Theo jumps up on the heavy oak table, a typical sign of his lack of deference for authority. He’s so indignant. Yet it’s a façade. He wants to lead someday. And I think he will be a great elder for the village. He just needs to see his path through the fog of youth.
“See you later Sprouter.” Theo shrugs and heads for the wide double doors. Then he’s gone into the yellow glow of the night.
Theo and Wenn are the best of friends. Since we all were children playing chase the rabbit and sitting on our parent’s laps, Wenn and Theo have loved each other like brothers. They communicate without speaking. Both are dark and strong — physically similar. But their eyes are so very different. Theo has eyes of the ocean, blue and grey with flecks of emerald. Wenn’s eyes are like the coals of a dying fire. Frankly, if it came between choosing Theo and me, I wonder whether Wenn might pick Theo. I clear my mind in that quiet and timeless room and forget about them. The darkness winds around me and I find peace.
“Amy. Amy sweetpea. Wake up.” Wenn’s thick baritone pulls me from slumber. I wonder how long I’ve been out. My feet are ice and the orange glow is gone. My mouth’s fused into a pasty mess.
“Hi,” I groan. Wenn puts his hand on my shoulder and helps me up. We walk toward the doors. Wenn is full of shine and is a little shaky but so very warm. I’m thankful for him.
Chapter 45 – Little Green Men
Daybreak arrives much too early. I wrap myself in my worn, green wool coat and head to the gardens. My students and the junior caretakers are arriving. They are all my age or younger, with strong backs and ample energy. Older folks move to easier, often more skillful jobs, with the benefit of starting work later in the day. I will never have that luxury, no matter how old I get. We’ve much to do and little time left before the first frost. The gardens were tended by my mother before me and so on, back through time, presumably when those bones in the ruined cities still wore flesh. It’s my responsibility, burden really, to ensure that the seeds are gathered and sown at the correct times. I can feel the seasons changing, gage the thirst of the soil, and smell the health of the earth. Earthworms and grubs talk to me in a language far more languid and understandable than that scribbled on the ancient walls of the village hall. Much of this is learned but some of it is passed inexplicably among the women of my family. This is my magic.
The gardens are vast and diverse. Each plot is divided into different crops that are tended on specific cycles. Some areas are rotated regularly to control for blights and bugs. Other places, such as those with the apple trees and the grapes, have been tended and fed for centuries. Entwined among the plots are spots of wild forest, which provide windbreaks and keep pests from easily jumping among plots. Within the forests are many birds and other creatures that tend to the gardens, eating the insects and fertilizing the ground with their droppings. It’s a wondrous, dynamic place, providing us with ample food and the means by which we trade with the mountain folks to the east and the ocean dwellers to the west. Not many people travel from the north or south because the ancient cities block their path. The strangers who come from the cities are usually not welcomed.
The students and workers gather around me as I bark out orders for the day. I’m concerned about two of the lazier workers and tell them that their days are numbered unless I see a change. They’ll be cleaning stables and making less wages if they don’t improve. As they scurry off toward their jobs, I look down at my calloused hands and think about my first blisters. My mother brought me to the gardens as soon as I could crawl. I was working the plants and the ground soon thereafter. When I turned twelve, mom told me that she was taking me somewhere secret and very special. I was dismayed when I discovered that she’d led me to the same place I’d spent my entire childhood. The only exception was that the garden lots were empty and quiet. Even the birds and wind seemed hushed.
Here I was, a newly minted woman expecting a party or at least a present and mom had dragged me to her beloved gardens. At the moment, I was not agreeing with her decision about my birthday gift. Rather, I was hot with anger and boiling over with the spite of youthful betrayal. She studied my face calmly, her yellow hair braided tightly down her back. What I saw in her eyes was not disappointment but understanding and sympathy.
“Amy, I know how you must feel. I felt the same way about your grandmother on my twelfth birthday. But it is time for you to begin understanding your role in the continuum of things. Look over there.” She pointed toward a particularly thick patch of woods next to a freshly tilled and planted plot containing squash seeds. My anger began to melt into curiosity. “The woods are the key to our success. Don’t betray them.”
“Mom, I don’t understand. How can I betray a bunch of trees?”
“Sweetheart, the woods are more than that. They link the earth to our garden. If we don’t protect the forest, then the light will begin to dim. And we need the light to ensure healthy and plentiful crops each year.”
I was always inquisitive and fairly skeptical, even of my own mother. “The sun makes light and warmth, mom, not trees. I have no idea what you are talking about.”
She laughed. “There is light you cannot see. It connects all living things — the roots, the fungus, the worms, and tiny creatures we can’t even see. They shine in the darkness and talk to each other. Let’s move closer.”
As we approached the forest, the little ones appeared. I’d seen them on many occasions during my brief life and thought I was the only one that could perceive them. No one else, including my mom, seemed to notice them or talk about them. And here I was with my mother. I wondered whether I should finally tell her about them. The creatures reached the height of my twelve-year-old waist and were transparent. They were shaped like humans, with two legs and arms and large heads, with skin that looked like the bark of an ash tree. However, it was difficult to see features on their bodies and faces. Their eyes were barely discernible, but, from what I could see, they were kind and benevolent.
“Hello friends,” mother whispered into the trees.
“So, you do see them,” I exclaimed, astonished.
“Of course I do. Only you and I and our descendants seem to be able to perceive them. They are not of this world I think. Yet, they watch over our garden and ensure that all is well for us. Through time, you’ll learn to read their signs. They are able to tell me when to expect trouble or when to be ready for exceptionally good conditions. They come in quite handy.” She grinned at them. They appeared to grin back.
“Can I — touch them?” I walked closer to one of the shimmering beings.
“You can try. But I’m not quite sure they’re—” she paused to consider her words “they’re all here. They see us and we see them. But it’s like looking at a reflection in a pool. I’ve followed them into the woods many times. They disappear in the dark.”
I was up to the challenge, feeling bold. I walked right up to one of the creatures. It squinted and retreated into the shade of a large cedar. Not to be deterred, I advanced further and the green waif floated away. The wind rustled the trees and the creature and its brethren were gone.
“Nice try, sweetheart. No luck either, huh? They like to play. They’re never far away. I catch them in the corner of my eye just about every day. And they always appear when you need them. Once, when the crops were failing, they showed me a special substance in the soil that stopped the blight. They make me look to be quite the genius.”
“How do you talk with them?” In all my years of seeing them and thinking they were my special secret, here my mother knew about them all the time and could communicate with them. I was annoyed and impressed.