River Moonstone's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

River Moonstone had one seed packet of the sacred crop and no ground to plant it in. He stood on the island's only open field at dawn and pushed his shovel into the earth. The blade stopped hard. Under a thin layer of dirt lay flat gray rock. He tried three more spots. Rock every time. The summer festival was six weeks away, and the whole commune expected a harvest that would lift them to enlightenment together. Without a fertile plot, the seeds would rot in the packet and the season would pass with nothing planted. Willow Meadows found him there, dirt on his knees, jaw tight. She had given up her old life to help build this place, and she read his face fast. "The field's dead," River said. "It's all stone underneath." Willow crouched and dug her fingers into the shallow soil. "Then we don't plant in the field," she said. "We plant somewhere we control." She stood and pointed toward the glass building at the edge of the clearing. River shook his head. "The greenhouse is full. Every shelf. We keep our whole stock in there." As if summoned, the greenhouse door swung open. Oliver Greenwood walked out, a boy who ran the greenhouse like a grown man ran a company. He had come to the island with nothing but a plan for that glass house, and he guarded it fiercely. "You want my racks," Oliver said, before anyone spoke. "I could hear you two arguing from inside." "We need the space," River said. "Real beds, not the field. The ground betrayed us." Oliver crossed his arms. "Those shelves hold forty plants I raised from cuttings. You want me to throw them out for a maybe." River knelt to his eye level. "It's not a maybe. It's the sacred crop. Everything we've worked for. I can't grow it in rock." Oliver looked at the seed packet in River's hand for a long moment. "Not throw out," Oliver said finally. "Move." He led them inside. The air was warm and green. Layered wooden racks lined one wall, pots catching the light through the glass. In the center stood a single huge plant, broad leaves spread like open hands. "We clear the back beds," Oliver said. "I move the small pots up to the sunlit racks. That frees soil for your seeds. But the beds are shallow. The sacred crop roots deep." They worked until midday. Willow carried pots. River broke up the packed soil in the emptied beds. Oliver arranged every rescued plant on the bright shelves. When the last bed lay open and ready, River pressed the sacred seeds into the dark earth and covered them. He had his plot at last. Then he saw Oliver's face. The boy was staring at the shallow bed, then at the deep taproots drawn on the packet. "That soil's only a hand deep," Oliver said. "When those roots hit the bottom, they'll drown or choke. You have maybe two weeks before they need more."