Val (Valerie)

I heard them before I saw them. The mother’s voice was tight with panic as she half-carried the boy up the path, his leg wrapped in a cloth that had already turned dark.

“Please,” she said, out of breath. “He fell on the rocks by the stream. The bone is wrong.”

I was already moving toward them, wiping my hands on my apron.

“Lay him on the blanket by the fire. Don’t let him look at it.”

She obeyed. The boy was maybe eight, pale and shaking, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. I knelt beside him and carefully unwrapped the dirty cloth. The lower leg was swollen and angled in a way it shouldn’t be.

“It’s broken,” I said calmly. “But it’s clean. I can set it.”

The mother pressed a hand to her mouth. The boy’s eyes were wide.

“Look at me,” I told him. “Not at your leg. Breathe in through your nose… and out through your mouth. Again.”

I waited until his breathing slowed a little, then placed my hands carefully on either side of the break.

“This will hurt,” I said quietly. “But only for a moment. Then it will be better.”

I pulled and guided the bone back into place with a soft, sickening shift. The boy cried out once, sharp and short, then went still, tears running down his temples. I held the leg steady and reached for the clean linen strips and the wooden splints I kept ready for such things.

“You’re doing well,” I murmured as I bound the leg firmly, wrapping it from ankle to just below the knee. “The worst is already over.”

When the last knot was tied, I sat back on my heels and looked at the mother.

“He needs to stay off it for several weeks. No running, no climbing. I’ll give you a tea for the pain and something to keep the swelling down. Come back in three days so I can check the wrapping.”

She nodded quickly, relief and leftover fear mixed on her face.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “They said you… but I didn’t know where else to go.”

I only nodded and stood up, already reaching for the jars on the shelf.

I was kneeling among the lavender, cutting the stems into my basket, when I felt her presence at the edge of the garden. She stood there awkwardly, clutching a small cloth pouch, glancing back over her shoulder as if the city itself might come and drag her away.

I didn’t look up right away.

“I… need something for the pain,” she said quietly. “In my head. The physicians in the city gave me powders, but they only make me sleep. It still comes back.”

I rose, brushing the soil from my hands, and studied her for a moment — the tightness around her eyes, the way she held herself.

“How long?” I asked.

“Three years. Sometimes I can’t even stand the light.”

I nodded once and turned toward the cottage. “Come inside. Leave the pouch by the door if it makes you feel safer.”

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of dried herbs, smoke, and other things she wouldn’t understand. I moved to the shelves, taking down a small clay pot and a few dried leaves.

“Sit,” I told her. “I’ll make you a tea. It won’t put you to sleep. It will take the pressure away.”

She hesitated, then sat on the wooden stool near the hearth. Outside, the distant city shimmered in the heat. Here, under the trees, it felt very far away.