Hazel Softpaw's Arc

Chapter 4 of 5

The tea was made, but the ground was still bare. Hazel stood in the cleared circle and looked at the turned soil. Not one leaf grew there. She had made one cup, but a tea garden needed rows of living plants. She had nothing to plant. The problem sat in her chest like a cold stone. Vern was already at work. The gnome in the red cap had rolled a fallen birch trunk into place for a bench. Now he set a birch stump beside it for a table. He wiped his hands on his red pants and stepped back to check it was level. "A tea garden needs a place to sit," he said. "No use drinking on your feet." Grans came through the birches then. She was Hazel's oldest friend, a gnome who had known her since they were both small. She carried three copper mugs against her apron. Her green eyes moved over Hazel first, checking her for scratches, the way she always did. Then she smiled. "You made it after all," she said, nodding at the cauldron. Hazel filled the three mugs. Wild violet petals turned in the dark tea. They sat together on the birch bench, Hazel between the two gnomes, and drank as the light went gold and low. The tea warmed them. For a while no one spoke of the bare soil. But the worry came back. "I can serve the tea," Hazel said. "I just have nothing growing to make more. I cleared it too well. There are no seedlings." Vern turned his mug in his hands. "The traveling trader comes to the valley tomorrow," he said. "The peddler wagon, pulled by two goats. Jars of rare seeds, cuttings, all sorts. You should go early, before the good stock is picked over." Grans set down her mug. "And I will bring cuttings from my own beds," she said. "Mint that spreads too far already. Lemon balm. Chamomile that seeds itself every spring. You will thank me by weeding it." She said it plainly, but her mouth twitched. Hazel felt the cold stone lift. She would not fill her garden alone, and she did not have to. The trader would have seeds. Grans would bring living roots. Between them, the bare soil had a future. The evening dimmed to blue. Vern drained his mug and stood, stretching his back. "Early start for me," he said, and touched his cap. Grans gathered the copper mugs and pressed Hazel's paw once before she went. Their footsteps faded into the trees. Hazel stayed a moment in the empty clearing. It was still bare. But now she had a plan. Tomorrow she would meet the trader's wagon, and Grans would come with cuttings. The soil would not stay empty long. She flew home to rest, already sorting in her mind which rows would hold what.