Cimmy couldn’t figure out what flowers those were, but their fragrance was deeply anchored into her memories, a strange thing, really, and she suddenly realized it was a scent from her Garden, roses, she was sure of it, even if she’d never smelled roses before.

Many of the afflictions that visited upon their village came unannounced, always met with helpless hand wringing, and Cimmy had made it her life’s mission to figure out how to heal as many of them as possible, and since she couldn’t do that from a safe distance, she prayed for luck and went in.

She was surprised to find a knotted bundle of threads at the bottom of the pot, a lot softer and silkier than the scratchy thistle fibers her shirt was made of, and they were all bright blue, like the sky and the waters, and looked so beautiful that they didn’t seem to belong to this world.

In large cauldrons, hard winter wheat, washed in seven unbegun waters, had been boiling for hours, until it turned soft and chewy, and shed its hard shell. During all this time it was stirred, and whispered incantations and blessings.