I was sent to live behind monastery walls when I was five. At first I hated it, sullen and resentful that I should be locked away when my brothers were free in the wider world. Years later I received a vision. Our Lady kissed my palms and bid me make the earth grow.

Now the monastery gardens are my constant devotion to the Goddess. My hands and voice have coaxed botanical wonders from the ground and have gained us a measure of unwanted fame.

Some come hoping for healing herbs, these I give freely and joyously. Others want to see for themselves the “green miracle”. And some, usually the rich, dressed in layers of fabric, gaudy against the plain walls and robes of my Order, come to see if they can tempt me away.

I have been offered obscene amounts of riches to bring my prayers to their gardens. They think that material wealth can match what I have already been given. It makes me laugh and sing hymns of praise.

“You would become rich beyond your dreams,” they say.

“I already am,” is my constant reply.