Pip Sporewell's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Pip Sporewell pressed a silver spore into the dirt and knew it would die. The soil was gray and cracked, dry as old bark. Pip wanted one thing more than anything: a garden holding every rare mushroom in the mossy hollows of Mulberrymaw. But nothing delicate could root in ground this poor. Pip had tried three times this week. Three times the spores shriveled by morning. Pip sat back on their heels and stared at the sad patch beside their home, a tangled bramble bush strung with glossy leaves and bright berries. The bramble gave Pip shelter and sweet food. It could not give the soil what it needed. Someone had to know the old way. Pip remembered stories of a keeper of ancient songs, so Pip set off through the hollows to find him. Elder Mossbeard stood knee-deep in a shallow stream, humming to the water. He was a walking tree, moss for a beard, small branches sprouting from his skull. He did not turn when Pip splashed up. He only watched the little rainbow fish flick past his roots, their scales flashing like wet jewels. "My soil kills every spore I plant," Pip said. "Please. Teach me the song that wakes them." Elder Mossbeard finally looked down. His eyes were slow and yellow. "A song won't fix dead ground, little one. Songs coax life. They don't feed it." He pointed a knobby finger at the shimmering fish. "These stir the water and leave richness behind. Dead soil needs the same. It needs to be woken, fed, kept warm." "How?" Pip asked. "Bring the bright ones," he said. "Flowers that follow the sun to loosen the earth. A creature of warmth to hold the chill off young roots. Then, and only then, will the old song mean anything." Pip ran home with a plan. Near the water grew a cluster of yellow flowers with wide, cheerful faces. Pip dug them free and carried them, roots and all, to the gray patch. Their long roots broke the packed dirt as Pip pressed them in. The soil crumbled softer at once. But the ground stayed cold. Pip needed warmth. As dusk fell, an orange kitten wandered near, its fur flickering with tiny sparks of fire. Wherever it stepped, the frost on the grass melted. Pip knelt slowly and held out a berry from the bramble. The kitten sniffed, ate, and curled up right on the loosened soil. Warmth spread from its glowing body into the earth. Pip pressed one spore into the dirt beside it and waited. By morning, a thin white thread of mushroom had pushed up through the ground. It lived. Pip laughed and cupped it with both hands. The soil could grow things now. But the kitten stretched, yawned, and trotted away toward the trees. The warmth left with it. Pip's smile faded. The garden only lived while the fire creature stayed, and it had just chosen to leave.