Herbal Healer

In the early light before market bells, the Herbal Healer kneels by a dew-wet patch of grass at the edge of the woods. Fingers trace leaf-veins of medicinal plants — curving vines, bitter roots, petals that close like tiny fists. With mortar and pestle, she draws sap and powder, mixing balm for a fevered brow, tea for a rattled stomach, poultice for arrow-slice in leg.   She tends wounds by simple hearth, often for no coin, only gratitude. Flies buzz over fresh herbs hung to dry; children gaze wide when she sings old lullabies of healing. In the jungle or desert, she knows the paths where the rare root blooms, how to neutralize venom, how to stop rot. Her tools are simple: knife, salves, clean water, old song.