Peter Rabbit's Arc

Chapter 1 of 13

Peter Rabbit dug his patch of soft dirt before dawn, planning the finest carrot rows in all of Oakhollow. He wanted enough carrots to feed every hungry rabbit through the cold months. But when he opened his seed pouch, the seeds inside were black and shriveled. Frost had spoiled every one. Nothing dead would ever grow, and winter was already creeping close. He knew only one place with good seed. Mr. McGregor's garden had killed his father. His mother had begged him to stay away. Peter went anyway, most days, leaving a sprig of parsley at the gate. But stealing seed there meant crossing the rows McGregor checked first. Peter looked at his empty pouch, then at the fading meadow. He chose a different path instead. He walked to the village shop with the gingerbread trim and pickle-green paint. Inside, jars of vegetables lined the shelves. A ginger cat in a green coat stood behind the counter, counting coins into two small piles. Both piles were tiny. "Peter," Ginger said, and his whiskers lifted. "Come to buy, or come to beg? Everyone else begs. I'm collecting them, like stamps." Beside him, a tri-colored terrier in a brown coat frowned over a ledger. Pickles set down his pen. "We can't give more credit, Ginger. The shelves are half empty already." Peter set his ruined seeds on the counter. "My seed died in the frost. I have nothing to plant. I want to grow carrots for every rabbit this winter, not just me." He looked at the two piles of coins. "I know you're short. I don't want a gift." Ginger and Pickles glanced at each other. Pickles opened a drawer and lifted out a small tin. He shook it. Seeds rattled inside, plump and pale orange. "Carrot seed," Pickles said. "Good seed. We saved it to sell." "We can't eat seed," Ginger said softly. "But we can't eat pride either." He slid the tin across the counter. "Take it. Grow your patch. When the carrots come, you bring us a share to sell. Real payment, not credit." Peter's paws closed around the tin. "You'll have the first basket. I promise." Pickles wrote the deal in his ledger, slow and careful. "First basket by the frost's end," he read aloud. "Or the shop closes, and this seed was our last coin spent wrong." Peter ran home with the tin held to his chest. He pushed each seed into his prepared rows before the sun climbed high. The soil was ready. The seed was good. But walking back to the shed, he saw the tracks. Deep prints crossed his fresh rows, pressed into the wet dirt. Rabbit prints, many of them. Hungry neighbors had already found his patch. His whole crop was owed before a single sprout had shown. And he had promised the first basket to the shop.