He glowered at her, rubbing his throbbing knuckles. Teacher had about as many manners as the trolls from his hamlet, which was to say, not many manners at all. No wonder she lived alone.
Teacher drove her staff into the ground and quickly yanked it from the earth, revealing a little pit in the soil. She wriggled her finger at him to beckon him closer. While he eyed her staff, Grump slid to his knees and faced the gash.
"There are six types of soil," she said. "The first you'll learn about is clay soil. Clay wears two faces. When it's wet, it’s like slobber and tree sap. When it's dry, it's like granite. Clay is the soil of two minds."
"Sounds like it's not very good for growing my vegetables."
"Eh, not necessarily. Clay doesn't breathe like many other soils, but it's rich in the things plants love and holds moisture well if you know how to keep it wet." She motioned at the hole. "Take a handful. Feel it."
He arched a brow. She cocked her head. "It's not going to bite you, Grump. Gardening is a filthy job. You'll need to get some dirt under your nails if you ever want to be good at it."
With a nod, he stuck a finger into the hole because that's all that would fit. He hooked his finger and drew out a piece of the earth, plopping it into his other hand. It had a grayish tint mixed with hints of brown, the same color as a fallen branch dead and dried. Like she said, it held water well. A little line of liquid oozed from the clay and slid over his palm before dripping to the ground.
"Shallow roots work best with clay," she continued, "and plants that need a strong anchor to the land. Clay is a foundation. When something is weak, this supports it. Now come."
This time, he didn't move to help her to her feet. Teacher doddered from the willow's branches and headed up a pimple of a hill. A soft breeze filtered through the gorge and sent her silvery hair dancing around her oversized, drooping ears. She took a big sniff and smiled. "Ah, nothing better than a cool night breeze, don't you think?"
"It is calming." Grump scurried up the hill and inhaled. The breeze cooled his blood and soothed his nerves. This whole place seemed to have that effect on his body. "So will I use clay in my garden?"
"Yes. Now look here." She drove her staff into the ground and pointed at the hole. "This is silty soil. It's much softer than clay, wet or dry, but still holds much water. When your plants thirst, this soil quenches them. Feel."
She didn't bend this time, merely pointed. Grump went to a knee and scooped out the earth. He rubbed it between his thumb and finger. It had the consistency of overcooked porridge. "So what types of plants thirst?"
"All plants thirst, but with a little care, most will thrive in silty soil. Most vegetables and fruits will do well when planted here."
"Then I should just use this for my garden, right? Why learn the other soils?"
"Because you might not always be blessed with the right type of land. I care for this place, and it cares for me. You won't have the same advantages with your garden. Who knows where your life will lead you? Better arm yourself with how to live when you get there, wherever there might be."
Grump swallowed. Her words said more than she knew. They were a reminder that this place was not his home, but hers, and one day he would leave it.
"I could just move if the land is no good and find a place with good soil," he mused.
"Why, because you're a troll and stronger than us fair folk? You're strong, Grump, and you might even call yourself mighty. But there are mightier things in Oya and beyond the Torn Ocean and I promise you there will come a day when you find yourself a weed in their garden. Trolls fall to Hunger when they're cornered. If I teach you how to garden in any soil, you'll never be trapped because wherever you go, you'll be able to plant a crop the land will feed and so will satisfy you and calm your curse."
They moved on down the gorge. A firefly flitted past his nose, flaring like a star being born right before his eyes before dying just as quickly. Teacher turned her back to a boulder and pointed to one side, then another. "Bend and tell me the difference between the soils on either side of this rock."
He did as she instructed, taking a scoop from each side. The left side's soil was dark. Moisture clung to the grains, but not anywhere near the amount of the clay and silty soil. He sniffed this and grimaced at the hint of moss that reminded him of the blackwoods. On the right, the soil felt much the same, but lacked the acrid hint of moss in his other hand.
"One smells like the Blackwood Swamp," he said, lifting his left hand. "One doesn't."
