Fennel Thistledown's Arc

Chapter 12 of 21

The three books sat safe on the shelf, but Fennel knew words alone would not train a healer. Her students needed to gather in the wild, to know a good plant from a false one by their own hands. So the next morning she pulled a bundle from her apron pocket and called Lily and Oliver to the table. She laid down a strange flower. Sharp turquoise petals rose from soft purple leaves. "This one heals swelling," Fennel said. "You crush the fuzzy leaves, not the bloom. The bloom is only to find it by." She turned it in her thick fingers. "But watch. It grows beside a look-alike that does nothing. The false one has smooth leaves. This one is fuzzy. Feel it." Lily rubbed a leaf between her fingers. Oliver leaned close and did the same. "Fuzzy," he said. "Purple and fuzzy. Turquoise on top." "Good." Fennel pressed the flower into Lily's hand. "Now go find more. Both of you. Bring me a full basket, and bring me only the true one. I'll not walk that far on these knees." They took a basket and left. Fennel waited by the hearth. Her hands ached. She hated the waiting, but she could not follow. That was the whole hard truth of it now. They came back before noon. Lily set the basket down and it was full. Fennel dug through it with care. She found the fuzzy purple leaves, sharp turquoise petals, plant after plant, all true. Near the bottom lay a few white flowers on slender stems, airy things that swayed even in the still kitchen. Beside them sat a broken sprig from a pink cloud-shaped bush, its blossoms soft as wool. "These aren't the herb," Fennel said, lifting the white flowers. "I know," Lily said. "But look at the leaves." She pointed. The white flowers had smooth stems. The pink bush leaves were smooth too. "These are the look-alikes. We brought them so you'd see we can tell them apart. We left the fuzzy ones only in the basket." Oliver nodded. "We tested each one before we cut it. Fuzzy in, smooth out." Fennel sat back. She had asked them to gather. They had done more. They had proven they could reject the false plant on their own, far from her voice. She ran her thumb over a turquoise petal and felt her chest loosen. "You passed," she said. Then a knock came at the door. A woman stood there, breathing hard, a small child limp in her arms. "They said you heal here," she gasped. "His fever won't break." Fennel looked at the full basket. She looked at her two students. Her knees would not carry her to the bedside fast enough. The reading was done. The gathering was done. Now the children would have to heal a real child, with her only watching. "Lily," Fennel said. "Wash your hands. This one is yours."