Free All the Voices Cry by Alice Petersen

in a sworn affidavit, and if he could show her what these plants looked like, she could make some herself.
    He raised his eyebrows. “You are not the first person to ask me about this Elcarim. Just buy it off the Internet.”
    â€œCan’t you at least show me what the plants look like?”
    He sighed. “Okay, but you cannot take the plant. It is a National Park.”
    â€œI know. Hands off the pristine wilderness.”
    â€œWhat is on your list?” He started putting on his boots.
    â€œBurdock root,” she said.
    â€œAh, Burdock,” he said, jabbing the end of lace through each eyelet in turn, “Cockle Button, Clot-Bur, T’orny Burr,’appy Major, Love Leave.” His French accent made the most prosaic English names chime like bells. “You have some seed pod stuck to your dress, but you want the root. They assist in the elimination of the free radical.”
    Dress, he said dress. Isabella looked at him, fascinated. He was one of those men who do not know the difference between a dress and a skirt.

    â€œWhat else?” he asked.
    â€œSheep sorrel,” she said.
    â€œLook beside your car at le parking. Small flower, red. Next?”
    â€œSome kind of rhubarb.”
    â€œSo is it the Indian rhubarb (Rheum officinale) or the Turkish rhubarb (Rheum palmatum)? ”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Isabella.
    â€œListen to me, mademoiselle: order it off the internet,” said Pascal.
    â€œI just thought it would be more natural to make it. It’s supposed to be a miracle cure, and I don’t want to buy a miracle mail order.”
    â€œSo you think a miracle is naturel? Let her die. This is naturel . What do you do for a living?” he asked.
    â€œI’m an actor.”
    â€œ Tabernouche, ” he muttered.
    â€œWhat difference does that make?” said Isabella. “Are you this nasty to everyone who asks you for help? I’m doing this for my mother, you know.” She opened her eyes as wide as she could, looked up at him from under the heavy burden of her dark green hair.
    â€œExcuse me,” he said finally. “I am very busy today. I have to check some permit of fishing at Lac Parker. Come with me. I will show you some plant.”
    Pascal took the track up the hill in short quick strides, pushing his mountain bike in front of him. Isabella picked up her skirts and hurried behind, keeping her eyes on his calf
muscles. My cherub, she might call him, if he were to become her lover, if he were to leave the forest, come get a job waiting tables in the big city. She wanted him for his youth, for the hard thin torso beneath the skin. His skin would be satiny. There would be a line where the tan stopped.
    She began to perspire. Now she was having a real experience, surging onwards in the wake of Pascal making his way up the hill. Why, there were even berries beside the track, three on a narrow stem; globes of bright dark blue like the sky in a storybook. They were passing a spot where the rocks hung over the river and you could slide in under the ledge where the water foamed alongside. You could scrub it down, get rid of any slime that might grow in the shadows.
    â€œLook,” he said, pointing to the base of a birch tree where a white plant was growing out of the leaf litter.
    â€œWhat’s that?” she asked.
    â€œIndian pipe plant.”
    â€œIs it in the Elcarim recipe?”
    â€œNo. Look. It is a plant without chlorophyll.”
    The pipe plant grew singly and in clumps, not tall, its head drooping over in a bell. The whole plant was white, not clean white like paper, not translucent like cooked fish, but ghastly white. It had thin waxy stems, frilled about like a toadstool, and at the opening of the bell, where a bee might land, there was a black rosette, puckered like a tiny dark mouth.
    Pascal was looking hard at her.
    â€œNow ask me why I’m showing you this,” he said.
    Isabella asked.