread with my favorite cakes and steaming cups of tea. The first sip was like a cleansing, and the cakes sweeter than I’d ever tasted before.

A few minutes of idle chat allowed me to immerse myself in being home. I soaked up the peace of the moment, not listening to the conversation between Mam and Amma until I heard my name.

“Enga.” I focused on Mam. “Today might be different for you. You may feel things you have not felt before. It is the way of the empath to feel the feelings of others.”

“Will the pain be there?” My throat tightened. Did I want this?

“This is something you must learn to control. It can overwhelm you if not kept in check.” Mam reached for me.

“Why? Why do I have to?” Now, I was certain I did not want this. The restlessness flared. I stood abruptly; the chair teetered behind me. Mam’s hand enclosed my wrist in a band of warmth that spread up my arm, pushing away a little of my fear. I flung myself into her arms.

“I don’t know how to control it!” My tears flowed, soaking her shoulder. “I don’t want it!”

“We will help you.” Mam soothed. “Today we will walk to the village together. We will not let it overwhelm you.”

Their sweet voices filled the room, a song of beauty and grace and hope. Each note brought strength and courage that held fast even as the last tones fluttered in the air. I believed they could protect me from the pain.

We walked through the village hand in hand, along the periphery of the crowded market. The stalls lined the square; some filled with fruits and vegetables from neighboring farms. Another displayed richly dyed fabric, and another an array of pottery and glistening knives. People moved from stall to stall, calling out to each other, haggling with the sellers.

Many faces I recognized, the kvenna from my earliest memories, calling greetings as we passed. And a few gumi in the background. Seeing them reminded me of that painful encounter that brought about this change in me.

A kaleidoscope of colors hovered around each person, constantly changing in hue and intensity. An impatient gesture joined a flicker of red and grey. Laughter brought a burst of yellow. I felt emotions as we passed, but muted, as if a bubble enclosed me that kept them at bay.

Amma and I waited away from the crowd as Mam made her purchases. The warmth of Amma’s hand around mine lent me a small dose of courage. I opened my heart just a little, letting the churning emotions closer. The onslaught almost overwhelmed me before Mam clasped my other hand and we turned to walk away.

I felt relief at the protection surrounding me, but the experience weighed on my heart and left me heavy with weariness. Yet, there was another feeling. Curiosity. A desire to know. Even a sense of possibility of knowing what is in another’s soul.

Reluctance crept over me as we turned our steps toward home. An inkling of the power of being an empath took root. The ability to heal hurts, to soothe souls, like my mother and Amma. But also, something new that I could not yet define.

We had not gone far when a woman blocked our way. She stood, feet planted, arms crossed, her hair spread like a flaming halo that matched the rusty shade of her dress. I could feel no emotion coming from her, but her stern face told me she was here for a reason. She felt familiar, though I could not pinpoint the source.

“So, Idunn. This is your brat.” Her lips curled in a sneer as she spoke to Mam. “I heard you’d been breeding.”

“Why are you here, Ursa?” Amma’s calm voice felt like a shield deflecting a blow.

“What do you care? Mother.” She directed her hateful gaze at Amma. “I wanted to see what Idunn’s spawn looked like. I hear she is an empath. I wanted to see for myself.” Her eyes turned back on me with a hunger that left me breathless. Those eyes, so like my mother’s—yet devoid of love.

“You are not welcome here, Ursa.” Mam’s calm voice brought another deflection. The air crackled between them.

An unkindness of ravens gathered; their caws echoed Ursa’s laughter. The rawness of her anger crushed against me as if she had been holding it back and let it out in a rush. Then the anger gave way to hunger, from an appetite I could not comprehend. Her voice filled my head, though her lips did not move.

“Come to me, Enga. You need never feel the pain again. This is the power I can give to you. What we could achieve together has no limits.” The periphery of my vision filled with darkness. Fatigue stronger than any I had ever felt swept through me. It would be so easy to give way. To let her take over.

In an instant, Mam’s voice filled the air. A song, sweet and clear, brought thoughts of all that was good. Amma shielded me on one side and Mam on the other as sound and light surrounded us, pushing the darkness away. Ursa and her ravens shrank back.

“Begone, Ursa!” Waves of light quivered with the strength of Mam’s voice. “She is mine!”

& & &

We walked home in silence. Amma’s shoulders sagged as if she carried a great burden. Mam stared straight ahead, gripping my hand. Silence continued as we three sat at the table. The mint tea and cakes lay forgotten between us.

