Austin's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Austin found his words, and Flora kept him on. For three days he carried water and swept soil. But this morning she handed him a real task. She knelt beside a long bed of tender green shoots. "These are my fever-leaf seedlings," she said. "Water them while I take fruit to the village. Not too much. Not too little." Then she was gone, and Austin stood alone before a bed she had grown for months. He lifted a watering can. The shoots looked fragile as thread. He had no idea how much they could drink. One can felt too little. So he poured another, and another. The soil turned to black mud. The little stems bent and sagged. Water pooled and did not drain. Austin's stomach dropped. He had drowned them. He could not fix this alone. He remembered the little shop near the gardens, the one with seed bins out front and a sign that swung on a chain. The woman who kept it knew plants better than anyone. Austin ran. The shop smelled of earth and dry seeds. Shelves held cans of every color and pots stacked in a leaning tower. Behind the counter stood Sunflower Meadows, her blonde hair tied back, sunflowers stitched on her apron. She was pressing seeds into a paper packet. She looked up and took in his muddy clothes without a flinch. "I drowned Flora's seedlings," Austin said. The words tumbled out. "The fever-leaf. I gave them too much water." Sunflower set down her packet at once. "Fever-leaf hates wet feet," she said. "But they're tougher than they look. You can still save them." She came around the counter and knelt to his height. "Tip the pots and let the water run off. Then set them somewhere warm with light. Give the roots air. Don't touch that soil again until the top goes dry." Austin repeated it back. Tip them. Warm light. Let them dry. Sunflower nodded and pressed a small can into his hands, one with a narrow spout. "Use this next time. It pours slow. A seedling wants a sip, not a flood." He ran back. He tipped each pot and watched brown water stream out. He carried the bed to the warm bench near the pipes and spread the shoots in the light. He did not water them. He only waited, and watched the top of the soil. By the time Flora returned, the stems had begun to lift. She knelt and studied them a long moment. "They nearly went," she said quietly. She looked at the slow-spouted can in his hands, then at his face. "But you knew where to go. That's worth more than knowing everything." She did not smile, but her voice was warm. "Tomorrow you'll handle the ripe tomatoes. They bruise if you so much as breathe on them."