Chapter 16
Sixteen
Four weeks later, Oaklin stood in the middle of the lettuce field, arcane focus in hand and a crown of sweat on their brow.
Summer had arrived early in Mossley’s Rest and it was a vicious one so far, sending all the cool-weather-loving crops bolting and wilting.
They’d had to harvest and sell a good bit of them far earlier than expected, which meant there were new empty fields to plant, which meant more irrigation and insect-ward spellwork, which meant—
“You do know the point of an arcane focus is the focusing, right?” Granny snarked, pacing between the rows of purple and green ruffled lettuce heads. “It’s not called an arcane distraction.”
Oaklin clutched the smooth, etched wooden rod tighter as it flared with light, betraying their annoyance. “I am focusing!”
“Yeah, about as well as Daffodil focuses on anything other than food and livestock.”
“Borf!” Daffodil said.
Oaklin gave an offended sniff. “I think she resented that.”
The ghost scoffed. “I’ve known her longer. She definitely said, ‘Listen to your granny, she knows best.’”
Oaklin shot a glare at Daffodil. “Traitor.”
A second “borf!” was the only reply.
Oaklin took several calming breaths and tried to reign in their annoyance.
For all her coarse nature, Granny was helping.
It was hard work, relearning how to channel their magic into their focus without another mind forcing it.
From there, it was a whole other ordeal to learn to reach for the threads of natural magic in the plants around them.
Oaklin was relieved to have Granny fully back and bugging them again, honestly.
After her brief brush with corporeality the day of Oaklin’s date with Lior, she’d seemed…
less, somehow, for a while. There hadn’t been any more instances of almost-thereness, but once in a while Oaklin would get a flicker of shadowed brown eyes or bobbed gray hair.
Oaklin knew Granny would need to move on eventually, and for a gut-wrenching day or two, Oaklin thought she had.
But no; after the ghost equivalent of a nap, she’d gotten right back to harassing Oaklin about their magic.
Granny still wouldn’t tell Oaklin her name.
It was fine.
Granny started back in on her lecture, reminding Oaklin of the need to plant sacrificial fields to allow pests to maintain their place in the ecosystem.
“A trap crop of their preferred host plant will keep the pressure off the wards once they’re… Are you paying attention at all today?” Granny snapped again.
Oaklin, who had been dragging their fingers through the loose earth in a meditative trance, whipped their head up. “Absolutely! Of course! Every single word! Except for, like, the last hour.”
Granny sighed the deep and weary sigh of the heavily burdened. “This spellwork requires finesse, Oaklin. Otherwise, you’ll end up warding against sawbugs and pollinators, and that’ll be a disaster for your crops.”
“I’m trying for finesse,” Oaklin insisted. “We’ve been at this all day. I’m tired. I need dinner.”
“Fortunately, you’re standing in a field full of food,” Granny said, crossing her thin, shadowed arms. “Pick something and keep going.”
Oaklin sighed and pulled some leaves of lettuce off a nearby head, trying their best to pretend it was a whole dinner.
Fluffy scrambled eggs on some of Ryn’s thick-sliced Farmer’s Bread, toasted to perfection and topped with fresh arugula from the field and…
nope. It was just lettuce, and it was sad.
At least Granny was finally leaving Oaklin alone about their friends.
The friends they hadn’t seen, except for brief run-ins at the farmer’s market, since their first date with Lior.
A date that was surprisingly enjoyable, despite the fact that it ended with Oaklin running away, leaving Lior standing in the middle of a field alone.
It had never been mentioned since—not by Lior, and not by Ryn and Jules, who still didn’t seem to know.
A promising start to a potential relationship, perhaps.
There might even be another date in Oaklin’s future…
once they had time and weren’t a sweaty farmer hog, that is.
But summer hit Oaklin like a fireball to the face, along with all the ensuing farmwork. Beans, squash, cucumbers, tomatoes, and more heat-loving crops besides, all needing to be planted and ushered through their infancy.
And spells to be cast. Of course.
Magic to be learned so Granny could move on. Perhaps Oaklin was being selfish.
“Try it again,” Granny said. “Breathe and center yourself. Find the land’s ambient magic, then follow it into the plants you want to protect. The plant knows what threatens it. Find that thread of magic, the one that connects generations of the same species and passes down that knowledge.”
