You might have an ache, a discomfort. Even a yearning. So you head down by the bend in the river, in that patch of pines, where Stella holds sway. Her simple cabin abounds — shelves of earth’s elixirs, wild-crafted remedies in pots and jars, each picked and brewed by hand, with knowing, and beyond. A matter of the heart? A matter of the soul? A banged up knee? It’s all the same to her. She chuckles softly as you describe your need, then turns to a large crock, dripping with liquid gold. She spoons some out — there! This will do it. Begat by bees, gathered from the perfect combination of flowers, just for you.
How much will you need? Well, there’s now and there’s later. A jar or two, tucked away in the pantry? Might be wise.
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