A SLENDER VOICE whispers in the cloisters’ dusty gloom. Light and quick as a bat, the words flutter past, too fast to catch. Only the lingering scent of wisdom or advice beckons her forward.
Soon she stops, amazed. In front of her, growing right out of the stone, is a briar patch. Succulent red and yellow roses bloom amid the dark green thorns. Creepers squeeze the weathered walls, glistening thorns strong and sharp enough to pierce solid rock.
Shuffling closer, she sees iridescent beads of moisture condensing on the tip of each thorn. Is it poison? Is it medicine? Or…
The voice whispers in her ear, fleet-footed as a hummingbird.
It is both. For those who know what they search for.
Written: 11 March 2016