by S D Smith
Chapter Fifty-Seven
THE FARMER
The farmer with the black scarf cut free a head of cabbage and, laying aside his knife, picked up the head and tossed it into a basket. Taking up his knife again, he cut the next cabbage free and added it to the heap. One row over, another buck did the same. Scooting down, the one-legged helper pivoted on his one good knee and pushed himself further down the row.
“You know,” the helper said, “you’re already a legend. Everyone knows that. But if only you could have managed to die, then Picket Packslayer would have been immortal.”
“Picket Packslayer is dead, Lallo,” the farmer replied. “Now the only slightly less famous Picket Seedreaper stands before you … or stoops before you.”
“Picket Packslayer, see, he used to fly and fight, wielding his flashing blade on high in unthinkable bouts of glorious battle,” the helper said, “but your pal Picket Weedeater—”
“Seedreaper.”
“Okay, Seedeater,” the helper went on, “he kneels and cuts cabbage free on a little farm with his family and pays unreasonably high wages to other banged-up veterans.”
The farmer grunted and added a last head of cabbage to the now full basket. He sheathed his knife and reached for his helper’s crutch, extending it to him with a smile. “Sounds like a good life.”
“If you say so, sir,” the helper said, as together they filled several sacks from the basket.
The farmer snagged a large sack and, twisting to grip another smaller one in the same hand, headed down the road.
Soon he reached the edge of his land, where a small newly built cottage nestled amid a modest garden that overflowed with flowers.
“Hello, the house!” he called.
“Hello, the road,” came the reply of a sprightly old doe as she walked out to meet the farmer. “My dear buck, you certainly haven’t brought us more cabbage?”
“More cabbage it is, Mrs. Weaver,” he said. “Where would you like it?”
“Back in your fields, I think,” she said. “I can’t let Edward eat another pot of cabbage soup. There’s a limit to my mercy.”
The farmer smiled and handed over the sack, setting down the larger one. “You’re in luck, Mrs. Weaver. Weezie begs you and Mr. Weaver to come for supper.”
“Tell Mrs. Longtreader we would be very happy.”
“I already have,” the farmer said, “Don’t wait for me. I may be a little late. But I’ll be there by dark.”
“Oh, Picket, may I bring anything?”
“You can bring that new shirt you’re making for me.”
“That was supposed to be a surprise!”
“I’ll act surprised,” the farmer said, smiling as he kissed her cheek. She hugged him and rested her head on his chest.
“You’re so very good to us, son,” she said. “I’m not sure why you do so much.”
“Because you loved me. Before I was anything. Before I was at all lovable, you loved me. I won’t forget.”
“Love you,” Mrs. Weaver amended. “We love all of you. Even the two who keep taking my barrel hoops for their volley-hoopity ball game.”
“I’m sorry about that,” he answered. “I’ll see that they replace them by tomorrow.”
She smiled at him. “I’m proud of you, son.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Weaver. Give my best to Mr. Weaver, and tell him to try some chamomile tea. It settles the belly amazingly well.”
An hour later, the farmer limped to the edge of New Bridge, adjusting the large sack slung over his shoulder to take pressure off his aching arm. He still sometimes felt as though he might only just reach out with his right hand and grab the sack, shifting the burden. But that hand, along with its arm, was gone.
Two bucks pulling one overloaded cart met him halfway across New Bridge, and he scampered aside, easing his burden onto the stone rail while they passed.
“Thank you, my lord,” the larger rabbit said, huffing as they continued.
“My pleasure,” he replied, then hollered as the carters hurried on, “but I told you to stop calling me ‘lord,’ Ray!”
“Sorry, my lord!” came the faint and gasping answer.
The farmer shook his head, then gazed down at the swift river, high after yesterday’s rains. We needed it. He heaved the sack and continued on his way.
Not long after, he hobbled up some steps, pushed open the door, and entered a cozy establishment half full of happy-looking rabbits. Children played cards in one corner, while laughing does lingered over tea in another. Several bucks leaned on the counter and exchanged conversation with the one-eyed buck behind it.
