Chapter 7 #2
“I am safe,” they said, voice weak and thready.
“Good. Again.”
Oaklin did it again. And again. The subtle pressure on their chest felt stabilizing, the words hollow at first, but the more they did it, the more it started to feel real.
After a few repetitions, their muscles began to uncoil.
The ache in their heart subsided, and the dizzy lightheaded feeling receded too. The ghost nodded her approval.
“Well done. We won’t be casting any spells today, but you’ll need to be in tune with your magical senses to find the items we’ll be foraging for,” she said.
“Close your eyes and just sit with the magic for as long as it takes to feel it without panicking. Pick out the different tendrils. Follow them to their sources.”
Oaklin shook their head. “Not yet. Please. Let’s come back tomorrow and—”
“You’re ready for this,” Granny insisted. “Just try. You’ll see.”
A long moment of hesitation… And then Oaklin closed their eyes as instructed and reminded themself again: You are safe. You are safe. You can’t hurt anyone… And there’s no one here to force you to. You’re just listening.
Oaklin breathed in calmly with the rhythm of the forest, following several quiet, interweaving melodies through the branches and brush to their source.
When Oaklin opened their eyes again, they stood before a decaying log covered in three varieties of soft, spongy fungi.
Oaklin crouched down to inspect each one more closely.
A patch of squat, wide-brimmed mushrooms in a vivid cerulean blue sparkled in the shade of the log’s hollow end.
They smelled faintly of berries, and the magic they whispered felt sweet and gentle.
Small freckled purple mushrooms popped up cheerily in a line along the log’s spine.
They exuded a vaguely floral scent, and the magic swirling around them was light and airy, reminiscent of the spring breeze itself.
The small clusters of red and black fungi lurking in the shadow underneath the log would have been easily missed, if not for their pungent smoky scent and the bright, sharp threads of magic.
Only listening, Oaklin reminded themself. Hearing and feeling. Not using. That’s all.
Oaklin considered asking Granny which ones to pick, but decided against it, remembering her answer about the farmer’s market crops. Should they go for the safe bet or the more unusual choice? As they leaned down to pluck the mushrooms from their home, Granny spoke, arresting their movement.
“Two rules before you touch anything,” she said, her voice low and calm to match the tone of the forest. “First, never take so much that the plant or fungi can’t recover and repopulate, and always leave the root system behind.
If you only find one patch of something in the entire area, leave it, no matter how valuable. ”
Oaklin could already feel the edges of that sort of awareness. Certain melodies were made more prominent not by the strength of their individual presence but by sheer numbers humming in unison.
“And the second rule?” they asked.
“Never take more than you can reasonably use or sell at market. It’ll take time for you to learn the needs of your customers and this farm, so start small. Take just one type of mushroom for today.”
Oaklin carefully checked the area for more of the three varieties of mushrooms. After finding several more patches of the squat blue ones, they returned to the log and gathered two small handfuls.
Hopefully, someone would actually want to buy them.
If not, the population of purple mushrooms seemed to be on the rise, so they’d try those at the following week’s market.
Granny said nothing to affirm or negate Oaklin’s choice, merely nodded and led the way back over the creek, into more mundane stretches of woods.
She lectured as she went, describing various wild foraged plants for both culinary and medicinal purposes.
Oaklin stopped along the way at Granny’s direction, harvesting wild mustard, chickweed, young and tender broad-leaf plantain leaves, wild onions, and baby dandelion greens to add to their salad mixes.
A small patch of claytonia was just beginning to pop up in a cool spot near the creek, which Granny pointed out for a future trip: “Keeps the scurvy away, and it’s nice in a salad too. ”
And on the way back to the house, Oaklin stumbled right into a thriving patch of purple-flowered, fuzzy-leaved plants that brushed at their ankles and calves in a familiar way.
“Purple dead nettle,” they said, the information falling straight into their brain as the note about frost and spring crops had earlier.
In their mind, a young Oaklin, wild and free, sprinted through a former vegetable patch that had been abandoned for a new location, a mad dash after a rabbit whose fluffy white tail had caught their eye.
The old patch had been taken over by purple dead nettle, which bore a resemblance to its stinging cousin but lacked its bite.
The flower tops were almost sweet, and very tender.
When Oaklin told their mom about the flowers, she had told them that their family name, Nettlewood, had come from the profusion of those same flowers at the edge of the forest near their father’s birthplace.
It felt…right, finding them near their new home in such abundance.
“You can gather some, if you wish,” Granny said, seeing Oaklin’s pause.
“Just a little bit,” Oaklin replied, a vision of their future filling their mind’s eye: a painted wooden sign in front of a market stall, with green and purple nettles wreathing the outer edge.
Possibly getting ahead of themself. They hadn’t even named the farm yet. Hadn’t had their first market.
All the same, the image of their young self playing among the nettles stayed with them for the rest of the afternoon.
***
Oaklin headed back to the house at dusk, their basket overflowing with market harvest and their mind spinning over the day’s events. They forced themself to avoid thinking about magic through a dinner of bread and baby greens from the field, through their evening tea and dressing for bed.
But that night, as they lay in bed, Oaklin tentatively reached out with their senses to feel the land supporting them. Once they knew to listen, they heard it everywhere; the whole farm sang with magic. It was like being wrapped in a warm blanket in the dead of winter.
The magic was quiet—no wonder they didn’t notice before—but when they closed their eyes and let the song lead them, they could feel the tendrils of this magical place slipping and pulling in an ever-shifting weave.
Grasses waving in the evening wind, trees cradling armloads of owls and robins, crops intent at the work of growing, worms tunneling under the soil, aerating the fields.
They could even feel each individual farm animal.
It was so different from the majority of their experiences with magic; blazing fire, bolts of shadowy force, splashing acid, biting cold, tools to cut and burn and maim.
Though she rested out in the barn with the livestock, Daffodil’s warmth curled up beside Oaklin, and their heart…eased.
Oaklin had bought a magical farm. One they’d need to care for…with magic.
Overwhelm swelled, threatening to swallow Oaklin whole… but they paused. Pressed their hands to their chest. Took a deep breath.
“I am safe,” they murmured under their breath, and then opened themself to the magic, letting the feel of the farm wash over them.
They waited for the strike of terror the feeling should’ve provoked, but for the first time in months, the feel of magic in their veins was…almost soothing.
Almost beautiful.
Oaklin fell asleep to the tune of the farm. It was the best night’s rest they’d had in a long, long time.