Chapter 17 #2
They grabbed a fistful of pebbles, held their arcane focus up to the field, and ran their thumb over the smooth wood of the rod, the sigils carved into its surface. The threads of magic within the dying squash plants writhed and broke, crying out for help.
Oaklin could fix this. Their magic was protection. Their magic was natural.
Their magic was good.
Oaklin twined the threads between their fingers and began to cast.
***
The dam inside Oaklin broke, and the magic rushed forth.
The first field was done, and the pinprick hole of magic in Oaklin’s core had widened. A trickle, then a rivulet. A stream, then a river.
Then, a vast ocean, magic as far as Oaklin could sense both within themself and out in the world, an endless weave of life.
Plants, insects, animals, people, the living soil itself, all of it threaded through with the glowing, thrumming, vivific magic of the world.
Oaklin pulled and knotted, plucked and wound, spinning an intricate web of protection through every vulnerable plant in Grer and Mina’s fields.
Then in Alin and Bram’s fields, around bright pops of golden squash blossoms. Then in Ms. Chanda’s.
And so they went, to the next field, and the next, and the next, carefully wrapping every farm in Mossley’s Rest in magic to guard against the sawbugs.
It took the rest of the day, past noon, and well into the golden light of evening.
Casting, repacking the materials, moving on, casting, and all the while, collecting more and more members of the Farmer’s Union.
The well within Oaklin grew and grew, never seeming to run dry even as Oaklin’s body and mind began to give out.
As they laid the last threads of their spell in Fig’s field, a hand fell on their shoulder, gently squeezing.
“Let’s pack it in,” Grer said. “You need a rest.”
Oaklin pushed themself unsteadily to their feet, listing to one side.
“No, where’s the next one?” they said, eyes half-lidded. “I’m good, just take me to the next field, I—”
“You’re done, Oaklin,” Mina said, taking their arm in a gentle grip. “That was the last one.”
Done? The word felt meaningless in Oaklin’s mind.
“Are you sure? I—”
Arms looped around their middle as the world suddenly tilted, then stalled, everything two feet higher than it had been a moment ago. Ms. Chanda’s voice came from somewhere over their left shoulder, slightly strained.
“Help me with them,” she said, and then a set of broad shoulders appeared under each of Oaklin’s arms, a hand on each of their hands, bracing and strong. Alin and Grer.
“Where are we headed? Who has a bed free?” Alin called out to the assembled crowd.
“Bring them to the tavern. I have a room available,” came Sammy’s booming voice.
Oaklin lifted their chin, forcing their voice to cooperate.
“But I can’t…pay,” they protested weakly, eyes barely open enough to see the faces around them.
Oaklin had never heard ten people scoff in perfect unison before, but they had now.
“As if you’d pay for a damn thing after what you did,” Sammy said, and Oaklin tensed. After what you did slithered through their mind, terrible and insistent—until it bumped up against the present reality.
What’d they just done…was good. Oaklin was good.
Their feet stumbled and scraped along the ground as Alin and Grer supported them, a guided walk from the outskirts of the village toward the square and Sammy’s tavern that seemed to take hours.
Oaklin was vaguely aware of the procession around them; the shuffle of feet behind, the backs of Ms. Chanda and Sammy in front, the farmers who traded off Oaklin-carrying duties, and eventually their friends too.
Ryn, Jules, and Lior, walking at their side, taking their own turns carrying, and whispering constant kindness.
Crowds of villagers, attracted by the kerfuffle and promise of gossip, began to line the road, murmuring their guesses at what had happened.
One small child tried to rush forward with a grubby fistful of dandelions, but Ms. Chanda intercepted, gently taking the flowers and redirecting the little one back to his family.
Oaklin lost a few minutes somewhere between the statue of Old Mossley and the tavern, the world a haze of gentle motion and background echoes.
When next they returned to full consciousness, they were being carried up the stairs by Sammy himself, slung over the big man’s shoulder like a rag doll.
Lior appeared from somewhere, helping to guide Oaklin into the bed and under the covers.
At some point, their boots were removed, but they had no memory of the sight or sensation.
“Lior,” Oaklin murmured, words slurring. “Hey, you don’t have to—”
“Shush and get some rest,” Lior whispered. “We’ve got you.”
Oaklin tried to prop themself up on their elbows and failed, their head flopping back on the pillow with an oof. “But the farm, I—”
“We’ve got you, I said,” Lior insisted. “All of us. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
“I’ll bring a full breakfast in once you wake, no matter the time of day,” Sammy said, his voice quieter than Oaklin had ever heard it.
“Eggs, bacon, potatoes, fried tomatoes, zucchini hash browns, the works. Anything you want. A lot of people will get to eat this year because of what you did, so I’ll feed you ’til you’re stuffed. ”
Oaklin made a vaguely appreciative noise, unable to summon the energy to form actual words. In their mind, though, a last sleepy thought drifted past.
I did it. I used magic for a good thing.
By the time the covers were pulled up over them, they were already asleep.