“Hello, Farmer,” the proprietor said, nodding to one of the young bucks to relieve the newcomer of his sack. “Finally brought my cabbage order, have you? I asked for it last week.”
“You’re lucky to get it this fast,” the farmer said, taking a seat at the edge of the leaners. “I know agriculture isn’t your trade, but it usually takes me months to grow cabbage.”
“Next time put your order in earlier, Cap,” one of the leaners said. The bucks all laughed, including the proprietor. A silence followed while they sipped and stared at their cups, until the farmer spoke up.
“How’s things in Old Town, Jair?” he asked.
“Oh, about like they were last week,” Jair replied. “Most of the best work is over at Newcity, but they’re only taking the top crafters there. So, we make do. The old palace annexes are coming along. The princess is intent on getting them done quick like.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” the proprietor said. “When she gets intent, things get done.”
“A lot of veterans owe their lives to her getting intent about it,” another buck said. They all nodded and sipped their drinks.
“Well, she says it’ll be a shame if the places ain’t ready to receive every veteran and every adopting family who needs a home,” Jair went on, “so we are hustling to do it.”
“I don’t know how you can be hustling when you’re here every time I come!” another buck said. They all laughed.
“I’m supervising from a distance,” Jair said. “You won’t tell the princess, will ya?”
The farmer smiled and shook his head. “I’m not a tattler, Jair. And I haven’t seen Princess Emma in weeks.”
Another silence lingered, and each examined his cup or a section of the wall. Finally, Jair spoke up.
“Will ya tell us about what it felt like when you killed King Farlock the way you did?”
The farmer’s head went down. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, then only one word. “Scary.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” one of the bucks said, sensing something change. “I only want to say thanks and to tell you we won’t forget what you’ve done for us.”
“Thanks, Gabe,” the farmer said. “I appreciate it.”
“Stay for supper?” the proprietor asked.
“Sorry, Cap,” the farmer replied, rising. “I need to go. I gotta be somewhere for my supper.” He drained his cup, left his coin, and made for the door. “Do good work, bucks,” he said, adding over his shoulder, “if you ever get around to doing any.” Laughter faded behind him as he descended the stone steps.
“Hey, Farmer,” he heard called from behind. He stopped and turned to see the one-eyed proprietor hobbling up behind him with the help of a cane. “Don’t leave so soon. Stay awhile.”
The farmer shook his head. “Those bucks only want to hear about the old days. I don’t want to talk about them. Not yet. Maybe never will.”
“Well, talk to me, then. Not them. I’ll listen to your horrible stories of crops and kids,” the proprietor said. “I even like some of them.”
“And some of my kids like you,” the farmer replied.
“Stay awhile, and let’s you and me talk.”
“I’d like that, Cap,” the farmer said. “But today, I really do have to be somewhere.”
“Is there a shortage of vegetables at some country hamlet that only you can
supply?”
“There aren’t shortages anywhere,” the farmer said, smiling wide.
“Ain’t that something?” the proprietor replied, returning the smile.
“It is that.”
“In the old days, if you’ll forgive me,” the proprietor said, holding up his hand for pardon, “they used to come to our place for solace when times were hard. Sometimes I wonder why they still come, even in these days of abundance.”
“I don’t know, Cap,” the farmer said, staring up at the warm, welcoming place. It fit in perfectly in this rebuilt neighborhood on the outskirts of Old City. He sighed and smiled. “It’s probably the cabbage.”
“That may be,” the proprietor replied with a laugh.
“I’ll send the rest of your shipment by cart in a few days,” the farmer said. “And maybe I’ll bring it myself, and we’ll talk. Maybe even about the old days.”
“Please do, Pick,” the proprietor replied.
“I don’t know why they come here, Cap. I only know why I do. In the Citadel of Dreams you find … a welcome that never ends.” The farmer turned and headed for the road.
