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the scarecrow
finished freeing the scrap of
cloth from the dried blood.
He pulled the cloth away,
and then the damage to the
eyes was obvious. They were
bloody and swollen, as if a
wild beast’s fangs had ravaged
them.
The herbalist scooted back and
sighed deeply. He remarked
like a diviner repeating a
prophecy: “When a herbalist
is perplexed about the cure,
a patient is left with the
choice between a sorcerer or
a diviner.”
He dipped a piece of black
linen in another container,
which was filled with a green
liquid, and began to massage
his patient’s eyes with that.
He added, “It doesn’t harm
the herbalist to acknowledge
his inability to effect a cure
when he sees that the malady
resisting him isn’t—l ike
ordinary diseases—an enemy
spawned by the wasteland,
but a messenger from the
Spirit World.”
He tossed the rag aside and
drew a leather pouch from his
satchel. He untied its ribbon
very slowly and sprinkled dark
powder into his palm. Then
he spread this suspect dust
around the eyes, and the
maniac responded for the first
time by ceasing his muffled
moaning, even though his fist
continued to pound the mat
with the same beat.
“I haven’t concealed anything
from my master. I shared my
doubts with him about the
affliction the first day.”
The feverish hero resumed
his moaning, swaying, and
drumming.
The herbalist soaked another
piece of cloth in a liquid from
another container and then
wrapped the cloth around the