Chapter 1: The Morning Ritual Mama Paradise was already awake, standing by the spring with a copper bucket. She had seen the injured traveler moments ago, a sudden, inconvenient presence slumped near the edge of her garden. The water was cold, clear enough to see the stones beneath the surface, and she dipped the bucket, letting the metal sink with a controlled, quiet splash. The morning air carried the scent of wet earth and pine, an almost complete silence broken only by the movement of the water and the distant call of a bird. She had already assessed the traveler, a quick, practiced look that took in the unnatural angle of the leg, the dried blood marking the clothes, the general state of exhaustion. The traveler had managed a weak, garbled greeting, something about needing help and being lost. Mama Paradise had simply nodded once, a gesture that conveyed acknowledgement without invitation, and then proceeded with the morning’s essential tasks. The traveler could wait. The spring did not. She carried the bucket back toward the cabin while the water sloshed slightly with each step. The cabin was small, built of rough-hewn logs, situated just far enough from the dense woods to catch the morning sun. Her garden, a sprawling, organized chaos of useful plants, separated the cabin from the spring. The traveler remained where she had left them. They were propped awkwardly against the cabin wall and clearly struggled to stay upright. When Mama Paradise set the bucket down near the door, the traveler tried to speak again, pushing up from the wall. “Thank you,” the traveler managed, voice thick with sleep and pain, trying to shift weight off the injured leg. “I don’t know how long I’ve been out there. Do you have—” Mama Paradise ignored the groggy attempt at conversation completely. She walked past the traveler and directly into the garden. Her focus was absolute. She went to a section of low-growing, broad-leafed plants, immediately kneeling and selecting several clusters of leaves. She pulled out a small, curved knife from the pocket of her apron, slicing the stems cleanly, efficiently, leaving no jagged edges. These were the herbs for washing and pain relief, plants she had cultivated for decades specifically for moments like this, though they were usually reserved for her own minor ailments or the occasional sick animal. She gathered the herbs in a neat bundle and returned to the copper bucket of water. The traveler was now trying to push themselves onto the small, rough wooden porch, a slow, agonizing process. Mama Paradise sat on a low stool she kept by the door, placed the herbs on a clean, flat stone, and began to rinse them meticulously in the fresh spring water. She did not look at the traveler. Her hands moved with a hypnotic, rhythmic precision, turning the leaves, checking for blemishes, discarding a stem that was slightly too tough. The traveler watched this process, the immediate urgency of their own pain momentarily overridden by the strangeness of the woman’s demeanor. This was not the hurried panic one might expect when finding an injured person. This was ritual. This was the routine. “I need to tell you what happened,” the traveler insisted, trying to lean forward, the effort making them wince. “I was traveling north, and I slipped near the ridge. I think my leg is broken, maybe.” Mama Paradise finally spoke, her voice low and utterly devoid of inflection, directed not at the traveler, but at the general task of cleaning the herbs. “Do not talk.” The command hung in the quiet air and set a definitive boundary between need and process. The traveler subsided, leaning back against the rough logs, breathing shallowly. Mama Paradise continued washing the herbs for a long time, separating them into two piles. One pile consisted of leaves with a slightly bitter, sharp scent—likely the analgesic. The other pile held broader, softer leaves—the ones for cleaning the wound. She then stood, leaving the herbs by the spring water, and finally addressed the traveler, not with sympathy, but with precise, measured instructions. She pointed to the copper bucket. “The water. It is clean. Do not touch the herbs.” Then she pointed to the small, packed-earth floor inside the cabin door. “Inside. Lie down on the cot. Do not move.” The traveler, who seemed to go by no name yet, only the fact of being injured and young, tried to push off the wall. The difficulty of the task was immediately clear. The effort brought sweat to their forehead, despite the cool morning air. Mama Paradise watched for exactly three seconds, then sighed, a small, barely audible exhalation that suggested extreme impatience with unnecessary complication. She did not offer a hand. Instead, she took hold of the traveler’s upper arm, a grip that was surprisingly firm for an elderly woman, and half-dragged, half-supported the traveler the few steps necessary to get them inside the cabin. The cabin interior was simple: one room, dominated by a large stone hearth, a rough-hewn table, and a narrow cot tucked against the far wall. The air inside smelled of dried herbs, woodsmoke, and something indefinable, ancient and clean. The traveler was lowered onto the cot. It was made of thick canvas stretched over a wooden frame, not soft, but infinitely better than the cold ground outside. “The leg,” Mama Paradise instructed, pointing to the injured limb. “Uncover it.” The traveler began to fumble with the leather strap and rough wool of their trousers. The wound was on the upper thigh, a deep, ragged gash that had bled profusely, now caked with dark, dry material. It was the worst of the injuries, though the traveler suspected the leg might be broken further down. Mama Paradise returned to the herbs and the water, scooping up a handful of the cleansing leaves. She entered the cabin and pulled up the small stool near the cot. She examined the gash without expression, her gaze intensely focused on the contours of the injury and the surrounding swelling. She began to prepare the herbal compress. She chewed a few of the smaller, sharp-scented leaves—the painkiller—for a moment, then spat the macerated paste onto a clean strip of linen she produced from a basket. She set this aside, then took the