Ember Woods's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Ember Woods knelt in the empty village square and pushed her fingers into the bare soil. It was good dirt, dark and soft, the kind that once fed every family here. Now the houses stood silent and the fields grew nothing. She wanted to bring the village back to life, one plant at a time. But she had no seeds. She had searched the tree line, the old storehouses, the cracked pots behind ruined walls. She found nothing that would grow. She sat back and looked at her hands, empty and stained with dirt. Gathering was her whole skill. She could find mushrooms in shadow and berries in bramble. Yet a garden needed a start, and she had none. A cart wheel creaked behind her. She turned. A small man rolled a painted wagon over the broken road, humming as he came. He wore a purple coat sewn with gold swirls, and a peacock feather bobbed from his tall hat. His white beard reached his belt. He stopped the wagon and swept off his hat. "A digger in the dirt with nothing to sow," he sang. "What a sad little garden with nowhere to grow!" Ember stood and brushed off her knees. Strangers rarely came this far. "Who are you?" "Finnigan, friend, with wares to trade. Rare seeds and roots, the finest made." He patted a wooden chest bolted to the wagon. He lifted the lid. Inside sat small pouches, each tied with string and labeled in careful ink. Ember's heart jumped. She reached toward the chest, then stopped. "I have no coin." Finnigan wagged a finger and grinned. "No coin, no matter, that's plain to see. But talent, dear digger, means plenty to me." He pointed to the forest edge. "I need what grows wild where I cannot roam. A gatherer's hands can fetch what I'm owed." He wanted her skill. He named the things he sought: mushrooms, wild garlic, and berries thick with juice. Ember knew a bramble heavy with dark fruit near the water. She had passed it that morning. "Fill my basket," he said, dropping the rhyme for a moment, "and the seeds are yours." She took his empty basket and ran to the bramble. Thorns caught her sleeves as she picked the ripe berries fast, filling the basket to the brim. She carried it back with purple hands. Finnigan peered inside and clapped. "A bargain well kept! A trade well done!" He pressed three pouches into her palms. She opened one. Tiny seeds spilled across her skin, more than she had hoped for. The wagon rolled away, his song fading down the road. Ember knelt again at the bare soil, seeds cupped in both hands. She could plant now. But the ground was hard-packed and wide, far more than her fingers could ever break alone. She pressed a single seed into the dirt and stared at the vast, unbroken field before her.