Chapter 2

2: 2

2

When the words landed, the whole place went dead silent.

Tears slid down my mother's cheeks without a sound, her voice cracked almost past recognition.

"That's nearly thirty years of herbs I put away..."

She came back to herself and lunged for the pile, and my father and I caught her at the same time.

The same people who'd been clinking cups at Delia's celebration a moment ago now crowded into our yard, unmoved.

Not one of them stepped forward.

Not one of them said a word to stop it.

They just stood there watching as the officials dragged the burlap sacks out of our herb shed and heaped them halfway across the yard.

Cedric Chavez watched the pile of medicine grow, leaned on his cane, and sighed.

"I hear there's a flu going around in town. Some folks are coughing so bad they can't even get out of bed. Brooklyn stocked these herbs so the whole village would have protection. What are we going to do if they really burn it all?"

The moment they heard that, the crowd panicked.

"Is that true? The flu hit us last year and half of us were laid up sick."

"Right, if it really is the flu, you can't burn Felicia's family's herbs."

Delia let out a soft laugh and turned to face them.

"There's nothing to worry about. I asked my classmates in town. It's just a seasonal cold going around."

"And besides, if the flu really did reach our village, under the new medical standards you just call 911 and the ambulance comes right away."

Winifred jumped in to back her up. "Exactly! Nobody needs to panic. Delia went to a proper medical school. She can tell the difference between a seasonal cold and the flu. If it ever came to that, I'd have her help everyone, that's for sure."

With that from Winifred, the worry drained out of every face.

A cold laugh rose in me.

It wasn't a seasonal cold at all. It was the flu, brought on by a mutated virus.

Even if the sick called 911, there were only so many ambulances at the hospital, and it would never be our village's turn, fifty miles out.

Besides, Delia had come to our shop for herbs half a month ago.

She couldn't even keep fritillary for the lungs and fritillary for the cough straight, one cooling and one warming, opposite in nature.

If the flu really reached Whitney Hollow, how exactly was she going to help anyone?

I was still thinking it over when someone in the crowd spoke up.

"Brooklyn, don't take it so hard. The herbs are burned, so they're burned. It's not like you make your living off them anyway."

Someone else picked up the thread.

"Delia's the first college graduate this village ever had. She's bound to know more than the rest of us..."

"That's right, Brooklyn. You said yourself those herbs sat around for almost thirty years. Who knows if they're even any good anymore?"

They went on, one line after another, louder and louder.

Every word went in like a needle through flesh.

Anyone who practices medicine knows.

As long as herbs aren't moldy and aren't worm-eaten, they can be used.

Some herbs are even stronger the more years they've aged.

Yet on the strength of two words, "new standards," they slapped an expiration date on those precious herbs.

My mother was in tears, desperate, trying to say something.

I patted the back of her hand and gave a small shake of my head.

"You're all right."

I walked into the middle of that heap of herbs, picked up the diesel beside it, and poured it over the pile, saying it evenly, without a flinch.

"New times, new medicine. You go by the new standards."

Seeing that, one of the officials struck a match with a scrape and tossed it into the herbs.

The flames shot up, and the bitter smell of the medicine stung everyone's eyes.

Delia and Winifred backed off several steps, and neither could hide the smugness in their eyes.

Only Cedric stared at the fire in the yard, shaking his head and sighing over and over.

"Cold hearts. People have gone so cold!"

After everyone was gone.

I helped my mother up off the ground and brushed the dust off her knees.

"Mom, you've looked after them for decades. This once, let yourself rest."

My father nodded and sighed. "Felicia's right. This time we don't get involved."

My mother wiped at her tears, her shoulders shaking.

"It's not that they broke my heart. I just can't bear losing those herbs..."

The firecrackers at Delia's house went off, one string after another.

My mother sat quietly on the doorsill, her back straight as a burnt-out stalk of medicine,

staring blankly at the black scorched patch of dirt in the middle of the yard.

It took two whole days for that ash to blow away.

After that my mother kept the gate shut and never brought up guarding against the flu again.

At first the villagers felt a little guilty. Passing our gate, they'd soften their steps on purpose.

But country folks have shorter memories than the weeds on a wall.

The matter of the welfare quota came up at a village council meeting, raised by the village head.

Back in those years the village was poor, and one village-level welfare quota was worth more than half a year's harvest.

My mother had spent half her life helping her neighbors, asking nothing in return.

That quota had been hers every single year.

Council members had even come to my father privately and admitted this year's quota was settled on my mother too, just waiting for the public notice to go up.

My father listened and smoked in silence, the smoke pushing out of his nostrils long and heavy.

My mother was cutting vegetables at the stove, and it was a long while before she said a word.

"I don't heal people for the sake of that."

That's what she said.

But that night she cooked two extra dishes for once.

And the tight knot in my chest eased a little.

The county hospital had called during the day. They said my father's broken leg could finally be set.

The moment that welfare money came through, they could schedule the surgery right away.

But the news reached Delia's house.

That same afternoon, Winifred and her daughter walked into the village council.