Brother Neimus bowed his shaved head to Brother Paulus as he passed him on the way from evening prayers. The scent of citrus blossoms wafted through the stone arch windows. He paused and glanced out at the acres of neatly-tilled fields.

Curious, he saw one of his brethren outside toiling in the evening air.

“What brings you here, Brother Christopher?” he asked, having walked from the monastery.

Brother Christopher had an odd accent which he blamed on having come from “a far off land”. “Just tending to the Borange and Thorange herbs, Brother,” he replied.

Neimus smiled at the diligence. “You are always so devout when it comes to growing and documenting your herbs,” he said, turning to leave. “The Lord certainly has given you a mission.”

“The Lord,” thought Christopher, “or a Time Machine. When I’m done, there will finally be something in the English language that rhymes with the word ‘orange’!”

The frustrated poet looked around at the 13th century English countryside wistfully before continuing his work.

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