I went afield today in search of guelder rose, having found a passage in one of my longer-neglected journals that mentions it. It is dismaying, the knowledge that can be lost in the space of a year. I feel such immense gratitude for the lifetime I spent, collecting what scraps of scrolls and books I could on my travels. These winter evenings are made more tolerable with a hearty fire, a cup of lavender tea, and familiar words to pore over.
A leisurely walk north towards the marshes was a pleasant manner in which to pass the morning, for the weather was not very cold. The earth was rather muddy, but I prefer this to knee-deep snow or biting wind. I have a sense that spring will arrive early this year.
The red-berry bushes were not difficult to find once I drew near the water’s edge. I gathered enough to make a long-lasting supply of tea from the bark, should I discover that it benefits me. And it will be another useful item to add to my stores.
The hope that my life might be prolonged continues to feel like vanity. Bree-land is hardly a bastion of physicians, and the two I have spoken with have proved to be of no help whatsoever. One refuses to keep the sought after herb at all, and the other was so suspicious that I think he might serve better as a constable than a healer. I have at least a modicum of understanding and respect for the elderly physician who does not wish to be responsible for a medicine he is not familiar with. But I cannot account for the response of the other man at all.
I am aware that my ire is fervent. There is, after all, a life at stake. It is troubling to think that salvation could be at hand and yet denied me. I would be false, however, if I said that I do not deserve such a fate.
Let me hope that the guelder rose will bring some respite, while I ponder what future lay ahead, however brief.
A thought has been brewing in my mind. I am not in the habit of doubting or second-guessing myself. But perhaps it can be permitted in these dire circumstances. I know that the caravans will soon be taking to the East Road when the snows abate. Some of them will travel so far as my home. I wonder if it would be somehow selfish of me, to use the coin I have so steadfastly saved through the years, to take a place on a wagon, and see if there might be some last vestige of hope that I have not yet thought of. After all, the physicians of my birthplace are superior to all others in Middle-Earth, and if there is any place where I might have a chance, it would be there. Why do I call myself “selfish” for these musings? You know why, little white page.
I do not relish this notion of departing. The journey would be long and arduous, even in good weather and assuming bandits and other hazards are successfully avoided. I am fond of this little cottage where I now sit. I like this village, with its kind, simple people. But if I want any chance of enjoying them for years to come...then I have a decision to make.