"Good enough I suppose. The one on the left is peaty soil. It reminds you of your old home because it's got its share of rotting plants and moss in it. This soil's best for herbs. I grow many in this, and so will you."
"Herbs? And what do herbs do?"
"More like what don't they do. The right mix of herbs can cleanse any wound or cure any ailment. From spotted fever to worm plague to vine rot, herbs will keep both you and your garden hale." Teacher walked downhill but paused before she reached the bottom. "They can also cause ailments, if one wishes, or steal the life from the lips that touch them. Strange that something so innocent holds so much power in its unassuming leaves. A king may command legions and a wizard may summon tempests, but a thimble of the most common herbs in the right proportions will send them both to early graves."
Grump got the distinct impression Teacher spoke from experience. He didn't know why, but the thought rattled his nerves. Teacher gardened, but she was more than just a gardener.
I will make my own food and drink my own water tonight, he thought, glancing back at Bah to make sure she wasn't some corpse.
Teacher cleared her throat, pulling Grump's attention back to her. "In your right hand, you hold loamy soil. Most vegetable crops and berries will flourish in this. Loamy soil is best for beginners. It's balanced, and plants do well in it as it is neither too hard nor too soft nor too wet. It does require a watchful eye and prodding fingers. This soil dries easily, and your garden will suffer for it if you don't keep it moist. This brings me to another lesson. You would do well to keep Bah's dung."
Grump coughed and dropped the dirt. "What? Keep her dung?"
She chuckled and led him closer to the cliffs. "Only three things in the world never hunger: water, rock, and the dead. Everything else, including soil, requires its own type of food. Your soil must be fed for your garden to grow. Goat, sheep, or cow dung works well to replenish earth when it loses its vitality. When you notice your plants dwindling, try feeding the soil because it may hunger for nourishment."
"So I have to collect her poop? Where do I keep it?"
"In a pile and preferably not around your bed, but I'll admit I don't know troll preferences or sense of smell all that well."
"We don't like dung much. What on Oya does?"
"Did I not just say soil? Pay attention!"
He ducked beneath her staff as it whooshed overhead. Teacher grumbled and paused in the darkest part of the cliff side. Above, a few brave limbs prodded beyond the overhang, bobbing in the wind. Grump caught the barest hint of an owl's hoot echoing through the gorge.
Teacher cracked her staff on the ground. He shuffled back, shielding his face. When no hit came, he lowered his arms. She stared at him with her rumpled lips pressed into a thin line. "Chalky soil. It's shallow, usually covers bedrock a few inches beneath it. This soil's stubborn and works best with stubborn plants like spinach and beets. Take a handful."
Like the other soils, he knelt and scooped some of the soil up. Shards of rock scraped together as he clenched and unclenched his fists. Not a hint of moisture wetted this earth.
"Trolls are like this soil," she said.
"How do you figure?"
"Hard, brittle, stubborn. Very trollish behaviors."
"I am not stubborn!"
"Exactly." Teacher snickered and headed back for her garden. "Come, let's return."
"But you said six soils. We've only done five."
She counted to herself as they made their way from the c
liff's dark shadow. "Seems I have."
They reached her garden. She thrust the cane at a huge bush splaying its lazy emerald blades over the dark earth. Brilliant blossoms of rich amaranth mixed with carmine cast an intoxicating aroma that so accosted his senses with its sweetness, it turned his stomach.
Teacher pointed to the soil at the bush's base. "Go ahead."
Holding his nose, he kneeled and scooped the earth. This was dry like the clay soil but soft and fine like the loamy soil. He sniffed his handful and detected the metallic hints of minerals seasoning the dirt despite the rich perfume coming from the blossoms.
"This is sandy soil," she said. "Not so easy to tend but not particularly hard. Not deep, not shallow. Not wet nor dry. It is a plain soil, an unassuming one. But look at what such mediocrity can grow if tended by a loving hand."
Grump dropped his handful and turned to the bush of brilliant blossoms. A sneeze tickled his nostrils, but he swallowed it. He pinched one of the flower's petals. Soft as silk it tickled his skin, but as his hand passed beneath it, a thorn nicked the knuckle.
