Chapter 12
Twelve
The thing about farmers was that they were more gossipy than a knitting circle. At least, the ones in Mossley’s Rest seemed to be. It made sense; people were curious about the new farmer in the village and feeling things out. A little staring was to be expected.
The wild speculation about Oaklin being Granny Ghost’s secret illegitimate love child from a torrid out-of-town affair who returned to inherit the farm was a bit more surprising, and any hope they’d harbored of learning about Granny from these people fled in horror.
Alin had pulled them aside the second they crept into the library meeting chamber to tell them all about it.
“Wait, they said what about me?” Oaklin said, mouth agape.
Alin shrugged, chagrined. “Secret love child. You heard right. I’m just sayin’, you may wanna get control of the narrative. Go beyond just introducing yourself to people. Tell them a little about yourself. Otherwise, they’re gonna make up their own stories. It’s what they do.”
Well, that made all the staring and whispers at the market today make sense.
Oaklin grimaced. The idea of parading themself around the village made them physically ill.
They weren’t ready to be seen and known widely, their little fainting incident outside the library notwithstanding.
Who did they even want to be? They’d need to craft a more detailed backstory, create a new identity to commit to for the rest of their time in Mossley’s Rest, keep the details meticulously consistent, and it sounded…
exhausting. They’d been improvising thus far, sticking as close to the truth as they dared, but it clearly wasn’t enough for the citizens of Moss.
“Thank you for the heads-up,” Oaklin said weakly, glancing around the room with trepidation.
The whispers sounded different to their ears now, every one of them a ray of illuminating light centered on them that they couldn’t escape.
Sibling Kell’s eyes caught briefly on theirs before sliding away, a small smile curving their lips and a gauzy white flower tucked behind one ear.
They gave a tentative wave, then returned to the notes in front of them, intent on whatever it was.
Had they heard the illegitimate love child rumor too?
Would Oaklin have to talk to them, knowing it was entirely possible?
They wished desperately they could go back out into the library, back to the front desk where they’d been chatting (not flirting, definitely not) with Lior to avoid the rush of farmers arriving after the market.
Thankfully, they were saved by a different woman altogether, who swept into the room with a swift double clap and a sharp call.
“Let’s come to order, folks,” she said, walking straight to the head of the table.
Everyone else leaped to obey, the chatter instantly falling to a dull rumble.
Ms. Chanda, Oaklin presumed—she certainly had the bearing of the leader Alin had mentioned at their first meeting.
She was slightly older than most of the other farmers, with deep brown skin and graying curls cut as short as could be; Oaklin made a mental note to cut their own hair, which had gotten to a deeply annoying length for working in the fields.
Once everyone had a seat, Oaklin included, the woman relaxed into a small smile and banged the butt end of a trowel against the tabletop.
“You’re taking notes, Fig?” she asked a dark-eyed person to her left.
They nodded, already scribbling away, and Ms. Chanda turned to address the group.
“This mid-spring meeting of the Mossley’s Rest Farmer’s Union is brought to order.
As usual, this should be shorter than the winter meeting.
Important changes and updates only, please.
To start, senior farmer Bram has some updates on his earlier predictions for the upcoming season. Bram, you have the floor.”
Alin’s husband got to his feet at the far side of the table, and now that they could see him up close, Oaklin recognized him as the dusty farmer from their first visit to the library, the one who had been poring over charts and texts and discussing weather patterns with another farmer.
“Thanks, Chanda,” he said, his voice gruff and mumbling.
He took a moment to clear his throat, then glanced down at his notes.
“I wanted to follow up on my earlier predictions to add a little more specificity. As I’ve mentioned before, we’re in for an early, hot summer this year, likely kicked off by a heat wave around four to six weeks after last frost.”
Huh. Apparently these meetings were actually useful.
Bram continued. “This prediction is based on historical weather patterns in the rolling hills region. But on further review of the records, my research has shown a strong correlation between years with early summers and years with significant crop loss due to sawbug damage and fuzzrot disease.”
Bram paused for a round of concerned grumbling, then made it worse. “In approximately eighty percent of those years, losses were significant enough to cause a village-wide food shortage.”
