Fennel Thistledown's Arc

Chapter 10 of 21

The morning after Oliver moved into the cave, Fennel walked out to check on him. She found him crouched at the cave mouth, shivering. His hoodie was damp. His jar of dried herbs sat beside him, the lid spotted with wet. Water beaded on the moss above his head and dripped down. She touched the cave floor. Cold. The night's damp had seeped into everything. "You slept like this?" she asked. Oliver rubbed his arms. "It's fine. I've slept worse." But Fennel saw the truth. His medicines were ruining. The cold would drive him off within the week, apprenticeship or not. A student soaked and sick could learn nothing. She had taken him on to pass down her craft. She would not lose him to a wet night. Her knees would not let her carry bedding out here herself. She turned back toward the cottage to think, and a wagon rolled up the path. Marcus Harvestwell climbed down. He was the farmer she had treated seasons back, broad in his overalls, his boots caked with field mud. He grinned through his beard and hauled a crate from the wagon bed. "Brought you your thanks, healer. Should've come sooner." He set the crate on the ground. Inside sat clusters of orange and red potatoes, a bundle of black tomatoes glossy as stones, and green-topped carrots still trailing dirt. Fennel had not eaten so well in weeks. Three students had emptied her table. "This feeds us," she said. "Truly. But I've a harder need today." Marcus wiped his hands. "Name it." She pointed past the garden. "A boy sleeps in that cave. It's damp. His medicines are spoiling. I can't carry blankets out on these knees." Marcus reached back into the wagon. He pulled out a folded quilt, its squares stitched in many colors, dots and stripes and flowers. "My wife pieced this. Kept it under the seat for cold roads." He held it out. "Take it. And I'll lay you a proper floor." Fennel led him to the cave. Oliver stood as they came, wary of the big man. Marcus only nodded at him, then knelt and studied the wet mouth. "Water's coming off the moss," he said. "Cut a channel. Raise the bed." He worked the afternoon. He dug a shallow trench at the cave mouth to run the drip away. He hauled flat stones and built a low platform, then packed dry straw from his wagon on top. Oliver fetched and lifted beside him, learning the shape of the work. By dusk the floor sat dry and raised. Fennel spread the quilt across the straw. Oliver set his herb jar on a stone shelf, well above the wet. "Try that tonight," she said. Oliver pressed his hand to the quilt. For the first time he looked like a boy who might stay. "It's soft," he said, surprised. Her third student had a dry bed. Now she had to teach him.