"These pretty, stinky petals hide thorns. What flowers are these?"
"Roses, Grump. They’re roses."
"I don't like roses very much. I don't think I want my garden to grow them. Their smell's too sweet. Makes me feel sick."
Teacher's eyes twinkled mischievously. "What a shame, what a shame. Now tell me, my apprentice, what soil would you like in your garden?"
He thought for a moment, glancing at the starry sky and milky eye of the curious moon. "Teacher, I think I'll use loamy soil. You say it's good for beginners, and I'm a beginner. It's easy to tend and easy to cultivate, so my garden should start there."
"Yes, it is easy." She cleared her throat and headed deeper into her garden. "You will dig twelve rows. Two rows per type of soil. Make them three feet deep each, so you'll need plenty of each soil type. You'll spend the next few days digging trenches and transferring the soils from where I showed you to the plot you choose."
"What? But that's—"
"Work?" She shot him an angry glare. "The easy path is not always the best one, and never is it the one that teaches us the lessons we'll need to survive our changing world. You will cultivate all six soils, and that is that. Now go gather your goat's turds. You'll need them."
CHAPTER TEN
Boil the Digger
Boil could depend on two things in the under mountain after his encounter with the mine master: rocks and Skar's watchful eye. Despite the excruciating pain accompanying every step, he powered through his days and played the best digger he could be.
Worse still, he couldn't leave the hovel after torch fall. Often he glimpsed the meaty mine masters lurking beyond the broken gate. Skar pretended to drink until he passed out, but Boil knew better. The mine master took swigs but never went for refills. He wanted to catch Boil. He itched to shove that finger bone down Boil's throat and watch as the life left him on his gasps.
Thousands and thousands of diggers worked the tunnels of the under belly. No matter how hard he tried to find her, Ember eluded him. Maybe one of the female mine masters who guarded her hovel caught her. That thought tightened his chest, so he shoved it deep into the back of his mind.
He winced as he took a bite of granite and pain shot through his chest. A few minutes would pass before he could take another. He needed a quiet spot where he could rest without being noticed. His tunnel forked and descended into the shadows. This rock wouldn't hold any worthwhile glitter, so he stumbled down the slope until the main tunnel disappeared behind the curve and slid to the ground.
"Boil?"
Boil instinctively pressed himself deeper into the shadows. "Who's there?" he squeaked.
"It's me." A figure slinked around the corner—her figure. Ember.
He sagged against the wall and smiled. "I didn't recognize your voice. It's good to see you."
"You're alive!" She pressed a hand to her heart and bolted to him. When he recoiled from her embrace, she paused. "What’s happened to you? I barely recognized you. Every day I've been scouring the passages or hanging around your hovel as long as I thought it was safe. Urt’s completely freaking out. It's taken everything I have to keep him down there. He's got all these crazy thoughts about the carvings, thinks they keep whispering dark things in his head."
"No!" Boil latched onto her wrists and pulled her close despite the shooting pain. "You can't let him give up, not when we're so close. I've tried to go down there, but it isn't safe. Skar caught me coming back and nearly killed me for being out."
"Skar caught you and you're still alive?" She took a step back before leaning forward. "How'd you manage that? I've never heard of anyone getting on his bad side and coming out with all their arms and legs. You're not even missing a single toe or a tooth."
Boil's throat thickened as he tried to say the words. "It's too dangerous to tell you. You've got to keep digging for you and Urt. I can't—I can't go down there anymore."
"No! You might've convinced Urt he's leading, but I'm smarter than that mica-brained digger. You're the one that knew how to eat through the tasteless rock. You're the one who discovered the book that taught you about the world beyond the mountain. You're the one that gave us hope we can be more than diggers. Boil, we—I can't do this without you. What we're doing, everything we're trying to be, it's all because of you."
"You don't understand. Skar suspects something. He, ah…." Boil tore his gaze from her and buried his hands in his lap. "He knows my name now."
She sucked in a breath.
"I know. That's not even half of it. I told him things to live, things I'm not proud of."
