Chapter 14
Fourteen
Oaklin had made a critical error when scheduling their date with Lior.
Oaklin was a farmer now. It was spring.
Endless planting.
Harvesting.
Foraging.
Gathering eggs.
Hunting down escape artist goats.
Fussing over the new wildflower seedlings.
Starting the finicky, frost tender seeds in dozens of wooden trays that littered the table and floor of their cottage.
Learning to milk a cow all over again. Though it didn’t take long for Oaklin to remember all they needed to know about cows, and it was that cows hated them.
A thriving social life was not looking promising. Perhaps Lior would be okay with rescheduling for next winter?
A week after kicking a hole in their own house, Oaklin stood in the middle of their newly planted field of broccoli and kale, sweating their face off.
The fabric of their chest bindings was so soaked through they could smell them.
How was it possible that they were still getting frost overnight, but it was warm enough that they wanted to strip naked and jump in the creek during the day?
They dragged the back of their scarred wrist across their forehead to stave off the tickle of sweat droplets, trying their damnedest to keep from smearing the worst of dirt all over their face, and leaned on their hoe for support.
Their body had quite a ways to go before it would be recovered from years of malnourishment—unsurprisingly, feeding their minions well had not been at the top of the Enchantrix’s priority list—but they’d need to find some secret reserve of strength and keep going.
As much as they wanted to be gentle with themself, as a friend certainly would, they knew that a delay now during the critical planting season would mean a delay in growth, which would mean weaker plants when the worst heat of the summer hit, which would mean a greater risk of falling prey to the sawbugs and fuzzrot and—
They cut off the spiral and heaved a great sigh.
They’d been like this all week, but most especially since having to cancel on Lior.
Their—date? Not date?—had been scheduled for the previous day.
But instead of enjoying Lior’s company and exploring more of Mossley’s Rest, Oaklin had instead spent the morning in a frantic run to the village for medicine for a sick cow.
They’d spent way too long looking for Lior so they could cancel.
In the end, they’d had to give Ryn a note to pass along on their behalf, containing profuse apologies and a request to reschedule.
Granny Ghost was not happy with them. In fact, she was still scolding Oaklin, even as she lectured them on magic.
“You were looking for an excuse to cancel.”
“I was not!” Oaklin shot back, the heat magnifying their irritation. It wasn’t even that hot, only spring-hot, the sort of balmy heat that felt unbearable to a body used to months of mild temperatures. Still, it made them combative.
The ghost huffed. “You definitely were.”
Were they? Canceling had been a hard choice, but the farm and animals had to be their first priority. Dates could wait. Planting and sick cows couldn’t. That was logical, wasn’t it?
Okay, fine, yes, Oaklin had panicked, but that was none of Granny’s business. She wanted Oaklin to take good care of her farm too, right? She couldn’t have everything. Just like Oaklin couldn’t.
(And maybe, an insidious whisper hissed in the back of Oaklin’s mind, you don’t deserve it.)
“Anyway, aren’t we supposed to be talking about farming?” Oaklin said, pulling their sticky shirt away from their sweat-soaked chest.
“No, we’re supposed to be talking about the magic you need to be able to do the farming, but you’re being a mule about it as always,” Granny shot back.
Oaklin balked. “A mule? Because I refuse to touch the murder weapon from my cultist days?”
“Your arcane focus is not a murder weapon—”
“It literally is, though. I killed people with it,” Oaklin insisted, barely keeping the bile down as their stomach roiled.
The memories were only quick flashes, thankfully, but more than enough for Oaklin to know the truth in them, and to see the faces of their victims. They had used their magic, channeled through their arcane focus, to end lives.
Lots of them. The wooden rod seemed unassuming, barely the length of their forearm and with no ornamentation beyond its carved runes.
A simple country kid’s focus, purchased with pocket money from odd jobs, enough to get the job done without flair or fancy.
And yet, it was more than capable of killing in Oaklin’s hand.
They’d proven it.
“You haven’t killed anyone,” Granny murmured. “The Enchantrix used you to—”
Oaklin plowed onward, burying their fingers in the dirt to ground some of the rising pressure.
“Sensing the flow of the magic, sure, messing with it a bit to forage, okay, but… I’m just not ready for anything more yet.
