A laboratory. The word itself was alien in this world, a concept as foreign as the stars Darren remembered from his old sky. He needed a place of controlled observation, a sanctuary for the scientific method, but such a thing could not be wished into existence. He had no building, no money to commission one, and no influence to acquire it. He was a seven-year-old orphan, and his ambitions were laughably grand. But Darren had one resource that no one else did: a mind filled with the knowledge of a future they could not imagine. He would start small.
His first stop was the village carpenter, a burly man named Thorren with hands like worn leather mallets. Darren, armed with a significant portion of his baking profits, commissioned a simple, sturdy table and a small chair. The transaction left a painful dent in his savings, but he considered it an investment, a cornerstone for the future he intended to build.
He chose a location for his "lab" that was carefully considered: a flat, unused patch of ground near the orphanage garden, but far enough away that any accidental spills or smoke would not harm the precious crops. With his furniture in place, he turned to the most pressing need: equipment. He required vessels for testing, containers for mixing, and tools for measuring. With no access to glass, he turned to the earth itself.
Guided by the AI's encyclopedic knowledge of primitive technologies, he began making his own pottery. He found a deposit of rich, grey clay by a nearby stream. He spent hours kneading the damp earth on a flat rock, working out the air bubbles that could cause the pots to shatter during firing. The AI's voice was a calm instructor in his mind, explaining the principles of cohesion and temper. He shaped the pots by hand, using the coil method to build up the walls and smoothing them with a wet stone. His first few attempts were clumsy, lopsided things, but with practice, his small hands grew more adept. He then dug a shallow pit, lined it with stones, and built a fire within, creating a makeshift kiln. He carefully placed his sun-dried clay pots amongst the embers, covering the pit to trap the heat. The process was slow, but after a day of intense firing and another of cooling, he had a collection of hard, serviceable ceramic pots and bowls.
To combat the relentless sun, he constructed a simple shade canopy, driving four sturdy sticks into the ground and stretching a piece of old cloth, purchased for a few coppers, across the top. He even fashioned a rudimentary balance scale from a piece of wood, two small clay dishes, and some string, allowing him to measure ingredients with a modicum of accuracy. His lab was a crude, pathetic affair by the standards of his old world, but here, under the open sky, it felt like the most advanced scientific facility on the planet.
He began his work in earnest. He would take one of Maida's remedies and break it down. "AI, what is the most likely active compound in willow bark?" he'd think, as he ground the bark into a fine powder.
"Willow bark contains salicin, which the human body metabolizes into salicylic acid," the AI would respond. "It is a precursor to acetylsalicylic acid, known in your world as aspirin, a common analgesic and anti-inflammatory agent."
Darren would then attempt to isolate the compound through simple water extraction and boiling, a frustrating process without proper glassware. He tested the effects of different herbs on things like meat preservation and mould growth. His results were often inconclusive, hampered by his crude tools, but they gave him insights he could work with. He learned which plants had genuine antiseptic properties and which were little more than folk tales. He was building a new pharmacopoeia, one based on evidence, not tradition.
Weeks passed. To any observer, Darren had become a model apprentice. He foraged, ground, and sorted with unwavering diligence, his knowledge of local herbs becoming as comprehensive as Maida's own. He paid close attention when villagers came with their ailments, listening to their complaints and noting which remedies Maida prescribed. Occasionally, he would try to make a suggestion. "Perhaps adding a touch of honey to that cough syrup would help soothe the throat more directly?" he'd offer.
Maida would just wave a dismissive hand. "The root is what does the work, child. The rest is just taste. You do not know what you are talking about."
One afternoon, Maida and Elara went with a party of hunters into the deeper woods to search for a rare fungus that only grew on fallen ironwood trees, a journey that would keep them away overnight. Not an hour after they had left, a man from the village rushed up to the hut, his face etched with panic.
"The herbalist! Where is she?" he gasped. "My boy… he has a terrible breathing sickness, his chest rattles with every breath!"
Darren stepped out from behind the hut. "She is away until tomorrow morning. But I can help. I am her apprentice. She has taught me."
The man looked down at the small child, his hope visibly deflating. But desperation was a powerful motivator. "What can you do?"