"None of that matters." She grabbed his chin with a kitten's grip and moved his head until their eyes met. "This will never work without you. I haven't told you this before, but when you came up to me in the mine that day and asked me where to find Skar, you saved me."
His brows knitted together. "I saved you? How do you figure that?"
She sighed and took a seat on the opposite wall, tucking her knees to her chest. She stared vacantly into the darkness for a long while. "I hate the under mountain. I hate eating rock, eating bugs, sleeping, and then doing the same thing over and over again. And for what? So we can find the glittering stones for the high mountain halls, and if we're lucky, live to be old enough to have children? This mountain's a tomb for us. We're born in it, we build it, and here we die. I don't want that. I can't have that."
"We weren't all diggers once," he said. "If we'd been in this mountain for all of ever, why do we need the torches? It makes no sense."
"I was going to kill myself, Boil."
A deep chill struck Boil's core. The words slammed him like a mine master's fist. Ember would never kill herself. No matter what sour mood he or Urt might be in, she always had a smile and a laugh to cheer them. Never once had he seen so much of a hint of sadness, only hope.
"It's a surprise, isn't it?" she asked. "Your face says as much. I hid it pretty well. Most of the diggers who wander off into the mines or slip quietly into a deep shaft, hide their loneliness better than everyone thinks. We're born to be forgettable, to keep our head down. We're even taught that it's a curse for the high mountain to know our name."
Ember grabbed her braid and rubbed her thumb along the matted weave. "I just wanted to fall down a shaft and disappear. Maybe in death I'd sit before the emperor's throne. That's a better life than eating rock until our teeth break, don't you think?"
Boil shook his head as a ball of warmth melted into a hot tide rushing through his body. Everything about her was so mysterious, so intoxicating. He no longer needed ale. All he wanted was the sun and Ember to share it with. "You're beautiful. Don't ever leave me, because there'd never be anything in the world I'd ever think was beautiful again. You're everything to me."
She looked at him and blinked. "Really?"
That wash of warmth froze. He tensed, rubbing the back of his neck and laughing. "I, ah, it slipped ou
t. Sorry. I hit my head pretty hard. I don't know what I was saying. Stupid, huh?"
"I think you knew what you were saying." She rolled to her knees and crawled over to him. Her soft lips pressed against his brow. She pulled back and stood, extending her hand. "And I think you're the most handsome greenskin I've ever met. But a kiss on the forehead's all you'll ever get from me if you give up. Now, are you going to find a way to get back to the skeleton room and get us to the world beyond the mountain, or are you going to sulk in the shadows because the rock you bit was harder to chew than you thought?"
Boil took her hand and—after some struggle—found his footing. She led him from his dark tunnel and into the flame-soaked upper passages.
"Boil the Digger."
Skar's unmistakable rough and hungry voice rolled over Boil's back. If he could have thrown Ember over his shoulder and sprinted into the under mountain labyrinth, he would have. Instead, both diggers froze.
"Boil the Digger," Skar repeated.
"Play along," he whispered before spinning to the mine master with the widest, toothiest smile he could manage. "If it isn't Skar! I was just looking for you."
"You were, were you?" His beady glare flicked to Ember. "I thought if I tailed you long enough I'd find her."
The air thickened into something like warm soup. Boil chuckled and edged between her and the mine master. Had Skar always filled the tunnels when he stood at his full height?
Boil rubbed the back of his head and shifted on his feet. "You know how many diggers there are, Skar. It doesn't help that they keep us locked up from the other hovels after torch fall. But I, ah, I did find her for you."
"For him?" Ember asked, her voice cracking like dry mica.
"Yes." Boil spun around and grabbed her shoulders. "I'd like you to meet Skar, Ash. He's my mine master and the strongest, bravest, handsomest greenskin you'll ever meet."
"Who…?"
"Ash." Boil flashed his eyes and pulled her toward Skar. "Skar, this is my friend Ash who I told you about."
Ember tensed, her body trembling in Boil's grasp. "Nice to meet you."
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