“Who was she?” My small voice cut through the hushed air.

“Not now, Enga.” Mam’s tired voice reached me, though her eyes were far away.

I glanced at Amma. She too, felt distanced from me. Weariness sapped any desire to push my questions.

We remained there until exhaustion took us to our beds earlier than usual, Mam and I in the loft, Amma in the spare room off the kitchen. I lay for hours thinking, unable to settle my mind, though my leaden limbs craved the release of sleep. What did it all mean? Who was Ursa? Why did she want me? Could she really make the pain go away? Was she more than a healer? Once I finally succumbed to sleep, unsettling dreams of unnamed things in dark places plagued me.

Sunlight slanted through the window. Kitchen sounds and breakfast smells found me in a tangle of sheets. The shades of yesterday lingered, weighing me down and plucking away the pleasure of being home again.

I trailed down the stairs, watching Mam move between stove and table. Amma sipped her tea. Neither spoke. My tongue prickled with unasked questions, but I did not know where to start. I sat quietly, wondering how best to break the silence.

Mam smoothed my hair as she placed a steaming bowl of honeyed oatmeal in front of me. Then she took her place at the table, hugging her mug of tea. The heady aroma of lemon balm swirled around us.

Mam finally spoke. “I think you may have questions.” Her smile sent a wave of relief to me. I nodded.

“Ursa is your mam’s twin.” Amma’s voice sounded thin, stretched almost to breaking. She sipped her tea and cleared her throat. Mam reached over, gently touching her shoulder before turning back to me.

“She chose a different path, Enga. A dark path.”

“Is she an empath too?” I knew empaths could heal, but what I had felt from Ursa wasn’t healing.

“Yes.” Mam hesitated, looking down into her tea as if seeking some answer there.

“Every empath has the power to heal, but that power can also be used for other things. Ursa chose to use her power in other ways.” Amma’s voice was stronger now.

“What other ways? What else can she do?”

“Instead of healing others, she …” Mam’s eyes moved between mine and Amma’s, to the window, to her tea, and back to me.

“She uses her power to hurt.” Amma’s curtness surprised me. Her hands gripped her mug with white knuckles. “She learned early to control other creatures, bringing home birds or squirrels. Keeping them as pets. It seemed harmless at first, but something changed as she grew.”

I remembered how the frog had stopped and listened to Mam’s song in the woods so long ago. Was it something like that?

Amma took another sip of tea before continuing. The strain leaked back into her voice. “I taught both your mother and Ursa about the healing arts. Ursa thought the healing way was too restrictive. She enjoyed having power over other beings, but healing didn’t give her enough. She wanted something more. That desire grew stronger as she got older. Power is dangerous, Enga. It leads only to a path to misery.”

Faint flickers of orange light danced above Amma’s head. Emotion, unfamiliar to me, emanated from her. There was anger there, and longing. I felt her pull them back as if to keep them from me.

“Sometimes the need to control is too strong.” Mam drew my attention. “Ursa found she could control animals and people, too. Power became her only desire.”

I did not entirely understand. But I reasoned that the power to control was wrong where the power to heal was not.

“She wanted me to go with her. Why does she want me? Does she want to control me?”

“When an empath uses her power to heal, it grows until she grows old. But if she uses her power in other ways, it diminishes.” Weariness laced Mam’s voice. “The only way she can keep her power is to take an apprentice. Joining her power with the younger one allows her to continue. When the apprentice weakens, she must find another.”

“So, she wants me to be her apprentice?” I asked, fearful of the answer. Mam nodded.

I was certain of one thing; I did not want to leave Mam and Amma. Ursa’s invitation repulsed me. I did not want to be anyone’s apprentice.

“What was the song you sang? Could I learn that one in case she comes back?”

Mam and Amma exchanged glances. “It was my song of power. I can’t teach you that one. You must find your own song.”

The conversation left me unsettled. Unsatisfied. Wanting something I could not quite grasp.

& & &

I continued to live at Amma’s cottage after that meeting with Ursa. Both Mam and Amma rebuffed my attempts to ask questions about her. They were always kind, but I came to understand the topic was painful and unwelcome, though she often returned to haunt my dreams.

With Amma’s help, I learned to control the emotions that assaulted me in the company of others. I could never entirely close them off but eventually, I learned to limit their effect on me. And I learned more of the healing arts, often helping Mam in her healing efforts in the village and surrounding areas.

