The late medieval period. A semi-arid region, perhaps badia in present-day Jordan.

She is Halima. I see her walking far from the tent, bent as a palm in a sandstorm, making her way to some place unknown, most likely just a depression in the ground where the touch of night dew might have stirred dormant shoots into growth. She'll stop then make an observation to herself: "Precious herbs.. but too small... leave them to grow." On she'll go, sometimes holding her long staff in front of her, almost a divining rod to sense vegetation that her failing eyes cannot quite see. My brother next to me jokes that every year she seems to lean closer to the ground and that one day she'll topple over and never get up. But when a raging toothache attacks him or a fever descends, the laugh will be off his face, I know for sure.

       I am Salim. With time on my hands, I sit with the other elders and watch the goings-on of the tribe. I like to think about the people I see around me and those who are now spirit visitors to our fire. Not infrequently, I reflect upon how I myself will be called to mind when I am gone. When I sought retribution, was the punishment in proportion to the offence? Did I justly reward those who did good to me? At any rate, I remind myself with satisfaction that I have always honoured my forefathers and that the dynasty will benefit from the legacy I leave. 

       Many suns and moons have seen our tribe grow and prosper, in no small part due to my brothers and me. We made ourselves wealthy by trading goods between the great stone cities, adding to our riches by making raids on rivals and fighting battles for high reward in foreigners' distant campaigns. At the trading posts we sold frankincense that we brought from the south, or exchanged saddles and cloth for milk-white beasts whose bloodlines founded our herds. After every journey there was often plenty enough gold to browse the bazaars for luxuries that we still hold locked in ebony chests.

       Now my generation leaves the carrying, bartering and warring to our sons. The most arduous journeys are behind us; the only routes we take are with the seasons - north to where the waters rise then south again with the changing wind. Most of the time I am content to rest here on silken carpets, cushions woven with gold thread at my back, laughing behind my hand at neighbours' mishaps and passing judgement where it's due on young, feckless relatives. Over there is my nephew, saddling up a camel and not making a decent job of it I see. Here, the children of my daughter are squabbling and causing a nuisance as their mother tries to make bread. And in the distance is Halima, still surveying the ground for plants.  

       Once, I remind myself, Halima was fresh to the world, just as I was. I try to recall her lineage: an orphan from a distant branch of the tribe, whose father's name is lost to me now. My family took her in and taught her our ways. She must have learned well from the older women about where the rarest herbs grew, following their steps and bringing back abundant basketfuls of fragrant leaves and flowers. Then the drying, chopping, pounding, and mixing, to make and store the potions. Day by day she grew her knowledge and with it her reputation, so that she became the relative that we naturally turned to first when illness or injury came upon us. 

       I was only a boy the day that my first terrible headache arrived. Everywhere I laid my eyes, the world shimmered with patterns and coloured flashes that I could not see through and could not escape. For a while I was fascinated, a detached observer of my own body, but then the fear and the pain took hold and did not stop. I was put to bed in merciful darkness and ceased to function for a day or two while my mother and Halima had quiet conversations about remedies.

       I see them in my memory: Halima arriving with pungent fresh herbs that she told me to keep smelling, or placing a poultice on my head or giving me leaves to chew; my mother bringing me fresh water and trying to tempt my appetite with dates and figs. Through the misery of pain and nausea, I sensed Halima's intense concentration on putting me right. When I returned to normal, she questioned me about everything that I had done in the hours and days that came before the headache and everything that I had on my mind then and now. I did not understand why she wanted to know, but she listened, then gave me a smooth round stone that looked as ordinary as a million others on the ground around us.

       "This stone is yours to keep", she said. "Can you feel how warm it is? It has all the power of heaven and earth to guard you against the djinn. If you feel another headache or any illness coming on, hold it and keep your mind on it. Above all, have no fear."

       Those headaches came and went until with the passing years they became less frequent and seemed to disappear. I kept the stone all the same, and believed that all would be well, because Halima had told me so.

       A lifetime has gone by since then and I like to let my mind wander over all the distances I have travelled and the sights I have seen. At night when the family sits with me at the fire, I sometimes call for the treasure chests and we look at what I have collected. Many fine mohair cloths and silk weavings; incense burners and bowls that glisten with gold; a figurine of jade; intricate carvings in wood. Then there is the sheaf of papers I bought from a merchant whose path I crossed far to the north-west.

       "Let me show you a marvel of this world", he had said, "and rest assured that nobody else in your land will own such a rarity." He brought the papers out, each the size of my hand, and turned them over one by one.

       "These are cures for ailments that afflict us all", he said, pointing to the dark signs that flowed across the pages, some of them like the trail a snake leaves when it moves over soft sand. He surmised that I would not know what they meant, and he was right. 

       "But don't concern yourself with the signs", he said. "When learned travellers stop at your camp for water, you can ask them what they mean. And remember: there could be recipes in here that might save a beloved's suffering and even their life."

       He continued, "Just look at these plants and flowers. Do you see how the artist has made them as real as in life? The colours will never fade, believe me. It is very, very fine work."

       Each paper carried the images of plants that took up the whole space or grew from one corner, sending twining tendrils upwards and around the signs in greens as fresh as new shoots, with flowers in bright apricot yellows, blues of the sky and reds that glowed like embers.

       Adopting a bargaining position, I retorted that there was nothing new under the sun, for our women dyed and wove the same bright hues into our carpets and cloths. But still I was impressed and I wanted to possess the papers. The price was settled and paid. 

       Nearing home, the children were first to see the caravan approaching and ran in a gaggle to greet us, clamouring to know what my brothers and I had brought back. That night, I showed the sheaf of papers to everyone, making it my business to get Halima's reaction above all. She admired the pictures and recognised some of the herbs they depicted, but I was disappointed by her lack of enthusiasm.

       "Halima, can you imagine all the cures hidden in these signs? I will certainly discover what they are, then you can add them to your knowledge for the benefit of the tribe."

       "Brother dear", she replied, "These are fine pictures, but what good are the plants to me trapped inside in these pages?" She gestured towards all corners of the wadi.

       "Here are the real herbs that I can smell and touch. Here are the plants that I have used to cure many problems. And as you know, our remedies come down directly from our ancestors." She handed me back the sheaf of papers.

       "How could I trust what an unknown hand has told of here, even if I could understand it? Keep the papers safe for others to use. I am happy with the old ways."

       I cannot count the times since then that I have seen her work for sufferers of all kinds, whether children with diseases, women in the throes of childbirth, or wounded fighters who were carried back from war. I have no doubt that in all these cases, Halima's talent lay not only in her knowledge of plants but in her ability to dispel fear and offer hope, as she did long ago for a boy afflicted by migraines. Still to this day I see her practising her craft, but time is not kind to any of us and I am glad that according to custom and duty, she has not guarded her wisdom jealously but passed it on to her daughters who will give it to their daughters as they grow.

      As for the papers and their secrets, the time will come when our tribe will know the signs they contain. Perhaps Halima will be proven right and that there is no call for more knowledge when we already have what we need. As she says, we only have to look around us at what nature freely gives.