As Oriell neared the glade after having abandoned the hermit the week before, he did not know what he expected of her, but it certainly was not what he found. Arnica stood in the ruins. Using the base of a crumbled pillar as a table, she ground dried herbs with a mortar and pestle. She raised her hooded head at Oriell’s approach.

“I thought perhaps you had come to harm,” she said in a tone as uninflected as if she had asked him to hand her a broom.

There was no question in her words. Even so, Oriell felt compelled to answer. “I fell. With the rain and the mud…” It was a poor excuse, and he knew it acutely, but the hermit said nothing.

Her hands were like old trees, twisted and knobby. Veins the color of dishwasher pellets writhed beneath her skin like roots or vines. When it became clear that she did not intend to speak again, Oriell crossed to the cottage and began to chop wood. He broke into a light sweat, but his muscles no longer burned with the effort, and his blistered hands had turned to callous.

As he finished, the hermit brought her bottles of newly ground herbs into the hut. She beckoned him inside. Oriell followed, eager to see the inside of the hermit’s home. Against the right wall, a pile of furs and woven blankets covered a thin pallet that smelled of pine.

The opposite wall was largely obscured by a rough wooden table which held a knife block, a bronze scale, and a vast assortment of spoons, scissors, and tools Oriell knew not the names of. The walls were covered with shelves of bottles, jars, and leather-bound books of all shapes, sizes and colors. Oriell smelled mint, pine, and dandelion among the general air of green.

In the center of the room, a few embers blazed in a stone pit. There were no windows or chimney, and the smoke stung Oriell’s eyes and nose.

The hermit pointed him toward the only chair, nestled in the back corner. Oriell had to duck between bundles of drying herbs that hung like Christmas ornaments from the low, thatched ceiling. Arnica took down a fist-sized bowl and filled with a pinch of something from a blue glass pot, a few drops of gold liquid from a stoppered bottle, and a handful of something from a wooden bowl with a lid that screwed into place.

Three different tools, she used in the mixing. When she was finished, she poured the concoction into a thick brown cloth, which she twisted closed and tied with string. This she handed to Oriell.

Seeing his confusion, Arnica explained, “A poultice for your ankle. Put some on at night.” If anything, Oriell looked more confused. “You fell,” the hermit prompted.

Oriell felt sick with shame. She thought he had been hurt, that he couldn’t have come last week. He should take the poultice and go. It wasn’t lying; he hadn’t said anything untrue. He should just go. “Arnica,” he said, “I wasn’t hurt. I was cold and angry and embarrassed, and I should have—I’m sorry.” He held the the poultice out to her.

The hermit took back the cure, and for a moment her cold hands wrapped around Oriell’s strong ones. “It is a shameful thing,” she said, “but you told me true. For that, I thank you.”