Lit's Green Earth: Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Clear Waters

In all my life, I have only lived in one place, and that place is Veirdei Valley. It itself has never deeply disappointed me. So I suppose it is a good place to live.

I live near the crook of the place where the Knives mountains wrap forward, dipping into the valley. Like a fold in a bed sheet, there is a place where two pieces of the mountain press together, making a valley within the valley. This dip is not very wide, nor very long. Without mounts or wagons, a person in good health can walk out of it within a day. It is possible to hike over the small fold in a day, too, but that takes even better health, and familiarity with rocky terrain.

Our town fills most of the valley-in-a-valley, and is called Clear Waters. There is a lake near the top of the hook, and it flows by the town sparkling and fresh. With rumorns, horses, or a wagon—if you are rich—the lake makes a wonderful day-trip and picnic spot. There are mines in the large mountain, worked by many Suenyans and a few elves. The hills are green, and the soil fertile. If you live near the woods, and poke your head out your window on a dewy morning, you may be lucky enough to catch sight of a unicorn. Something about her large eyes will make you feel guilty, even if you've done nothing wrong. Then she shakes her tawny head, black mane flying, buff-colored horn trembling, and walks off, breaking the spell.

I suppose it's a good place after all.

I am not from those woods. I live a distance from the heart of the town, but I am in fairly tight farming and ranching territory. I am two skips from a thriving marketplace. With the help of our wagon—for we are indeed somewhat well-off—we go there often, top-heavy with the fruits and vegetables of our farm's labor.

On the morning of the first incident, I awoke.

It was Endsday, the last in the week; the first before returning to school and work. The slant of sunset woke me before my alarm got up. I looked up from my bed to my dresser, and saw the hands poised fifteen minutes before the hammer rattled the bells.

I sat up in my covers. Mother had a sense about these things. She would know I had awoken and was still lying in bed in spite of it.

Ruffling through my dressers, I pulled out the bleached white overalls and a thick flannel shirt. Since Arabesque had gone, I had asked my parents if they would buy me one of the pairs with flowers sewn across the front pockets. Mother told me that even people such as us should be frugal with our money, and that it wasn't prudent to waste it on frivolities such as that.

I dragged my mud-covered work boots from under my bed, leaving a cracked trail behind them. Mindful of the carpet, I gently brushed the crumbling flakes of soil into my hand. I dumped them into the wicker trash pail and brushed my hands. In my mirror, I checked my appearance. My hair was a bit bed-spoiled, and I appeared to have a new blemish cropping up on my chin. But the hair would be worsened by sweat before long, and the blemishes were common as sparrows these days. I looked about as well as an incomplete, farm-bread fifteen-year-old girl could be expected to look, early Endsday morning.

I pushed the potted basil aside to get a better look at my shirt collar. A few creepers from a different pot were obscuring the view of my hair, but the little spiral vines curled so fetchingly, I could not bear to untangle it from the vanity. I took the old glass bottle from my dresser and offered a few drops of its water to the pansies by the window, and the drying peanut plant. Each pour and each second brought closer the threat of my mother's shouts. Reluctantly, I eyed the fifteen other pots and window boxes.   

Independent of magic, Mother would know. I put down the bottle and went downstairs.

The stairs emptied into our main room, but directly next to the door to the kitchen. I took an immediate right towards it. Both of my parents were there already. Father was dressed for the day's work directly off the bat. He wore his farmer's wear as elegantly as mud-spattered denim could be worn. Mother, sitting at the table, was still in her nightgown. I saw the bulge of her Rock in one of her drooping dress pocket, with five little bumps on it where each of her charms sat. She squirmed impatiently for my father to finish frying up a pan of bacon and breaded squash.

Never pouch-eyed, Mother squinted at me. "Ah. Good. You're up. You've been abed so long, I was about to come rouse you."

Upstairs, my alarm suddenly went off. The chirrupy bells threatened to rattle the clock off the side of the dresser.

Mother looked at me. Father turned around to do the same.

Eventually, the alarm spring would wind itself down.

With the clock blaring, each strike slower and softer than the last, I seated myself for breakfast.

True to form, the tea mug was already in front of my plate. The dark liquid came up to the very edge of the stains in the white ceramic, carved there by years of use. I took the customary first sip. Poised as the device was, the gentle lapping sounds of my drinking set of Mother.

