Hazel Softpaw's Arc

Chapter 2 of 5

Hazel found her best friend in the garden, tying up sweet peas with soft twine. Grans had known Hazel since they were both small. She always looked her over first, checking for scrapes. This time she checked, then wiped the dirt from her hands. Beside her, a young gnome in a strawberry cap crouched over a beetle, watching it more than the weeds. "Della, that vine won't tie itself," Grans said. The girl grinned but did not move. Hazel told them everything. The birch clearing. The deer ruts deeper than she was tall. The one root that took a whole day to shift. "It's too big for me," she said. "I clear a leaf's worth and ten more piles appear." Grans set down her twine. "Then you need hands, not paws. I'll come." She said it plain, already deciding. Della jumped up. "I'll make a poster." Before anyone could answer, she had one. A flat sheet ringed with painted flowers and mushrooms, the words help wanted curling across the middle. She marched to the blank wooden signpost near the path and nailed it up straight. By afternoon, two workers stood at the birch clearing. The first was a mole, blind eyes turned up, nose twitching. Hazel knew him. He carried messages between gnomes and never worked for free. "You know my prices," Moe said. "Worms. Longer the job, more worms." Hazel thought fast. The clearing was full of turned earth. "There are worms all through this soil," she said. "Dig where you like. Eat what you find. That's your pay." Moe's nose went still. "Every worm I turn up is mine?" "Every one." "Deal." He plunged into the dirt without another word. The second worker was a stout gnome in a red cap and plaid shirt, sleeves rolled, boots planted. Vern kept the pavilion clean and knew hard work. He looked at the ruts and the piled debris and rubbed his beard. "I'll haul all day," he said. "But I'll want paying too. A tea brew, the kind that puts the stamina back in your legs. And something sweet to go with it." Hazel smiled. This was exactly what her garden was for. "A restoring brew and something sweet," she said. "I'll have it ready." Vern spat on his hands and grabbed the nearest root. Then the work truly began. Grans directed, calm and sure, pointing where the piles should go. Della dragged twigs by the armful. Vern wrenched roots free that Hazel could never have budged. Moe tunneled the deep ruts flat, feeding as he went. The debris that once grew faster than Hazel worked now shrank, hour by hour. By dusk, the birch circle lay open and clean. Hazel stood in the middle of real ground. The clearing was hers, cleared at last, and hands had done it. But she had made promises to keep them. A brew to mix. Something sweet to bake. Her garden was ready for tea, and now she had to make some.