Grampy Fernside's Arc

Chapter 17 of 22

Grampy set the pressed flower on the bed beneath the cloth and stopped. The stem sat in soil, but the petals looked wrong against the living sprouts. One dry touch of wind would break it. When Grans lifted the cover, she would see eighteen green shoots and a crumbling flake beside them. He picked it up again, cradled in his palm, and turned toward the workshop. He crossed the yard with the cane and pushed open the tinkershop door. The stove was cold. Sawdust lay in the corners. He needed to make the flower safe to hold and safe to show. A frame, then. Something small enough to stand among the living blooms without hiding them. He laid the pressed flower on a scrap of cloth and studied his stacked lumber. Thin offcuts sat on the top row. He chose six pale pieces, each no longer than his thumb. Hexagon, he decided. Six sides for the six sleeping seeds still underground. He drew angles on the wood with a pencil and clamped the first piece in the vise. His back would not let him stand long. He sat on the stool and worked slow. He opened the chisel box and lifted a small blade with a polished handle. The saw took the corners at a slant. The chisel cleaned the joints. He fit the six pieces together dry, and the seams closed without gaps. He pulled the sanding roll from the shelf and tore a strip. He rubbed the frame smooth, edge and face, until the wood felt like skin. Dust settled on his beard flowers. He blew it off and set the frame down. The petals were the harder part. He opened the sealing kit Grans kept for her letters. Inside sat a small block of beeswax and a square of thin paper. He warmed the paper over a candle stub until the wax softened into it. He laid the pressed flower on the warmed sheet, set a second sheet on top, and pressed them together between two flat boards. When he lifted the top board, the flower lay sealed inside, flat and safe. He trimmed the sealed paper to fit the hexagon and glued it into the back of the frame with pine sap. He held it to the window. The petals stayed put. The paper let the light through and turned honey-gold behind the pink. He carried the frame back to the garden bed on the cane. He lifted the cloth. Twelve sprouts. Six blue stones. One pink stone with nothing under it. He pressed the frame's bottom edge into the soil at the empty spot, so it stood upright like a bloom on a stem. He covered the bed again. The nineteenth was ready. Now he needed the other six seeds to break ground before the anniversary morning, and only three days remained.