Legend

Eldana Saryn gathered her Chamomile only at high noon, when the flowers smell strongest, and dried it under the eaves of her cottage in bunches hung heads down.

At haymaking time, in the worst of the heat, a cart pulled up outside. Out climbed a herbalist from the city, famous in three lands, in robes so heavy that sweat ran down the back of his neck. He had heard that Eldana could cure sleeplessness, fever and sorrow.

“I’ve come for your secret remedy,” he announced. “I’ll pay any price.”

Eldana reached under the eaves, broke off a handful of dried flowers and poured them into his hand.

“Brew it.”

The herbalist crushed a flower between his fingers, sniffed it and snorted.

“Chamomile? It grows in every ditch. You mock me, old woman.”

He shook the flowers out onto the grass and strode back to his cart.

“Everyone looks for a rare herb,” Eldana said to his back. “And it grows by every road. Only no one bothers to bend down for it.”

The herbalist drove off and was never seen again. Eldana gathered the flowers from the grass into her basket, every last one. The Chamomile waited under the eaves for those who know how to bend down.