A Last Effort
Once upon a time there was a little girl who was quite ill. Her mother had little money for a cure. Still, she asked various persons of medical persuasion for what help they could offer. Ask is such a tame word. She pleaded. She begged. And was refused.
All other moments were at her daughter's side, wiping her brow, watching the vicious cough that shook her tiny body take toll upon toll.
And in the small moments when her daughter slept, the woman indulged in secret, silent tears, her eyes on the sweet small face that had less and less time for living.
The moon was high on the night before what would be the last for the little girl. The woman knew the signs. Her daughter sleeping, she slipped out of the house, where she wished upon the moon. There was no wish that came in words, nothing that put voice to her futile hope. But a path wandered through the wood next to her house all the same; one, of course, the woman had never seen before.
The path led to a cottage, one with an herb garden that suggested something magical and medicinal.
The woman knocked. How could she not?
An old gnarled crone answered.
Another woman might have leapt back at the hideous figure. Another woman might have fled. But this woman knew the other for what she was, and fell to her knees and begged.
'Up, up, woman,' the crone said. 'I have what you need.'
The woman didn't ask how the crone knew, nor did she wonder. She took the herbs the crone offered her, and kissed the crone's cheek before fleeing back to create a steam of herbs for her little daughter.
Her daughter breathed then. Full breaths. Her cough eased. Her fever faded.
That was the first night.
The crone came the next with more herbs.
And the night after that.
When the little daughter was all well, and joyfully skipping by her mother's side, they waited for the moon to make a little path in the wood. They followed it then, and thanked the crone with flowers they had picked in the daytime.
The crone took the flowers solemnly. It was payment, and it was sufficient.
They went their separate ways then, the mother and daughter to their simple, impoverished life, the crone to her remedies.
But the crone was never alone long. She worked for that last effort of the desperate, and never minded that she was chosen last. Her work was good and she was busy. And she could live on flowers.