Hazel Softpaw's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Hazel Softpaw had planned a tea garden for weeks, but she had nowhere to put it. Every morning she pictured it: a warm circle where a shy vole or a tired hawk could sit, sip, and share what troubled them. She was the eyes of the forest, the one who noticed when things went wrong. Lately she noticed her own dream had no home. A garden needs ground. She had none. So she went looking. She held her dowsing twig loose between both paws. The slender, forked thing felt older than the trees. It tugged left, then dropped hard, pointing her past the ferns. She followed it into a stand of white birch. Green leaves shivered overhead. Grass lay soft under her feet. In the center sat an old resting spot, pressed flat by deer who had slept there for years. It was the perfect size. Round. Sheltered. Hers, if she wanted it. "This is it," Hazel whispered. She could see the whole garden already. Creatures gathered here, wing to paw, telling secrets over warm cups. She started at once. She trimmed the ragged grass with her tiny flower-handled shears. She raked the loose earth with a little stick rake, dragging its wooden tines through pressed dirt. She scooped stones into a peanut shell and carried them out, trip after trip. Twigs and broken stalks piled up beside her. She worked until her wings ached. Then she stopped and looked around. Her cleared patch was the size of a leaf. The resting spot stretched on and on around it. Ruts a deer had stamped were deeper than she was tall. One tangled root would take her a full day to move. Ten more waited past it. Hazel counted the debris and stopped counting. She set down her rake. Her arms shook. She had trimmed and raked and scooped since dawn, and the clearing looked almost the same. She dropped onto a flat stone and pressed her paws to her eyes. The garden was real. The ground was real. But she could not clear it alone. Not in a season. Not ever, working like this. Hazel thought of the gnome who had found her long ago, when they were both small. The one who visited and always checked her over for scrapes. The one the forest itself seemed to know. Grans would understand this. Grans loved flowers. Grans knew how work got done, and knew people who could do it. Hazel stood and brushed the dirt from her paws. The clearing was chosen. That part was finished, and could not be undone. Now she needed hands. More than her own. She picked up the dowsing twig, looked once more at the birch circle, and set off to find her best friend.