Hazel Meadowbrook's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Hazel Meadowbrook had six weeks to crochet a tapestry good enough to win the Vic Valley grand prize, and the yarn in her lap would ruin it. She pulled a strand tight between her fingers. It snapped. Her whole basket held the same cheap acrylic, thin and dull, the color of dishwater. The judges wanted something legendary. This yarn would only make them wince. She set the hook down and looked around her rounded stone house, built into a grassy hill. Every corner held a napping pet. A white chihuahua glared at her from the doorway, unimpressed as always. He had judged worse things than yarn. Hazel almost laughed. Then her eyes caught the light near the window, and she stopped. Her llama stood outside in the sun. His fleece glowed, bright and thick, brighter than any wool she had ever bought. She had brushed that coat a hundred times without really seeing it. Now she saw a tapestry in it. She grabbed her shears and a stool and hurried out. The llama chewed and watched her come. "Easy," she said. "Just a trim. You'll thank me." She clipped a careful section from his flank. The fleece came away in a soft, shining cloud. It was finer than anything on a store shelf. The llama turned his head, worked his jaw, and spat. A warm glob struck her cheek. Hazel yelped and stumbled back. But she was laughing now, wiping her face, because her hand was full of gleaming fiber and it was perfect. She carried the fleece inside and spun a test strand. It held. She tugged hard. It did not break. The color caught the light and threw it back gold. This was the material for a legendary piece. Her old dull yarn went straight into the bin. That night she washed and combed the raw fleece at her table. The chihuahua supervised from a cushion. As she worked, her stomach growled, and she realized she had eaten nothing since morning. She stepped out to the little garden bed by her door. A small cluster of plants grew there, rounded green leaves and plump pink buds, the sweet edible bunch she nibbled most evenings. She reached to pick a few. Then she froze, her fingers above the leaves. The fleece was raw and colorless. A legendary tapestry needed color the judges had never seen. Store dyes were flat and ordinary. But these plants, these buds and stems, could stain wool in shades no one could buy. She had her fiber. Now she needed dye, gallons of it, from a garden that held only one small bunch. Hazel looked at the tiny cluster, then at the huge basket of pale fleece waiting inside. One handful of plants would never be enough. She would have to find a way to grow far more, and fast, before her six weeks ran out.