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It was such a small thing, next to the totoma's imposing hooves, so strong and sure. She had to be painfully careful as she scraped the sparse earth away from the shrub, exposing the sicky looking roots to the harsh wind that threatened to sweep her off the mountain. She crouched over it as the last few clods of dirt fell away, and gently took it in her teeth. It was a precarious ledge she'd finally found the plant on, but it was worth it- the herb was potentially life saving in the middle of the frozen winter. She just hoped she'd be in time.

The season was bitter, but the supply of leaves kept the sickness threatening the tribe from spreading and worsening, and when the thaw came, the totoma carefully tended to the little plant, making sure it got sunlight and water, and keeping it from being trampled underhoof. She knew her work was vital- the memory of the terror of the illness and the helplessness without the cure kept her focused through the seasons. Eventually, her tribe stopped asking her to find something more productive to do. They knew that they couldn't separate the vine keeper from her task.

And they never did