broader, cleansing leaves and began to mash them vigorously with the back of a smooth river stone she had brought in. The green pulp smelled fresh and slightly medicinal. The traveler watched, transfixed by the efficiency and the absolute lack of verbal communication. The only sounds were the soft crushing of the stone against the herbs and the traveler’s own labored breathing. The traveler attempted to break the silence again, a natural human response to pain and uncertainty, seeking context or reassurance. “What is this plant?” the traveler asked, nodding toward the green mash, trying to sound inquisitive rather than desperate. Mama Paradise paused the rhythmic grinding of the stone. She did not look up. “It is medicine,” she stated, the words clipped and final. She resumed mashing the herbs, then added the second half of her earlier instruction, the one she knew needed repeating. “Do not talk.” The traveler shut their mouth, realizing that this woman operated entirely outside the realm of polite conversation or even basic caregiving exchange. Her focus was only on the task, and the task required quiet. Mama Paradise finished the compress preparation. She took the clean water from the copper bucket and began to gently, but firmly, clean the surrounding area of the gash. The water was shockingly cold against the warm, inflamed skin. The traveler winced and tried to pull back the leg, but Mama Paradise placed a hand on the knee, a slight, immovable weight that discouraged movement. She meticulously cleaned the wound itself and removed the dried earth and blood. This process was painful. The traveler bit down hard on their lip and managed not to cry out, unwilling to break the silence again. Once the wound was clean, exposing the angry, red flesh, Mama Paradise applied the herbal compress. First, the cleansing paste, spread thickly over the gash. Then, she took the linen strip with the chewed analgesic paste and placed it directly over the pulsating area of the pain. She secured it all with a wide strip of clean, tightly woven cloth, wrapping it with an expert hand that applied the necessary pressure to hold the medicine in place without cutting off circulation. This was the traveler’s most serious wound, the deep gash. Mama Paradise checked the leg for breaks, running her hands down the contours of the bone. She determined the leg was likely only severely sprained lower down, a problem she would address later. The gash was the immediate danger, the entry point for infection. During the entire process of cleaning and bandaging, the traveler noted the absolute silence surrounding them. It was a dense, pervasive silence. Only the immediate sounds of the task broke through: the grinding of the stone, the soft slosh of water, and the slight rasp of the bandages as they were pulled tight. Outside, the sounds of the garden were minimized—the wind barely rustled the leaves, and the spring water seemed to flow with an unnatural quietness. There were no sounds of distant traffic, no mechanized noises, no neighbors, nothing but the immediate environment. It was the silence of deep isolation, and it made the traveler deeply uneasy. Mama Paradise finished securing the bandage. She wiped her hands on a piece of rough cloth, then picked up a small, wooden bowl from the table. She walked over to the stone hearth, where a low fire was already burning. She placed the bowl near the edge of the heat, stirring the contents with a thin, iron rod. The bowl contained a thin, steaming liquid that smelled vaguely sweet and earthy. She brought the bowl back to the cot. “Drink this,” she commanded, holding the bowl out. “All of it.” The traveler took the bowl and felt the warm wood against their hands. The liquid was thick, like a weak broth, but its sweetness suggested honey or some other natural syrup had been added. The taste was sharp with herbs, but not unpleasant. It felt instantly soothing as it went down. “What is this for?” the traveler whispered, keeping their voice extremely low this time, wary of breaking the required quiet. Mama Paradise simply watched them drink, waiting until the bowl was empty. She took the bowl back. “Sleep.” It was not a suggestion. It was a directive. The traveler had barely finished the last sip when a profound wave of drowsiness washed over them, heavy and immediate. The analgesic paste on the wound was already dulling the sharp, persistent ache, but the liquid was something more—a potent sedative, deep and non-negotiable. The traveler’s thoughts began to slow, the edges of the room blurring. The concern about the broken leg, the fear of their isolation, the questions about Mama Paradise—all began to dissolve under the influence of the powerful herbal mixture. The traveler drifted, eyes half-closed, struggling against the sudden pull of sleep. Through the haze, they watched Mama Paradise move away from the cot and back toward the hearth. Mama Paradise placed the empty bowl aside and began to tend to a large, iron pot suspended over the low fire. She adjusted the logs, stirring the contents of the pot—presumably the morning’s meal, or perhaps more medicine—with the same methodical, unhurried focus she had applied to the wound dressing. The cabin was dim. Hazy light filtered in through the small, oiled-paper windows. The only strong light was the flickering orange glow from the hearth, illuminating Mama Paradise’s stoic profile as she worked. The traveler tried to focus on the movement, on the small, rigid figure of the woman, seeking some explanation for the stark routine and the profound silence. But the medicine was too strong. The internal commentary, the need for narrative and understanding, was being systematically dismantled by the herbal sedative. The sounds in the cabin became muffled, distant. The only things remaining were the rhythmic scraping of the iron rod against the pot, the gentle crackle of the wood in the hearth, and the steady, quiet presence of Mama Paradise. The traveler’s gaze remained fixed on the woman, a final, fading point of consciousness before the darkness claimed them. The traveler was situated on the cot inside the cabin, drifting into a medicated sleep, observing Mama Paradise tending to a pot on the hearth.