I became adept at mixing the herbal elixirs and singing the songs of healing. As my skill improved, so did my confidence. I created my own songs, working them into our healing practice. Mam always added her song if mine was not strong enough.

During the intervening years, I glimpsed the joy of healing despite feeling the pain of suffering that often accompanied it. But the pain was present each time the disease or injury was beyond our skill, and we lost. Every encounter left me less sure of my path.

And I learned during those years that some of my songs could control other creatures. I knew this was something Ursa had learned. My heart told me my newfound skill would not please Mam and Amma. My secret filled me with guilty pride. I did not forget Ursa or what I had felt in her presence. But part of me saw the advantage of this new skill.

I often sang these songs as I walked through the trees, gathering the herbs we needed for our winter stores. The birds flocked to me in response. Once, a rabbit hopped onto the path and stopped in front of me, its eyes riveted to mine. I sang on as I turned towards home, fully aware that the rabbit followed.

It was only a rabbit, but I felt the heady feeling of control like an irresistible urge. As I neared the edge of the trees, I stopped singing. The rabbit blinked as if it had just woken up and hopped into the forest. I smiled to myself and continued down the path.

I never spoke of this to Mam or Amma. It became my private game that I only indulged in when I was alone. What could it hurt?

& & &

My fifteenth summer passed, and the following winter was the coldest I could remember. So many ailments came with the cold and damp. Amma mixed ointments, distilled herbs, and kept up our supplies. Mam and I kept busy treating illnesses and easing what suffering we could; often working day and night without rest.

Spring arrived weeks later than usual. The warmer weather did almost as much as our tired bodies to relieve the ailments in our village. More than once, Mam said she could not have made it through without me. I felt useful, important. It felt good.

Admittedly, I see now it was more than just being useful that felt good. I was doing real healing now. The pain of loss seemed to lessen with those intoxicating feelings of power. The joy I had felt from healing changed, too. I felt like I could conquer the world.

That feeling of power brought restlessness with it. Irritation often flared as I prepared the tinctures and ointments.

“Enga!” Mam’s sharp voice startled me. Once more, distractions had pulled me away, leaving my task unfinished. “You left the witch hazel to steep too long. It’s ruined. Again!”

My exaggerated sigh did nothing to soothe her anger.

“You’re not helping.” Her crossed arms told their own story. My flash of anger matched hers. We stood glaring at each other. I turned and fled to the loft before she could see my hot tears. I nursed my hurt feelings in solitude.

The next day she announced I was to go to Amma’s cottage, ostensibly for some much-needed rest now that our workload had lessened. My childish heart rebelled. I felt my newfound healing powers would be wasted outside the village. Mam was insistent. I had no choice but to go.

I left with reluctance, not wanting to let go of that feeling of power. Amma, too, had suffered the ailments of age that winter. As expected, her healing power had diminished over time, but she seemed frail now, forgetful even. Together we prepared the salves and balms needed for the warmer months, and I often had to correct her measurements.

Amma’s cottage felt stifling after the bustle of the winter months. As much as I had always loved Amma’s company, I found her frailty unnerving. I spent more and more time wandering the forest, gathering herbs and berries. Thinking, wondering, dreaming. But also indulging in my secret game with the animals, bringing them to me at will, holding them in my power until I chose to release them. Trying to recapture the essence of the power I felt when healing.

I had lingered after gathering herbs in the forest one afternoon, toying with a fox and her litter. I could feel the hostility of the vixen, but as long as I sang the right song, she let the kits play around me. The snap of a twig stopped my song. The vixen hustled her kits away as I turned my attention towards the sound.

Ursa looked much the same as the last time I had seen her. The eyes, the voice. So, like my mother’s, yet so utterly different.

“Hello Enga.”

I wanted to move. To pick up my basket and go. But fear rooted my feet to the ground.

“I hear good things about you, Enga.” The silk of her voice tightened around me like an invisible cord. “Quite the healer. You’ve proven more than capable.”

I watched her move closer as she spoke. Power emanated from her, holding me still.

“You have grown stronger in other ways, too.” She smiled. “The vixen and her kits were enthralled with you. Well done. I remember playing the same games myself.”

I felt no shame, only relief. I had kept that secret for so long, unsure of how Mam or Amma would react if they knew. But Ursa knew. And she understood.

“Most enlightening. No need to keep your secret any longer. Burdens are so much lighter when shared.” She drifted in front of me as she spoke, a gentle pacing, back and forth. I could not look away. “Animals can be amusing. Humans are much more so.”

