Grunk Mossbeard's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Grunk Mossbeard knelt on bare rock and pushed an acorn into a crack. He wanted one thing: a hidden grove where every chased-off creature could stay for good. But the stone was hard as an anvil. No root would grip it. The acorn rolled out and clicked away downhill. Grunk squeezed it in his warty green fist until his knuckles cracked. Moss dripped from his hood. His red beard tangled tighter as he ground his teeth. He had chosen this spot because nobody else wanted it. That was the point. No farmer, no hunter, no angry mob would climb up here to drive off his misfits. But the same barren rock that kept people away kept plants away too. Grunk had tried moss, ferns, even wild onion. All of them died on the stone, thirsty and rootless. He hauled two heavy sacks up the slope. Rich dark loam bulged against the rough cloth, and earthy grains dusted his arms. He dumped both sacks across the rock and spread the soil with his hands. Then he waited three days. The thin layer dried, cracked, and blew off in the wind. The rock stayed bare beneath it. Grunk kicked the empty sacks and roared at the empty sky. So he went to find the one person who might know. Down in the valley stood an old waterwheel mill, its weathered wood grown over with green, its stone base slick with damp. The hedge witch lived there now. Grunk had heard the whispers: she could coax life from lifeless things. Villagers feared her. That suited Grunk fine. He feared nobody, and he owed nobody, and that was how he liked it. He pounded on the mill door. It opened to a tiny figure in a ragged green cloak, hood up, a bone-topped staff in one hand. Morna Blackthorn looked up at the huge troll without a flicker of fear. "You're the one hauling dirt up a dead rock," she said. "Everyone's laughing." "Let them," Grunk growled. "You know how to grow plants on stone. Tell me." Morna leaned on her staff and studied him. "Soil blows away because there's no water to hold it," she said. "Your rock is dry as bone. Plants need to drink." She pointed her staff past the turning wheel, toward a dark seam in the hillside where water trickled and pooled. "A spring feeds this mill. Its water runs under the whole ridge. Find where it surfaces near your rock, and your grove will drink." Grunk's chest loosened. For the first time in weeks, he saw a way through. "But mind this, troll," Morna added. "That spring isn't empty. Something drinks there already. It won't share." Grunk turned toward the ridge, the answer clear at last, and a new fight waiting at the water's edge.