“You outdid yourself this year, Clara!” he exclaimed in his lilting, Idle Groves accent. A land so full of earth magic, the trees strolled about from time to time. I had never made it farther than the Idle Woods, but their main street was home to baker shoppes run by flowers doling out dandelion delicacies—which isnotcannibalism (so they say).
Quincy clapped his hands together so violently that his long, blue hair frizzed out for a moment. “I mean, good gracious! I know you have garden magic, but all of this in just a few months? You should be so proud.”
Warmth bloomed in my heart at the earnestness in his turquoise eyes, the familiar guilt following soon after.
“Moss is magic,” I said lightly. Quincy cocked his head to the side.
“Youare magic!” he said, all smiles. I didn’t quip back.
Not quite, I thought. But I did my best planning for it always to turn out well in the end.
Months of meticulous garden plotting, singing growing songs at all hours of the day, weeding for hours on end, writing and rewriting the best soil composition. Backbreaking work that, on the outside, looked like what any other Town Gardener could do. That’s what garden magic was most useful for, after all. Growing good gardens fit for a village. One snap of a Town Gardener’s fingers, it was said, and a garden bed would be seeded and sprouting in no time.
It never worked quite that way for me. My meager magic was nothing compared to someone with proper garden magic. Other folkcouldwalk out into their garden, armed with seeds, proverbially snap their fingers, and sprouts really would appear in a matter of moments.
I, on the other hand, have to listen to the land, search deep for what’s underneath, and pull on the power already there—always and forever reaching, never channeling. My magic is and has only ever been the initial spark for the garden; it was that coupled with the earth that started the true fire.
There were times when it was quite easy, my magic bubblinghappily in my chest like soup, the land ripe for harvests. Other times, though, I would be having a bad day, and it would be the dead of winter, so neither the earth nor I were in much of a mood to grow anything at all. That’s when I would have to resort to singing growing songs, humming and warbling away to get my magic to budge even a bit, to fan the flames.
But no matter what people thought or how, the job was done and done well. The tension that had been building in my body for months finally released, and I knew I could fall asleep right there on the soft, upturned ground if I wanted to.
My heart pinched as I looked at the empty garden beds all around me. Home didn’t feel the same without green everywhere. But summer had barely begun, and once I received my new batch of seeds from Farmer Gristle, I’d be singing them to life in just a few weeks. The garden beds would be overflowing once more, and the town would pick and choose their daily bounty.
But that was another day’s task. Because today, I needed to prepare myself for the Goddess Celebration.
Perhaps the best part of being the Celebration Gardener was that all my work was complete by the morning of her arrival. And once my work ended, the town’s began. The bakers, the cooks, and the florists all toiled away, making their delectable and magnificent creations from my crops.
“Any plans after the Celebration? Grand travels? Towns begging for you to take a look at their gardens?” Quincy asked, raising his eyebrows with each question.
A stack of unanswered post from all over Nestryia sat on my fireplace mantel with inquiries as to my interest in traveling to them for a short period of time.
“Not this year,” I said with practiced ease, a curated smile. “Moss keeps me busy.”
“I’ve never heard of a Town Gardener staying in one place for so long; we are lucky to have you with us.” Quincy didn’t mean anything by it, but pain nevertheless pierced my heart. He didn’t know why I chose to forgo the adventures that usually accompanied the title of Town Gardener. He only knew that I chose to stay, and that was a rare thing indeed.
Almost every village of the realm had a Town Gardener, and while there are plenty of folk with garden magic, there aren’t many who wish to take up the gauntlet of providing food for an entire town. There are always vacant positions needing to be filled. Thankfully, most Town Gardenersloveto travel, bringing the seeds from their homes to other places, learning from the folk around the realm, perfecting garden beds plumb full of flora from all of Nestryia. Most Town Gardeners only stayed in one spot for five years at most. After that, they headed to a new horizon. Many even opted to remain traveling Town Gardeners for years, spending a few weeks in different villages year-round.
They say garden magic is the only requirement for the position, but a penchant for adventure certainly seems to be part of it as well.
I have neither.
Moss was home, and home was where I would stay. Even so, I worried if Moss would one day want another Town Gardener. Someone who could bring new things from places I’ve never been. Someone more than me.
“Well, I’d better be on my way! Patti Larkthorn is going to have my head on a silver platter if I don’t get these flowersto her shoppe before too long.” Quincy snapped his fingers, and the wagons began rolling their way back to town. The mountain of carrots wobbled dangerously, but before I could call out in warning, another snap of Quincy’s fingers had everything in its proper place once more. Folk with tidying magic… they had it so easy. With one quick motion, they could have the entire cottage organized, everything in its rightful place. What must it be like to simply call upon one’s abilities without thinking? I’d never know.
I watched the wagons meander up the hill that led into town. The sun rose right as the last wagon crested the highest peak and disappeared over the other side. Just yesterday, I’d worried my life would be irrevocably damaged. But a shadowy stranger had saved me after all, Sylvie’s salve healing my wounds. And hope lived on.
I’m home. I’m safe. All is well.
I heard a familiar squeak and looked down to see Warty running circles in between my boots.
“We did it!” I squealed, scooping him up and nuzzling his nose. “What should we do to celebrate?”
Warty looked at my dress, then back up to me.
“What? Do I have something on it?” I asked, searching for a more egregious stain than the typical dirt covering my clothes. Nothing to be seen. Warty repeated the gesture and after years of deciphering his chirps, squeaks, and the like, I finally understood what he was angling at.
“Fine.” I huffed. “But that is the last change I’m taking part in. Forever. I’ve had enough adventure for a lifetime.”
