Grampy Fernside's Arc

Chapter 10 of 16

The morning after planting, Grampy sat on the picnic table with a cold cloth on his back and watched the covered bed. The moss was smoothed flat. The pipe dripped its slow beads. Nothing looked disturbed. Then he heard the gate creak and saw his wife coming up the path with her walking stick, checking the sweet peas as she passed. She stopped three steps from the secret bed and frowned at the moss. She had frowned at it yesterday too. And the day before. One more look, he knew, and she would lift a corner. He stood too fast and his back caught. He hobbled over and steered her elbow toward the sweet peas. "They need tying," he said. She let him turn her, but her eyes stayed on the covered patch a moment longer. "That moss wasn't there last week," she said. "No," he said. She waited. He said nothing. She gave him a small smile and went to the trellis. When she was inside, Grampy limped to the little mushroom-shaped house at the garden's edge where Hazel sometimes rested between errands. He tapped the door. The mouse fairy opened it with a crumb on her whisker. "I need eyes on the bed," Grampy said. "Grans keeps drifting close. One more look and the surprise is over." "For how long?" Hazel asked. "Till the sprouts come up. Then it won't matter." Hazel thought for a breath. "I know a finch. Sings when anyone comes near a spot. I'll ask him to sit the bed each morning. When Grans comes down the path, he sings. You steer her off." "What does he want for it?" "Millet. A handful a day." "Done." Hazel flew off and came back within the hour with the small red bird on her shoulder. The finch hopped onto the copper pipe above the bed and looked around like a foreman. Grampy set a pinch of millet on the slate dish nearby. The bird ate two seeds and tucked the rest away. Grampy went inside and packed a flower-trimmed basket with bread, apples, and a rolled note that said For Grans. He carried it to the kitchen where his wife had set out the chilled tea and a plate of blueberry biscuits. He put the basket on the table between them. "Breakfast in the orchard tomorrow," he said. "Away from the beds. Give your knees a rest." She looked at him a long moment. "You're up to something," she said. "I am," he said. "Good," she said, and poured the tea. The next morning, when she started down the garden path, the finch sang from the pipe. Grampy called her toward the orchard basket. She turned. The moss stayed flat. The bed kept its secret, and the seeds kept their dark, and now he only had to wait for green.