Baba Knew

BABA KNEW

The dull, hollow tamp of the earthen jar sounded lovely, rapping against the planks of the floor. Baba Doku was hard at work.

Ages and generations were dedicated to perfecting the recipes that Baba knew. Her encyclopaedic knowledge of herbs, spices, fungi, leaves, bark, petals, pods, pits and rhinds was a keystone of the community. Stomach trouble? Baba knew how to treat it. Stubborn cough? Baba knew what to do. Love potion? Well, Baba would meet you half way. There are some things a poultice can't patch up.

Delilah's predicament, for instance. Bab Doku was tasked with fashioning a decoction she had boiled-up perhaps a few dozen times before now, certainly more than the menfolk of the hamlet knew. With most of the surrounding duchies and feifs embroiled in some form of martial conflict, there was a tendency for all able-bodied males to be called to arms and travel for months at a time. A certain number never returned, unless they rested on a funeral barge.

Soldiers traveling from other lands were not uncommon. One happened upon Delilah at her dwelling's door, hungry and cold. Nature took its course. The soldier continued on to the front, but not before leaving the seed of a child behind.

Baba Doku twisted a fine-cloth satchel in her spindly, calloused fingers. Inside: the bark of hawthorn, ground seeds of nettlebane, lukeplant stem, and berries from bushes native to the Amber Swamp.

She had done this one in particular a few dozen times, surely.

Knowing expertly what she was doing with her fingers, Baba Doku's mind wandered to Delilah. The young woman had not approached Baba. But Baba knew. That Delilah was with child was unacceptable, for she was the chosen one: next to receive the mantle of herbalist. The flare of her nostrils at certain fragrances. A gingerly-stroking hand coursing across her belly. Baba knew.