Several of the old-timers in the group exchanged grim nods of remembrance. Oaklin stared down at their lap, fingers weaving in an anxious tangle. Great. Their first year farming and it was going to be a hell year full of death bugs and fuzz disease.
A middle-aged farmer Oaklin vaguely recognized from the market leaned back in her chair, arms folded and chin in a stubborn jut. “If it were that bad, wouldn’t we all remember this?” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Wouldn’t it be more known?”
A mumble of agreement ran through the room. Bram took it like a stone wall, completely unfazed by their doubt. Instead, he nodded, completely assured.
“It’s a fair question, and there are two reasons why,” he said, holding up a finger.
“One, because it’s hard to see patterns in real time.
This cycle seems to repeat once every eight to ten years.
In between each occurrence, we’re all getting by, working our land, raising our families, having babies, burying our neighbors, caring for our parents, and all the other things a life is made of.
By the time it rolls around again, we can’t connect the threads.
It’s only obvious when you have all the historical records in front of you. ”
“Nerd,” Alin teased, though he practically had hearts in his eyes, his crow’s-feet deep with mirth.
Bram rolled his eyes and worked to bite back his smile. “The second reason is that for the past thirty years, which is all the majority of us have known as farmers, we’ve had our very own village witch providing us with the spellwork to ward against sawbugs and treat fuzzrot, among other ailments.”
Oaklin stiffened, their skin crawling with the sting of a thousand imagined sawbugs as Bram turned to them.
“Now, we don’t have the good granny with us any longer, may the gods keep her, but we do have her successor,” he said, gesturing to Oaklin.
Every eye in the room turned to look at them with expressions varying from polite curiosity to scornful skepticism and everything in between.
Oaklin sat there, mouth half-open in protest, unsure how to react as their skin flooded with the lightning-sharp feeling of panic and their vision narrowed to a pinprick.
Words began to flow without any sort of plan.
“Oh, I’m no successor. I just farm the farm.
With my hands. No spellwork or anything like that.
I don’t know anything about what Granny used to do.
Don’t even know who she was. I’m just figuring things out as I go,” they babbled, blinking back the darkness and looking at the walls behind everyone rather than meeting their gazes.
A flurry of chatter stirred in mostly recriminating tones.
At the head of the room, Ms. Chanda stood and held up her hand, drawing Oaklin’s gaze and bringing about instant silence.
“What’s your name, child?” she asked.
It took Oaklin a moment to realize Ms. Chanda was talking to them. They sat up straighter, eyes gone full prey animal as their fingers twisted and wrenched in their lap under the table. “Uh…Oaklin Nettlewood.”
Ms. Chanda nodded, solely focused on Oaklin as if they were having a private conversation. “Welcome, Oaklin. I’m glad you’re here. Now, I was given to understand that the land you now steward required magic to maintain. Is that not the case?”
Oaklin’s brain went into overdrive, searching for a hole in the net Ms. Chanda had just thrown.
“There was nothing like that in the sale posting for the farm…?” they ventured. It was paper-thin, but technically true.
Please let it go, Oaklin silently begged. Please let it go, no magic here, definitely not your future village witch, please let it go—
Ms. Chanda’s lips pressed ever so slightly together, the faintest frown at their corners.
“Interesting,” she said, in a way that clearly communicated it was not interesting at all, but rather suspicious as hell.
“Well, if that’s the case, then we’ll need to take steps to ensure we don’t have a repeat of those famine years.
I will put out a call to the surrounding towns for anyone experienced in land magic.
We should have enough in the village mutual aid coffers to cover the cost of hiring someone, if we can find anyone in time.
What else can we do? Volunteers, please. ”
Her words seemed to wake everyone up, kicking off a flurry of ideas and offers.
“My dad had a recipe for some kind of fuzzrot treatment in his journal,” one person said. “I’ll look it up and share with everyone at the next market.”
A woman at the far end of the table sat up straight and spoke in a soft cadence. “My meemaw has drawings of a sawbug trap she designed somewhere. It was long before I was born, but I’ll see if she’s still got ’em.”