Maybe one day the thought of touching my focus won’t make me feel physically ill. But not yet. I can’t.”
They broke off, shaking their head. “There has to be another way to care for this farm without spellwork. I found the mushrooms without casting. Maybe I can—”
“Just will the rain to fall?” Granny broke in with a cutting gesture.
“The farm only succeeds in this location because of the irrigation magic I put in place. It only survives the bad fire beetle years because of the pest wards I renewed each season. It will only live through the coming sawbug cycle if you protect it. There’s a reason this farm continues to produce in years where other farms struggle.
A reason why other farmers came to me to help them save their crops.
You need to learn this, Oaklin, not just for this farm but for them too.
This community needs your talents. And you are here because you can. ”
Oaklin shook their head, eyes squeezed shut and clumps of dirt crushed in their fists. “But can’t I just—”
The ghost stepped in close, crouched down, and laid a hand on Oaklin’s shoulder. With a start, they realized they could feel it. Featherlight, none of the weight or warmth of a living human hand, but undeniably there, along with the sudden sweet-bright scent of clary sage.
When the ghost spoke again, her voice was strained with the effort.
“Pause. Press. Breathe. Speak.”
Oaklin hadn’t even noticed their anxiety ramping up again, but sure enough, their breath was shallow and fast, and their skin tingled with the fight-or-flight rush that talking about magic always brought.
At some point, they’d grabbed their hoe again, their filthy hands practically strangling the wooden handle as if waiting for the moment it would be needed as a weapon.
Once Oaklin’s breathing slowed and the haze of panic began to clear, the ghost continued.
“You have been through something truly horrible, Oaklin. Violated in a way that no person should ever have to experience. And I know that on some level, you still blame yourself.”
Oaklin gave a helpless laugh. How could they not?
They had joined the cult voluntarily. It hadn’t turned out to be what they thought it was, what was promised to them, but they had walked through the front door of their own accord.
And after… It had been their hands that committed those crimes, even if it wasn’t their mind making the choice.
The faces of those people would never leave them.
“I know that at the end of the day, I have no right to decide what your recovery should look like or how long it should take. That’s up to you.
But I have a…unique view of this situation, in more ways than one,” she said, her voice growing ever more faint.
“The magic of this farm reached out to you. It chose you to be its caretaker. I hope that means something to you. And I hope that one day you’ll see that using magic can be a way to heal.
To take your power back from those who stole and abused it. ”
A shiver ran down Oaklin’s spine as the ghost’s hand suddenly lost whatever energy was helping it stay tangible. It fell through their shoulder and down their arm…and then disappeared altogether.
The ghost was gone, and Oaklin stood alone in their broccoli field, a knot in their chest and the lingering impression of Granny’s hand on their shoulder.
Not for the first time, they had to wonder: Just how did Granny Ghost know so much, and why was she so invested in Oaklin personally, not just in the farm?
Were all ghosts seemingly omniscient, or did Granny have some kind of special insight into Oaklin and the Enchantrix?
Oaklin wished desperately for a chance to talk to their friends about it all—about Granny’s identity, about the nature of ghosts—but Granny had explicitly asked them not to.
Whatever else Oaklin might feel about the ghost, they did respect and appreciate her wisdom.
It was only right to respect her wishes too.
With a sigh, Oaklin shrugged it off and packed the rest of their tools into their wheelbarrow to begin the trek over to the next field. Those seed potatoes wouldn’t plant themselves. They’d barely finished digging the first trench, though, when they heard something unexpected.
“Agh, gods-damned horse! Oh, that’s poop, isn’t it? That’s definitely poop. Fantastic.”
Oaklin’s heart gave an unexpected leap—of joy or panic?—at the sight of Lior stomping across the field, Grumpy Horse at her side and a picnic basket slung over one arm.
“Hello!” Lior called with a wave. “I thought you might want some food, since you’re so hard at work. Have time for a quick picnic?”
Grumpy Horse gave a mighty snort in response.
“Well, no one asked you,” Lior grumbled, glaring at the horse. “Oak, this horse has been following me since I got here. I’m pretty sure he knocked me into a pile of dung on purpose.”
Oaklin winced. “Yeah, that tracks. Sorry about that. He’s a grumpy boy, aren’t you? Yes, you are.”