Rounding the corner, he stopped and gazed up at the massive mural painted on the tall building wall across from the palace. It featured a strong black buck haloed in an alcove, one hand holding high a torch, the other clenched in a fist over his heart. The farmer gazed at the icon awhile, then walked over to the wall, reaching out a hand to touch the image. He leaned against the wall. Soon, after touching the painting’s base once more, he turned and made for the road.
After some time, as he reached the edge of his land, the farmer paused and watched the sunset slip behind the old home he and his wife had been given as a wedding gift. As the dusk deepened, the farmer watched the stars appear to dot the sky. He watched awhile, waiting for the warrior. Gazing high, he saw the sickle moon stand out against the brightening warrior constellation.
It looks like he’s farming now.
The farmer crossed his fields toward the old house. As he neared, he heard the sound of laughing children.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
THE QUEEN AND THE FARMER CATCH A STAR
Sween Longtreader was singing. She sang so often now, happy and lighthearted amid the mending. Her grandchildren gathered around her, and she blessed them with her songs. Whittle watched, happier than he ever thought possible, with tears in his eyes.
“Father Tunneler,” a young buck asked, “will you be needing me any more today?”
“No thank you, Dote,” Whittle replied. “Get along home to your wife and younglings. Young Stretch Doteson is a year old today, if I don’t miss my day?”
“You have it, Father,” Dote said, bowing. “Frannie is making such a feast!”
“Bless her, and him,” Whittle said, “and you, dear Dote.”
“And here’s a token from us, Master Dote,” Smalls said, handing over a small pouch, “with our best wishes.”
Dote turned, surprised to see that the king had walked up behind him. “Your Majesty,” he said, dipping down onto one knee, “thank you ever so much. My lad will be amazed!” He rose, bowed again to Whittle and Smalls, and hurried off, grinning.
“Your Majesty,” Whittle said, bowing low.
“Father,” Smalls replied, wrapping the older buck in a warm embrace as he rose.
“Brother Jacks,” the king said, as Jacks hurried over from the direction of the house, smiling wide. They shook hands, then hugged. “How goes the school?”
“It is succeeding beyond all my hopes,” Jacks said. “And since Father is done writing his history—his history of your father, bless his memory—he has been a tremendous headmaster.”
“Thank you for what you’re doing, Jacks,” Smalls said. “I constantly hear happy reports from grateful parents.”
“I’m proud of you, son,” Whittle said. Jacks beamed.
They turned back to Sween, whose singing mesmerized the grandchildren. Smalls gazed at his own children, smiling as he held an emerald gem in his hand. Sween was teaching them an old song she had learned from her grandmother, and they all sang along. All but Hanna, who had her younger cousin Jo by the hand and was leading him away toward the edge of a tremendous field bursting with blue blooms. There, on the edge of the flowering field, Picket and Heather stood gazing past the blooming tract and the farmhouse on its right, to the river beyond.
* * *
“Will you grow nothing but True Blue in the future?” Heather asked, her gaze sweeping over Picket’s fruitful land.
“No,” Picket replied. “All the farmers have agreed to maintain some Firstflower, but I’ll stick with my cabbages and carrots, and whatever else I care to cultivate.”
“You are the master here, Farmer Longtreader, and what you say goes?” she asked.
“I’m no master. I plant and harvest,” Picket replied with a smile, “and rely on sun and rain and help to grow anything. You’re the one, Your Majesty, Queen Joveson, who is in charge of things. As in, all the things. You could, you know, order me to cultivate only Firstflower, and I would humbly bow and happily obey.”
“The power to command you,” Heather said, clasping her hands dramatically and widening her eyes, “it’s what every older sister has always wanted. And now that I have it,” she said, laughing, “I’m sadly lacking in ambition to use it.”
“That is a tragedy,” Picket said. “Were I so powerful, I would certainly be far more self-indulgent. I’d stop you writing more stories of my heroics, for one. Aren’t you tired of that job yet?”
