Charlie Morrison's Arc

Chapter 6 of 14

The basket sat on the table beside the journal. Charlie had not slept well. The crushed blueberry from the porch was still on the sill where she had set it as a warning to herself. Three days left. The gift was made, but the journal said a made thing wasn't enough on its own. On the next page, in her grandmother's hand, was a single line she had missed twice: A gift comes to the table blessed, or it comes as bread and string. She read it again. Blessed. Not by her. She had woven the basket alone with only the wolf watching from the door, and a wolf's witness would not count at a fae table. She needed someone of the woods to name it true. Charlie went to the porch. The wolf followed and sat at her heel, green eyes fixed on the tree line. She cupped her hands and called Fern's name into the pines, the way she had as a child at this same rail. She waited. She called again. A green light came through the ferns and stopped at the step. Fern Willowgleam landed on the porch post, leaf dress bright, wings still. She was no taller than Charlie's hand. She had guided Charlie past the barrier once. Charlie hoped she would guide her again. "You called loud," Fern said. "I need help." Charlie brought the basket out and set it on the boards between them. "I made it. Willow, yarrow, chicory. Berries from the old bush. I put everything I had into it." Her voice caught. "But only the wolf saw me weave it. At the table they'll say I could have bought it and lied." Fern walked around the rim of the basket. She touched a chicory stem, then a berry. Her glow deepened where her fingers passed. "It remembers your hands," Fern said. "That's true. But truth isn't a blessing." She looked up. "A blessing needs a witness of the woods. Spoken over the work. Before the moon." "Will you do it?" Fern went still. The wolf stood. "I can witness," Fern said. "I can't bless. I'm too small a name for their table." She flew to the wolf's shoulder and set a hand on his fur. "He can. He was given to your grandmother by one older than me. His word carries." Charlie looked at the wolf. The wolf looked back. Fern lifted the basket in both arms, barely. She held it under the wolf's muzzle. "Say her work is her own," she told him. "In our tongue, if you have it." The wolf lowered his head. A low sound came from his chest, not a growl, longer, shaped like words Charlie almost knew. The yarrow in the basket bent toward him. The berries darkened one shade. The willow ribs held a faint green light after he stopped. Fern set the basket down. "It's blessed," she said. "They'll know it the moment you cross the door." Charlie's hands shook. "Thank you." Fern's wings flicked. She was looking past Charlie now, at the sill, at the crushed blueberry. "Who left that?" "I don't know." "Then hide the basket," Fern said. "A blessed gift is worth stealing. And someone has already been on your porch."