Morning crept in like a reluctant promise—thin‑skinned, waterlogged, and carrying an air of guilt for letting me tangle with a walking briar patch the day before. Pale light seeped through needle gaps overhead, leaking into my oak hollow until it gleamed off the half‑dead coals in their clay ring. They blinked back at me like sleepy embers trying to decide whether I was worth the effort of reigniting. My shoulder cast the deciding vote: one volcanic throb and the verdict was "up and at 'em, soldier."
I eased the moon‑hare pelt away from the wound. Thorn‑Boar had left me a souvenir worthy of a horror‑prop warehouse: the gash gaped, edges inflamed and glistening, blood crust forming a landscape of crimson ridges. Embedded bramble barbs glittered inside like smug little daggers wearing victory medals. "Congratulations, Ian," I grunted, rotating until my vision fizzed with starbursts, "you've officially pioneered wearable shrubbery. Paris Fashion Week will be ringing any day now."
Fresh blood oozed. I rummaged for the bark tube that held last night's hot coal, nudged an ember until it glowed incendiary orange, then hovered it a hair's breadth from the worst seep. The hiss was instant; it smelled half burnt‑toast, half singed pride. Pain spiked, then settled into a dull roar, the kind you can almost file under background noise if you clench your jaw hard enough.
Antiseptic was top of the agenda. Fire and protein were useless if an infection turned my arm into an exhibit labelled Do Not Touch—May Spontaneously Fall Off. Memories surfaced: Mum's homemade lavender balm, lazy summer evenings on the patio, mozzie bites soothed while she teased me for scaling rusty fences. If this world grew any botanic cousins to that purple miracle, they'd probably hide where water condensed and rot dared not.
I rebound the pelt, grabbed flint knife and notebook, and limped into a cedar grove still swaddled in dawn fog. Damp air wrapped me in scents of earth and resin; each breath tasted like unfinished rain. Dew‑pearled leaves sparkled under muted light, reflecting strobes whenever I disturbed a branch—miniscule SOS beacons begging me to slow down and appreciate the scenery.
Halfway up a gentle slope, aroma snagged me by the nostrils. Sharply herbal with a metallic tang, as though mint and steel had arranged a clandestine date. I crouched beside a cluster of spear‑shaped leaves shot through with veins that shimmered like trapped mercury. A gentle rub between thumb and finger released oil that stung the sinuses and dredged up the comforting memory of Mum's balm, only denser, wilder—lavender's feral cousin fresh from a semester abroad.
Notebook time. I sketched the leaf's silhouette, colour gradation, vein pattern, and added a bold, underlined note: Potential antiseptic—volunteer guinea pig = me. After slicing a handful with the flint blade, I hobbled back, optimistic despite the throbbing drumline in my shoulder.
My camp's workbench was an upended slab of shale balanced beside the rekindled fire. I crushed the leaves against it with a fist‑sized river stone, violet juices smearing across rock like avant‑garde paint. The scent intensified—rain on hot pavement mixed with the antiseptic sting of a hospital corridor. I spat for moisture, added a splash of yesterday's cooled stew—because who needs ethanol when you've got improvisation—and ground until a gritty paste formed.
Application loomed. I braced, counted three steady breaths, and slathered the salve onto torn skin. Instantly it burned like citrus poured over nicks, radiating white‑hot along each embedded thorn. I saw‑starred curses between clenched teeth, but the firestorm subsided into a pleasant buzz, a menthol chill seeping under skin. Under my fingertips the flesh pulsed—not just heartbeat but a deeper resonance, like warm water flowing upstream. The same tingling I'd noticed when flint sparks had jumped too far now coursed through my palms, synchronising with the wound's glow until faint silver threads traced each cut.
"Right," I whispered, awed and mildly horrified, "either you're disinfecting me or preparing tonight's entrée." The silvery sheen faded, leaving pinker, calmer flesh. Pain slid from 'scream loud enough to scare the birds' to 'grumble so the squirrels don't judge.' Progress logged.
The remainder of the day unfolded in quiet industry. Mid‑afternoon found me perched outside the hollow, cicadas rattling overhead. Sunshafts danced around me while I catalogued discoveries: cross‑sections of stem, placement of oil glands, aroma descriptors, growth conditions (moist shade, cedar canopy), and a swirl icon—my newly minted shorthand for 'mana‑active.' Hypotheses spilled across bark sheets: salve accelerates coagulation; mana interacts with bloodstream when topical; possible systemic toxicity if ingested; potential as meat preservative if diluted. The scientific method never tasted so rustic.
Hunger eventually tapped my ribs. Boar jerky—smoke‑kissed victory incarnate—chewed like old boot leather but delivered protein with every stubborn bite. I mused on future tasks: harvest another batch of silver‑vein lavender, test insect carapace shards as parabolic reflectors to concentrate heat, and carve the thorn‑boar hide into something more fashionable than medieval loin‑wrap. If I ended up a folk legend, it wouldn't be as The Naked Ranger of Cedar Flats.
As twin suns slid behind serrated ridges, their divergent shadows crossed like compass needles, reminding me I still hadn't mapped their exact trajectories. Another project for the growing scroll of Stuff to Do Before I Die Again. I banked the fire, inspected the shoulder—no new swelling, thorns still anchored but edges dulled under silver film—and dared a crooked smile. Today the forest had offered remedy instead of ruin.
I raised a charcoal‑smudged salute to the grove, then closed the notebook over a final entry: Heal first; build second; explore always. The fire cracked a pine‑sap applause as though endorsing the syllabus.
Twilight bled into indigo. Stars I was still renaming emerged—Spear‑Fish, Hook‑Tail, and the new favourite, Lavender's Lantern—three clustered points that matched the plant's shimmering veins. Wrapped in moon‑hare pelt, I listened to the far‑off yips of jackals carried on cool currents and felt no dread, only resolve. The salve's residual warmth pulsed steady, a heartbeat echo from some place deeper than flesh.
Sleep drifted in waves. I wondered what other secrets the forest would share if I kept asking the right questions—if curiosity remained sharper than fear. Last thought before dreams snagged me: tomorrow I'd fashion a real shirt, maybe some gloves, and finally pull those stupid barbs. One step closer to turning survival into living.
The oak hollow sighed with night wind, and somewhere in the darkness a new bloom of silver‑vein lavender opened, its oils perfuming the woods like a promise kept.