“You should be happy I don’t have as much time to devote to my writing as I wished,” she answered, “what with being a mother and, as you so eloquently said, being in charge of everything. And anyway, the volume isn’t all about you.”
“Well,” Picket answered, “now that my glory is to be diminished in your writings, I find I’m suddenly less interested in literature. Farming’s the life for me, I think.”
“Your heroics certainly feature, but the story is about my husband, of course, King Smalden Joveson.”
“I do feel like I’ve heard that name somewhere before.”
“Well, now everyone will hear it for all time.”
“You seem to have grown somewhat more confident as an author. Have you considered that your powers may have waned since motherhood and ruling the world have so consumed you?”
“It might have sapped my faculties, but I do it so well, you see, that it actually enhances my powers as a writer. You should try it, Pick.”
“Motherhood? Ruling the world?”
“No. Being an excellent parent.”
“Ah. Is that your Hanna there?” Picket asked, looking over his shoulder back to where the rest of the family gathered beneath an enormous elm. “She seems to be leading my Jo away from the rest, abandoning his grandmother’s generous attentions, in contrast with your specific instructions.”
“I am found out,” Heather said, sighing. “Hanna is always testing the limits of my instructions.”
“Is that ordinary disobedience, my queen,” Picket asked, “or is it treason?”
“It feels like treason, to me.”
“That might be slightly harsh, Heather.”
They watched as Hanna bent to pluck an old dandelion’s pale puffball.
“Now she’s about to spread weed seeds across my fields,” Picket said. “I’m coming around to your view on treason.” Hanna blew hard on the puffball. It burst and sent tiny white plumes sailing out in all directions. Jo squealed with delight, so Hanna plucked one for him and carefully instructed him in the art. Picket groaned. “And now the plot has blossomed. It’s a conspiracy now. The jury finds the offending niece guilty of treason.”
“And we of the royal household confirm the decision,” Heather said, “and sentence the malefactor to one hundred tickles, laid on thick.”
“I will certainly do my best to carry out the sentence,” Picket said, “though it must be understood that I have only one
arm and one hand on that arm.”
“It would be strange if you had two hands on your arm.”
“It depends where these hands sprouted,” Picket said. “I might like it.”
“You really have become a farmer,” she said, “with hands sprouting here and there. The old warrior has actually faded into the past.”
“I’m armless as a babe, now,” Picket said.
She smirked. “But the warrior lives on, in my histories. And I remember him well, and all the good he did.”
“You have worked hard on these histories, I know,” Picket said, putting his arm around her neck. “What will you call them?”
“Father’s histories were published last year, as you know,” she said. “He’s been helping me with interviews since.”
“Yes, I’ve read them all,” he said, as they turned back to watch Hanna and Jo, hand in hand, wander off into a row of red-leafed bushes on the edge of the forest. “They were excellent. I thoroughly enjoyed each volume of The Rise and Fall of King Jupiter the Great.”
“So, mine,” Heather said, looking over at Smalls, who laughed alongside Father and Jacks on the edge of the elm’s shade, “will be called The Fall and Rise of King Smalden Joveson.”
“It’s perfect, Heather,” he said, squeezing her neck. “Well done. I’m so proud of you. You are flourishing, my dear.”
“Who isn’t, Picket?” she asked, smiling wide. “Who isn’t thriving in this mending? Weezie and I aren’t the only ones having babies. The Great Wood teems with children! Life is everywhere … alive! More alive than ever. Do you know, Picket, that Emerson and Heyward came to Smalls a week ago and said their team had found applications for the True Blue—your Firstflower—that seem not only to repair and enliven but to thwart death altogether. They are flabbergasted, and their lab is alive with an elated energy you wouldn’t believe. Aunt Jone is with them! Smalls took me to see them at work. He has the highest hopes.”
Picket shook his head, tears starting in his eyes. “Will this mending have no limit? Will even death finally die?”