An overwhelming need to share consumed me; every confusing feeling, every unkind thought, every lost song. I wanted to tell her everything. But something held me back. Thoughts of Mam and Amma, of the kvenna, the Dams, and all those I’d healed. Did I not owe them something? Some part of me was bound to them. “I cannot.” A choked whisper that hardly sounded like me.

“Don’t be afraid, Enga. I want only what’s best for you. I can help you learn so much more.” An invisible thread vibrated between us, pulling me in, then slackening. “I can give you power. I can take away the pain forever. With me, you need never feel alone or misunderstood.” The words slithered around my head in waves of silver and gold.

“Come to me, Enga. I can take you to places you will never reach otherwise.” Then she began to sing. The notes absorbed the encircling air.

Why fight it? She was right. She could teach me everything I needed to know. Did I really want to be a healer? Could healing give me all I wanted? I wanted a power stronger than lightning. Like hers. No one really needed me here. It would be so easy to slip away with her.

Amma’s face filled my mind, her voice ringing in my head. You are a healer. You are bound to help. I looked around, expecting to see her standing before me. But no, just Ursa, gently pacing back and forth, singing. An aura pulsed around her with each step, undulating in shades like flames. But something else as well, black lines shivering in the red heat. I focused on those lines, and I felt despair.

I understood then. Her power was illusory, diminishing faster with each passing year. She needed me. An apprentice with strength to bolster her failing aptitude. I could go with her, but eventually I would be her, a fading star. I thought of Amma, her power spent on healing, but it had lasted far longer than Ursa’s ever would.

I am a healer, and I am bound to help. Whatever else I felt, I knew that to be true. I couldn’t help Ursa. Anything I gave her would be consumed as soon as it left me, leaving only an insatiable hunger for something more. Until I, too, would need an apprentice to keep the illusion alive.

Yes, I wanted power. And yes, part of me enjoyed the feeling it brought. But along with that, I loved healing. Even through the long days and nights of the past winter, nursing some back to health, sometimes losing, I felt the warmth of goodness. Of being part of something greater than myself. That was the power I craved.

A new song formed, ringing through my heart, filling my soul with newness before bursting out in waves of light and sound. Ursa backed away, raising a protective arm. Her song faltered as she struggled, her voice hoarse with effort. Black lines widened as the flames weakened.

“Begone, Ursa.” My voice rang through the forest. “I am a healer.”

& & &

At that moment, I made my choice. I became a healer. Now, as I contemplate the intervening years, when I have worn myself thin with healing, I wonder.

I care for Mam now, as she once cared for Amma. Mam’s powers faded long ago. She sits in her chair by the window, muttering about bygone days. Sometimes I catch Ursa’s name in her ceaseless murmur. But her feeble mind does not allow for conversation. She exists in a realm of her own making.

Something outside catches her eye, and her agitation grows. She calls out in alarm, frantic to move her decrepit body. I go to her side; a song of comfort comes almost without thinking. I glimpse an old crone near the gate, back bent, long strands of white hair escaping the shawl obscuring her face. She leans on the arm of a younger woman, who impatiently urges her to keep walking. Great sadness trails behind her as they move on.

Mam is quiet once again. A tear trickles down her cheek. Is she thinking of Ursa? Of what might have been? It is beyond her to tell me.

I watch Mam’s eyes close; her head slowly nods forward as sleep overtakes her. I want to believe I have been more than an apprentice to her. That our affection for each other was real. But my later choice created a wedge that could never entirely heal. It is hard now to feel anything more than duty.

Part of me longs for release from the burdens laid at my feet; of caring for Mam, of healing others, of wondering what could have been. I chose the path of healing, but was it a choice, or did destiny have its way with me?

Healing was my choice, but I was an empath from birth. Both Mam and Amma encouraged me to have a child, knowing she, too, would likely be an empath. Someone to take up the healing art when we are gone. But I would not do that. I chose not to pass this burden on to another. I felt their frustration almost daily, yet I did not yield.

My eyes drift to the gate at the end of the garden. Sunlight warms the spot where the crone stood only moments ago. Stillness infuses the air. My life swirls before me in the rays of light, frame by frame. Each burden, each choice, each pain, and each triumph. Another song forms in my mind, filled with joy, sorrow, longing, completion, acceptance, and, at the end, peace.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Sandra Anthony 2025