Ash: Shepherdess

Witches were all about borders. Civilization and wilderness. Body and soul. Good and evil. Light and dark. Life and death. Ash was no witch, but she had learned from one. Today, perhaps no other place in modern Vareholm presented the thresholds that witches held dear quite as the Hospice.
Mr. Henester had held on longer than expected, but his time was soon upon him. A delicate journey to the hospice saw him in a proper bed and under Ash’s care. The whole family came with.
When his body did as bodies must do, Ash ushered the family away and into the overflowing gardens. She cleaned his mess, changed his sheets, dripped tiny beads of pain easing medicine past his slack lips, and when all business was done brought the family back in.
Ash gave them space and what privacy the home could offer, but she still heard their goodbyes.
“Love you.”
“Rest well, Grandpa.”
“We’d never have struck that vein if Pa hadn’t been so damn persistent. Thank you, Pa.”
“You don’t have to hold on any longer. You can go home.”
“Did he ever tell you the one about the Three Vixen Tavern? It was a full moon, of course, and-...”
When night came they left.
Dallia had two phrases she was far too fond of repeating; The best medicine is prevention and The difference between medicine and poison is dosage.
Ash had a little vial of painkiller, it’s thick concoction kept warm where it rested inside a breast pocket. A healthy person could tolerate quite a bit of it, but even the strongest of bodies would respond to the full dose the way a pane of glass responded to a sledgehammer. At any point Ash could bring this to an end with a heavy hand on the dropper. She hadn’t decided if this was the best or worst part of her job.
As usual, Dallia had her thoughts.
Many of the patients you’ll see here know they’re about to cross the threshold. They’re in indescribable pain, or their minds are already gone, and while they want to take that last step they struggle to do so. Sometimes the most humane and dignified thing you can do is show them the door.
It isn’t always a choice the family is willing to make.
As the night deepened, Mr. Henester’s soft wheezes for breath turned to a gurgling rattle. Ash remained at her vigil. At this precipice of death it was important to have a sentinel, witness, guard- though Ash preferred Shepherdess. They were guides, tenders, and guardians all at once, and the humility of a herder’s station was a vital thing for her to keep in mind.
His breathing hitched. Long pauses drew widening gulfs between any sound from Mr. Henester, only the twitch of his brow and lips indicating that he was even alive before he’d desperately gulp in a fresh lungful.
A touch more medicine to ease the pain and calm the body, but no more did Ash provide.
Light was peeking across the horizon when Ash started at the rasp of talons on tile. A little raven had landed on the floor beside her, head swiveling this way and that to study what was visible of Mr. Henester’s wrinkled, scowling face. Ash felt for the handle of the cast iron frying pan she kept for just such interlopers. Being a shepherdess often demanded that one beat back the braying wolves of impending mortality…
...but sometimes what came wandering in from the dark should be welcomed like an old, lost friend.
“Took your bloody time, didn’t you?” Ash snipped, for lack of anything better or more clever to say, “Quite unprofessional.”
The raven croaked and clacked its beak.
“I’ve kept him as comfortable as mortal medicine can manage. Everyone who wanted to say goodbye already has.”
Snap. Click.
“But he’s struggling to find the way,” she sucked in a long breath and continued, ”Last chance for your mistress to call off the whole thing, maybe keep that door locked, let this man regain his health and stay here with those who so adore him?”
It turned a beady eye on her and stared.
“Worth a try. Excuse me for a moment.”
The rest of the vial’s contents trickled their way down Mr. Henester’s throat. Ash rose and pushed aside the bay windows that looked out on the gardens. Somewhere insects chirped. An owl hooted its claim over the last of the night.
Wings fluttered, and when Ash looked back both the raven and Mr. Henester had, each in their own way, left.