A Balm in Gilead

Leah plopped the dough into the bowl, wiped floury hands on the apron around her waist, and turned away from the bread she'd been kneading. Dough set to rise, she had an hour to herself in her potager.

When Leah suggested the Commander's Wife might allow her to keep a kitchen garden, "in the interest of household economy," she hadn't been surprised when the Wife consented but refused to authorize the purchase of plants or seeds. If she could figure out how to make it work without tokens, Leah was welcome to it.

Plants begun three Handmaids ago as choice sprigs clipped from fresh herbs brought home in market baskets thrived beneath her care. The Wife thought it remarkable.

Before Gilead, Leah had been Linnea. An herbalist.

Leah hung the apron on the peg, took a straw basket, gloves, and shears, let the door snick closed. Twenty paces beyond lay her potager, neatly mapped out. Little paths of loam recall routes of earlier days, before Gilead, before streets patrolled by Guardians

One night two Handmaids ago, after Birthmobiles whisked away Wives and Handmaids, Leah encouraged a few Marthas-trusted since before Gilead-to suggest their Wives allow them potagers, too. Some Wives had agreed; those Marthas now tended tiny gardens of their own.

Leah set down the basket, smoothed the green skirt before kneeling beside her plants, picked up the shears and began snipping her tidy plot. Every plant a purpose, every placement her record of what had been.

Rosemary, for remembrance, marks the cemetery where her parents and husband rest.

Sage, for wisdom, where her daughter's school stood.

Parsley, for festivity, where the beach had been.

Thyme, for courage. Dill, against evil. Spicy oregano, sweet marjoram. Basil. Mint.

Those Marthas who have been "accepted by the maze" exchange herbal lore spoken in a cant of recipes and household gossip while trading cuttings, seeds, baby plants, and plants to stop babies. Plants hidden in plain sight, advertised by culinary use and healing properties. Leah pulls on gloves before handling her abortifacients.

Queen Anne's lace, for sanctuary. Helps with digestive ailments.

Tansy, for longevity. Treats fever and migraine.

Pennyroyal, to bring tranquility to the home. Ends flatulence.

Feathery rue, for grace. Eases muscle cramps. Repels insects and varmints.

Leah clips and carefully rolls tender leaves inside one glove as she removes it. She rises, herbs gathered, respite ended.

The Commander's Wife has ordered that this evening's meal shall be festive, in anticipation of the success of tonight's Ceremony. Leah will prepare baked chicken, seasoned with rosemary and thyme, and present it on a bed of parsley.

In the glove beside them: tansy, rue, and pennyroyal. Each according to her ability.

Later this evening, again tomorrow, possibly each day for the next fortnight, Leah will prepare the Handmaid a cup of tea. As Marthas do, after each Ceremony. For these who were once-are still-their daughters, their granddaughters, their sisters, their friends, the Marthas have found a balm in Gilead.