Sage winterwood's Arc

Chapter 25 of 29

Sage woke at first light. The fire had died to gray ash. She crawled from the cave and stood on the frozen crest. Wind-carved snow stretched below her in hard ridges. She checked the pouch of frostberries. The seeds inside were still cold and hard. She started down the slope with the bird on her shoulder. Halfway down, she stopped. The air had turned mild. Below her the peaks gave way to green valleys, warm and sunlit. She held the pouch to her cheek. The berries had softened. She pried one open with her thumbnail. The tiny seed inside felt damp, not frozen. Her stomach dropped. These seeds slept only in the cold. Warmth would wake them too soon. They would sprout in the pouch and die before she reached her greenhouse. Days of climbing, and she would carry home nothing but rot. She knelt and thought. The snow fox had shown her how to plant the seeds. Now the snow itself gave her the answer. She looked back up the slope, where fresh drifts lay in soft, clean mounds. Cold. She could carry the cold with her. Sage climbed back to the nearest drift. She opened her woven satchel wide. She scooped handful after handful of packed snow inside, working fast, her gloves soaked through. She pushed the pouch of berries deep into the center, then packed more snow around it until the satchel was full and heavy. She tied the opening tight. The seeds would stay dormant as long as the snow held. "Now we hurry," she told the bird. It gripped her collar and said nothing. She went down the mountain faster than she should have. The valleys grew warmer with every mile. By the second day, water dripped from the bottom of the satchel and left a dark trail behind her. She untied it that night and pressed her hand to the seeds. Still cold. Still hard. But the snow inside had shrunk to a slush. She retied it and walked on before dawn. On the fourth day her own garden came into view. The fox ran to meet her, barking. Sage did not stop to greet it. She went straight to the little green house at the edge of her plot, its walls thick with vines. Inside, the air was cool and damp. She set the satchel on the workbench and opened it. A thin skin of ice was all that remained. The last of the snow melted between her fingers as she lifted the pouch free. She opened it. The seeds were cold and whole. Not one had sprouted. She pressed them into fed soil, row by row, and watered them. The frostberries were home and alive. Sage sat down on the damp floor and let her shaking hands rest. It was time to start the next entry in her journal.