Oaklin squeezed their eyes shut and breathed slowly, feeling their arcane focus grow warm in their hand. It was like weaving, almost, this style of magic, this method of picking through the threads and listening to where the magic pulled.
The plants did know.
Granny nodded her approval and continued. “Now, take that thread, the plant’s knowledge of the sawbug, and weave your own abjuration magic around it like a coil.”
At the edge of Oaklin’s thoughts, they felt something dark begin to creep in.
Even as they began to pour their magic into a protective net around the plants as instructed, the darkness inched and picked, trying to seep into the seams of Oaklin’s careful spellwork.
Oaklin gritted their teeth and shoved it away.
Fuck off, Enchantrix. You aren’t welcome here.
Oaklin’s magic sparked and flared with the force of their determination.
The power was theirs and no one else’s. It would never be misused again.
The darkness pressed and threatened, but Granny’s teachings were, if not yet second nature, then at least an easier reach.
Oaklin pressed their free hand against their chest and breathed deeply through their nose.
I am safe. I am safe. I am safe, and you are not here.
The darkness flickered, surged one last time…
and finally faded away, leaving only Oaklin’s clear, untainted magic in its wake, intertwined with the vivid life of the land.
The final threads of the spell wove into place.
When Oaklin opened their eyes, their cheeks were wet, and the field of greens sparkled faintly with a shimmering cloak of magic until, gently, slowly, it faded into the summer breeze.
Oaklin had done it.
“Well done, love,” Granny said, her voice soft. “I’m proud of you.”
Oaklin’s throat went thick with a swell of emotion.
They were proud of themself too.
The Enchantrix corrupted their magic once. Oaklin wouldn’t let them keep it from them any longer.
This was their birthright.
Oaklin raised their arcane focus and began the spell again.
This time, when they reached for their own magic, it flowed like water over river stone, the threads of the squash plants twining easily around their fingers to meld with it.
Tears pricked at the corners of their eyes as they lovingly bled their magic into the plants, into the land, joining with them in a way that felt holy and free.
They did it again. And again.
And again.
***
Late in the afternoon, Oaklin was more drained than they could remember ever being, completely sapped of all physical, mental, and emotional energy.
Their magic was flowing. It felt good. It felt horrible.
And all they wanted to do was collapse into bed like a withered husk.
Their curls were a sweaty mat against their forehead and neck, a deeply unpleasant feeling that had them fantasizing of searching for the sheep shears to give themself an impromptu haircut.
Unfortunately, just as they were about to take a deeply satisfying flop onto their bed, a knock came at the front door.
“No,” Oaklin moaned, just to make themself feel better, and then dragged their sorry carcass out of the bedroom.
Anyone who had bothered to haul themself all the way out to Oaklin’s still unnamed farm—Haunted Acres?
Grumpy Gran’s Greens?—well, regardless, it was a ways out of the village, so they clearly had important business.
They opened the door, expecting one of their friends—but their spine stiffened.
It was one of the farmers from the union. Greg? Grim? An unfamiliar horse was tied to the fence out front, still breathing hard from what must have been a fast ride. Why was he—
“Hey Oaklin,” he said, expression serious. “Dunno if you remember me. I’m Grer. Bram sent me.”
Oaklin was suddenly not tired. Had they found out about the magic already somehow? It had only been a few hours since they’d woven their first successful spell. No one had even seen, as far as they knew. How could anyone know? How could—
“He heard from someone passing through that there’s a storm heading this way,” he continued.
“Supposed to be a bad one. And he’d heard from Alin who heard from Ms. Chanda who’d heard from Lior that you two had gotten the roof patched, but not fixed.
Zin—they’re the village roofer—is already trying to patch a leak in the blacksmith’s roof before the storm gets here, so they sent me.
” He hefted a toolbox. “I apprenticed with them for a while before I took over most of Ma’s duties on the farm, so I can handle replacing a few shingles, no problem. ”
“But…”
Oaklin bit back the immediate instinct to protest. They couldn’t afford it.
They hadn’t asked for help. They would be fine.
Instead, they forced a small smile and nodded.
“Please tell Bram thank you. And everyone else too, I guess. I thought our quick patch job would hold, but last time we got rain it started leaking again.”