"Let me see him," Darren said, his voice calm and authoritative. The man led him to his cottage, where a young boy, no older than five, was struggling for air, his face pale and his lips tinged with blue. Darren ignored the panicked whispers of the boy's mother and knelt beside him. He asked a series of sharp, precise questions that caught the parents off guard.
"When did the coughing start? Was it sudden? Does he have a fever? Has he eaten anything unusual? Is the rattling worse when he lies down?"
Based on the answers and the sound of the cough—a wheezing, croupy bark—the AI confirmed his suspicion: a severe upper airway inflammation. He needed a potent anti-inflammatory and something to open the airways. He raced back to Maida's hut. He bypassed the traditional cough root and instead grabbed a handful of mullein leaf, a known expectorant, and a piece of willow bark. He ground them together, adding them to hot water with a large spoonful of honey to create a thick, soothing syrup.
He returned and instructed the parents to give the boy a spoonful every hour. "And keep him sitting up," he commanded. "It will make his breathing easier." He left the stunned parents staring after him.
The next day, Darren was in his makeshift lab, carefully observing the effect of a poultice on a piece of bruised meat, when Maida returned. She did not look pleased. She stormed up to him, her face like a thundercloud.
"You gave the Miller boy a remedy," she stated, her voice low and dangerous. "What did you give him?"
Darren's heart hammered against his ribs. He was terrified that he had miscalculated, that his remedy had caused a bigger problem. "Mullein, willow bark, and honey," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "He had a severe breathing sickness."
"And you thought you, a boy of a few weeks' training, knew better than I?"
"I was only trying to help," he said, his fear giving way to a spark of defiance.
Maida stared at him, her anger seeming to war with something else. "The Miller came to me this morning. The boy is breathing easy. The fever is gone." She paused, the words seeming to cost her a great deal. "He is well."
Darren felt a wave of relief so profound it almost buckled his knees.
"You will never do that again," Maida snapped, her anger returning. "You do not have the knowledge. You overstepped your place."
"But I helped him!" Darren retorted, his voice rising. "If I had done nothing, he might have gotten worse! I have learned so much from you, Maida, but you are wrong about some things! You won't even let me speak my mind or contribute!"
"Go home, Kael," she said, her voice flat and final. "I do not want to see you today."
For the next two days, Darren did not go to Maida's place. He threw himself into his other work. In the orphanage garden, the wheat and corn were sprouting into strong, green seedlings, a testament to his superior methods. He also spent time at the bakery. Martha was not happy.
"You are not here as much," she complained, though her bakery was busier than ever. "The people want more of the sweet rolls."
"I have been busy," Darren said. "But I have a proposal for you. I will teach you my methods. You can pay me for the lessons, and then you will not need me to be here every day. You can keep the business running even when I am away."
To prove his point, he spent the afternoon teaching her the principles of making a pie crust—a flaky, buttery creation that was leagues beyond simple bread. They filled it with sweetened apples. The resulting pie became an instant sensation, a new delicacy for the village. Martha, seeing the coin it could generate, made sure to price it high and readily agreed to his terms.
On the third day, as Darren was meticulously arranging his clay pots in his lab, a shadow fell over him. It was Maida. She stood there for a long time, simply watching him.
"What is all this?" she asked finally, her voice devoid of its earlier anger.
"This is how I learn," Darren said, turning to face her. "When you give a sick person an herb, you see if they get better. But you don't know for sure if it was the herb, or something else. Here, I test them. I see what really works. I test them to make sure they are not only safe, but that they provide the intended results."
He pointed to two clay dishes. In one, a piece of meat coated in a traditional poultice was turning green with mould. In the other, the same meat, treated with a paste from an herb he had identified as having strong antimicrobial properties, was still fresh.
Maida stared at the simple, undeniable proof. She walked closer, peering at his neat rows of pots and his strange little scale. She looked at him, this strange, serious child who spoke of testing and results. He was an oddity, but his interest and dedication to the craft were undeniable.
She let out a long, slow breath. "You are a strange one, Kael. But you have a fire for this that I have not seen in a long time." She looked him in the eye. "I forgive you for what you did. You were rash, but your heart was in the right place, and your mind... your mind saw true."
She nodded toward her hut on the hill. "Come back tomorrow. I will give you a chance to prove yourself. A real chance."