Lion Head Mesa Hellebore

She gives a spin in the colors before eyes find an owner to this greeting. He’s huge, tall as she imagines a boar to stand but with a lean, graceful countenance. The gardener.

“It is divine, you’ve a true gift,” she compliments with floral-spun eyes.

She imagines the drudgery of early days, how each herb must have been found and harvested at the opportune time, grubbed up from the dirt and culled for seeds, day upon patient day. How the loam itself had to be collected from groves off the Mesa. His is a craft perfected and even the wildlife sings in praise of all of this which had to be worked and learned through trial and error and spoke to the man’s tenacity.

“You must be Haizel. I am Eset,” she introduces with a customary bow. “Fellahin to the Queen.”