Sweat ran down Oriell’s back, and the smell of pine and decaying leaves entered his lungs in swift, short breaths. He had heard tales of the hermit who lived at the peak of Aethela Mountain. Children said the hermit was grotesque, the result of fire, radiation, or birth defect. Farmers said the hermit was a witch who could bring rain or curse a family. Oriell’s father said the hermit would die of old age before Oriell finished high school.
On one thing, everyone agreed—the hermit was a complete lunatic.
All of this tumbled through Oriell’s mind as his feet followed the weathered trail to the peak of the Aethela. Winter rested lightly on Shallowdale, bringing pale chill, but no snow. Oriell ducked beneath a skeletal branch. A sharp gust of wind tugged at his unzipped hoodie. This was stupid.
The trees came to a sudden end, and Oriell found himself in a wide glade. Dry grass spread patchily, bearding fallen masonry and the crumbling remnants of stone walls. Wintry sunlight kissed the shifting waters of a small stream, which Oriell crossed in a large step.
“Hello?” he called.
His voice sounded thin in the fullness of this ancient place. After several minutes, Oriell was seriously considering his father’s opinion that the old hermit was not long for this world, and wondering whether he should search for a body or just go home. He was well into trying to convince himself that wild animals would have devoured the corpse by now, so there was no reason to go looking for one, when a ragged figure emerged from the woods halfway around the glade.
“What happened to the other one?” The hermit’s voice was like the creaking of dry branches in an autumn storm.
“It’s the new year,” Oriell replied.
“Already? Hmph.” The hermit closed the distance between them and looked Oriell up and down, appraisingly. “You’ll do,” she decided. Oriell followed the hermit through to the far side of the glade, beyond the ruins, where a small cottage slumped like a long-used bench. The hermit pointed to a stack of firewood beside the hut. “Chop that, then you can go.” She shuffled off without so much as a glance.
***
Throughout the next week, Oriell was asked dozens of questions about the hermit — is she as ugly as they say? Does she really talk to animals? What does she do up there?— and with each asking, he realized more and more that the hermit was not what she was made out to be.
She was not frail, and she seemed neither magic nor mad. So what was she?
The next Wednesday, Oriell was let out early from school to climb the Aethela and help the hermit, as one teenager or another had done for as long as anyone could remember.
He made the long climb up the Aethela, and when he reached the ruins and the glade, Oriell felt a sense of majesty about the ancient place. He did not see the hermit, but a fresh heap of firewood was piled against the hut. Thinking the implication clear, Oriell lifted the axe and began to chop. He had just finished when the hermit appeared, carrying a basket of greenery.
Oriell set down the axe and ran the back of his hand across his face to remove the worst of the sweat. “Hello,” he said.
The hermit put her basket on the stump of a pillar and began to sort its contents.
“My name’s Oriell.” When the hermit did not reply, Oriell crossed the glade to stand beside her. “My name’s Oriell,” he said again.
“Must be nice for you,” the hermit replied. “I heard you the first time; I’m not deaf.”
Oriell reached into the basket, ignoring an irritated “hmph,” and helped the hermit sort. Long stalks with small white flowers went to the left, purple blossoms to the right, and two leafy, weedy greens in the middle. Unable to tell these apart, Oriell tried to avoid the leafy plants.
“Look,” the hermit snapped, putting a leafy stem into Oriell’s hand. “See the ridges on the leaves? This is peppermint. Tea made from this will soothe an upset stomach, and it’s oil can cure cough. This,” she retrieved a plant Oriell had just misplaced, “is pennyroyal. Rub a little of this on your skin, and bugs won’t come near you, but too much of its oil can kill you.” She put the pennyroyal beside the mint in Oriell’s hand. “Look at the leaves; do you see the difference?”
Oriell nodded. “Thank you.”
The hermit hmphed, but Oriel thought it less gruff than before.
When the herbs were sorted, the hermit gathered them and went to her cottage.
“What’s your name?” asked Oriell.
The hermit stopped and stood still for a long moment. “No one has asked me that in a long time,” she said eventually. Oriell waited, gazing at the long, silver-and-iron hair that flowed from beneath the hermit’s hood to cascade across her shoulders. “I was called Arnica,” the hermit recalled.
