Amanita Sporewell's Arc

Chapter 1 of 14

Amanita Sporewell knelt in her patch of dirt and knew, before she even opened the seed pouch, that nothing would grow. The soil was gray and thin as flour. She pushed her finger in up to the knuckle and hit stone. Her red-and-white cap slid over one eye. She shoved it back and tried anyway. She wanted the greatest mushroom garden the forest had ever seen. That was the whole reason she had begged for this square of ground behind the cottage. She had traded three jars of honey for the seeds in her pouch: moonveil caps, blue trumpets, a single ember morel. Rare things. Fussy things. Things that would not survive a week in dust like this. Amanita planted the blue trumpet first, because it was her favorite. She patted the dirt, sang the little song her grandmother taught her, and waited. By noon the sprout came up thin as thread. By afternoon it curled brown at the tip. By supper it was gone. She sat back on her heels and felt her throat go tight. Nine seeds left. If she planted them here, she would lose them all. She went to find the only person in the hollow who might help. Myrtle Sporecap was her great-aunt, and the forest called her a witch because she talked to things that other people ignored. Amanita found her at the edge of the clearing, kneeling under a willow whose branches gave off a soft green shine. Myrtle was tucking scraps of bark into the roots and muttering. Tiny mushroom creatures with painted caps crowded around her ankles, tugging at her hem, offering pebbles. She thanked each one by name. "My patch is dead," Amanita said. "I planted a blue trumpet and it burned up in an afternoon." Myrtle did not look up. "Course it did. You're growing kings in a beggar's bed." "Then tell me how to fix it." Myrtle finally turned. Her eyes were the color of wet bark. She looked at the seed pouch, then at Amanita's smudged face. "You can't fix that soil, child. You have to feed it. Real feeding. Leaf rot, bone meal, spring water, and a handful of what grows under this tree." She patted a root of the glowing willow. "The little ones guard it. You'll have to ask them yourself." One of the mushroom sprites peeked out from behind Myrtle's boot and blinked up at Amanita. It did not look friendly. It looked like something that bit. Amanita tightened her grip on the pouch. Eight seeds and a morel. A dead patch at home. And now a tree full of small guardians who decided who was worthy of the soil beneath their feet. She crouched down to the sprite's level and held out her palm. "Hello," she said. "I've come to ask a favor."