"Did you sleep well, dear?"

"Fine, Mother," I said. "And you?"

"Very well. Though the room seemed strangely cold tonight. I think there may be a crack in the window molding letting in a draft."

I set down my mug. "Ah. Father, will you fix it?"

With his spatula, he turned the squash around in the bacon grease. "Stars and planets, no. It's far too costly to waste money on such a small hole. We can make repairs if it gets worse. There are cheaper ways of stopping it."

Mother dipped into her own coffee. "Dear, when you go outside today to work the field, do you suppose you could have a talk with the ivy? Just make it grow a little for us, dear. It shouldn't be trouble. Just get it to cover the hole; that's a good girl."

I bit my lip. I envisioned Mother's request. She was very fond of the ivy that coated the side of our house, even as it sunk its tanglers deep into our walls and softened the bricks. Oftentimes, I had tried to pry into its spirit. I urged my own particular brand of magic towards the roots and vines, trying to get it to respond.

Never had it.

I swilled tea back and forth in my mouth and was soothed by its earthiness. "I… will give it a try, Mother."

"Only 'try?'" Father wondered reproachfully.

I cleared my throat quietly. "…Well, Father, my schooling has only gotten so far, you know. I—I read ahead, just like you say, but I am still… Not entirely sure. I have talked to the teachers, but they don't always know what to say."

"Sorry excuse for teachers, then." He moved the heavy frying pan off the hot plate of the stove, over to the stone countertop. He pooled molten fat, bacon, and squash onto three plates, and topped them off with the strange, abstract shapes the crumbs had baked into deep in the oil. Two plates came in his hands, and one balanced on his arms. He set them in front of my mother and I, and carefully took the last precarious plate for his own.

Delicious, golden smells woke up my empty gut. I felt enlivened by the mild hunger. My thoughts went up the stairs to my room and my plants, many of them yet unfed.

My voice went small. "…Well, Father, you know, the very last true Green Witch in Suenya lived quite a long time ago—the one who created the applum trees. Understandably, most of the teachers haven't had experience with the—us."

Father forked a thick slice of squash, dripping with fat, up to his face. He chewed the soft disk thoughtfully. His eyes were unsettled. Wide and blue as thick, winter ice, they ate my words and my face. My backside scooted awkwardly for the deepest part of my chair.

"…Tell them to study more history, then," he grumped. He grouched them in the direction of my mother instead. Mother carefully severed a slice of her squash with her knife and nibbled it daintily.

Family conversation typically ended around this point. We ate and we looked at all of our fine tableware. Father had given me an especially fatty piece of bacon, and the ends gummed uncomfortably in my mouth. I reached for a napkin to spit it out, but as I brought the cloth to my mouth, the ice-eyes came back.

Much like the morning greetings, I could perform that entire conversation in my head from memory. First I would spit out the fat into my cloth. Father would give the eyes to the napkin and me. "Do you know how well off we are?" he would begin. You're very lucky. Some children haven't half of what you have. If they were given even a single piece of bacon, they would gobble up the whole thing, fat and all, and be grateful. By the end of the discussion, I would want to take my plate out into the alleyway and call all the poor urchins up to lick it.

I swallowed grimacingly and wiped a trail of grease from the side of my lip.

Mother took note of her own shiny mouth, and patted it clean with a fine pink napkin. "Oh. Yes," she said, as if grimy faces were the key to her memory. "Tell her about… about that thing, dear."

I looked to Father.

"Oh. Yes," he echoed. "Right. Yesterday, uh… A… a thing came for you in the mail."

My posture straightened. "A thing…?"

"Yes." Father dragged his own napkin across his face in big swipes. "A—a letter; that's right."

"From my brother," Mother noted. "Uncle Teosen. From his trip to Southern Vespia."  

Warmth bubbled up from my heart, manifesting in glitter eyes and an unstoppable smile. I moved halfway out of my seat to ready for a dash. "Oh! Uncle Teo! Where is it? Where did you put it?"

Crunchingly, Father thought. "It's… ah, hold on… I believe I put it… on top of the high bookshelves in the living room…" I was up and towards them before Father could correct himself. My footprints very nearly glowed.