Ned Wicker's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

New faces filled Ned's warm shop all week. Word had spread about the little store with the fire and the sleepy hedgehog. But Ned kept watching for the old faces, the regulars who had switched to the big store next door. They walked past his window and went right inside the other door, same as before. New warmth had won strangers. It had not won them back. Ned knew why. His old regulars had a habit now. They liked the wide, bright store. A warm chair would not break a habit. He needed a reason strong enough to pull them across his threshold, just once. He stared at the empty rooms above his shop. The gutted house still held one thing worth having. Behind the shop stood the old tree, its trunk twisted and knotted, its branches heavy with thorns. Every autumn it dropped long seed pods. As a boy Ned had watched his mother crush the pulp inside them. The pods smelled of dark honey. That smell had filled his childhood home. He worked two days. He gathered the fallen pods and scraped the sweet pulp free. He melted wax and stirred the pulp through it. The whole shop filled with the honey scent. He poured the wax into plain tins with snug lids. He did not sell these. He tucked one aside for each regular he had lost, and he wrote each name on the label. Then he walked next door, tins in a basket. His rival's store was warm and crowded. His old customers stood at the counter. When Ned stepped in, heads turned. Someone lowered a candle. "I made these for you," Ned said. He set a tin in each pair of hands. "No charge. Light it tonight. If you like it, you know my door." He did not wait for thanks. He walked back to his own shop and lit the stove. The next morning came cold and gray. A woman stopped at his window, one of his old regulars. She held the tin he had given her. She came inside. She sat by the fire and asked for two more. By noon, four of the lost regulars had crossed his threshold. They bought the honey candles by the armful. They sat and warmed their hands. Ned counted them and did not stop smiling. But a man lifted his tin and frowned. "How much for these?" he asked. "I'll buy a dozen for my sister's shop." Others heard. They wanted crates, not candles. The honey scent had done its work too well. Ned had won them back, but the tree behind his shop dropped only so many pods each fall. He had one small pile of pulp left, and now a room full of people who wanted more than he could make.