The yew would protect the church from the heavy rains and the harshest weather,
and the parson – no matter how often the Apothecary asked, for he did ask very often – would not allow the Apothecary anywhere near the tree.
Now, the parson was an enlightened man, and a kind one. He wanted the very best for his congregation,
to take them out of the dark ages of superstition and witchery.
He preached against the Apothecary’s use of the old ways, and the Apothecary’s foul temper and greed made certain these sermons fell on eager ears.
His business shrank even further. But then one day, the parson’s daughters fell sick.
First the one, and then the other, with an infection that swept the countryside.
(The sky darkened, and Conor could hear the coughing of the daughters within the parsonage,
could also hear the loud praying of the parson and the tears of the parson’s wife.)
Nothing the parson did helped. No prayer, no cure from the modern doctor two towns over,
no remedies of the field offered shyly and secretly by his parishioners.
Nothing. The daughters wasted away and approached death. Finally, there was no other option but to approach the Apothecary.
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