A Sharpened Axe

by Jill M Beene

  Here were spring fruits and fall vegetables. They were both perfectly ripe, and it was the tail end of summer. Samiris walked over and plucked a ripe tomato from the vine. The fruit was heavy and warm in her hand, and when she sniffed it, it smelled of summer sweetness. She sprawled at the end of the row, bit into the tomato, and nearly groaned with delight. Samiris let the pure juices of the tomato slide unchecked over her chin as she chewed the tender flesh.

  When she was finished, she swiped her sleeve over her face and lay back into the fragrant soil, feeling pleasantly full on the taste of the fruit and the sensation of freedom. She squinted up at the pleasant sunlight, her head half under the tomato vine. As she watched a hummingbird dart over a patch of marigolds, she saw a small, almost hesitant movement from the tomato plant.

  Samiris sat up, her back rigid and her focus narrowed on the small bud of a tomato where she had just plucked one seconds earlier. As she watched, her eyebrows drew together and she squinted.

  “Not possible,” she breathed.

  Despite her logical protest, she watched as the small green orb lengthened slightly but steadily. Samiris watched the sun as she watched the tomato, measuring the growing green globe as it became the length of her forefinger, then as it swelled until it was wider than it was long. In one hour, it was the same size as the tomato she had plucked. Then the leaves at the top folded up into the shape of crown, and the tomato began to blush, looking like an innocent who was being told a series of increasingly bawdy jokes.

  After two hours, the tomato that Samiris had picked and eaten had been replaced by a perfect replica, just as tempting and juicy looking as the one before it.

  “Magic doesn’t create, it just moves what is already there.” Samiris repeated the words in a whisper, the truth cresting over her like a wave on the beach, filling her ears with the buzzing of her own thoughts, and filling her nose with the smell of new possibilities.

  She looked around the small garden patch with eyes opened to reality. “Then this is the whole kitchen garden for the palace.”

  Samiris scrambled to her feet. Lady Evanora had been right. The curse had leached the fertility of the earth out of the countryside, but it had to go somewhere. That somewhere was here, at the palace. The flawless flowerbeds, the robust health of every animal on the grounds, a kitchen garden a fraction of the size originally needed... it all made sense.

  An idea welled up within her, an idea so delicious and bold that it made Samiris stumble backwards and lean against a peach tree from the weight of it. When the details of the plan formed a tangible to-do list in her mind, Samiris darted forward, ripped the new tomato from the vine and sprinted for the castle.

  Samiris thrust open the kitchen door, her eyes wide and sweat beading at her temples from her run. Her hair had snagged on the branches of the hedge and was falling out of her braid. She had sprinted the entire way there, and now was out of breath. She leaned against the long wood table and tried to calm her gasping in order to talk. Samiris knew she must look alarming, and was grateful that it was only Marla, Gia and Aster in the kitchen.

  “Good heavens!” Marla said, jumping to her feet. “Lady Orellana, are you alright? What has happened?”

  Samiris shook her head, trying to convey that she was alright, but the action only distressed the women further. Aster bustled over to get her a cup of cool water, and Gia hastened to press a cool cloth to her forehead while ushering Samiris onto a chair.

  “Sorry,” Samiris gasped. “I just wanted to find you as quickly as I could.”

  Marla fanned Samiris with a white towel and waited. Samiris set the tomato on the kitchen table.

  “Have any of you ever been to the kitchen gardens?” Samiris asked, finally.

  “No,” Marla answered, her head cocked to side, looking at Samiris with grave concern plain on her honest face. “Refus is the only one who goes out there. He’s the gardener, after all.”

  “Didn’t you ever wonder about it? How there are fruits all year long, how you never need to can or preserve anything?”

  A faint blush dusted Marla’s large cheeks. “He did mention that things had gone a bit strange out there, after the curse. He’s an original, like me. But he brings me everything I need, so I didn’t think to ask further.”

  “Things are more than a bit strange!” Samiris shouted. Then she took a deep breath to calm herself. “Everything out there grows.”

  “Yes, dear,” Marla said. “It is the garden, after all.”

  “No, I mean it grows fast. I picked a tomato, and another one grew and matured within two hours.”

  Gia’s eyebrows shot toward the ceiling. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I saw it. I watched it grow. Didn’t you ever wonder why there is such a tiny garden? It’s because it regrows everything that is picked!”

  “It can’t be,” Marla said, the cotton towel now limp in her clenched hand.

  “You can’t tell me it isn’t possible,” Samiris said. “You haven’t aged in fifteen years. It makes sense. The fertility of the land had to go somewhere. It’s here.”

  Marla sat heavily in the chair next to Samiris. Aster and Gia looked shocked, their faces pale, their eyes round.

  “I did wonder how he managed those huge gardens by himself,” Marla finally muttered. “When things first got bad in the countryside, all three of his workers went home to help their families. When the house steward Westcott asked if Refus needed more help, he said no. We didn’t know he made the garden smaller.”

  “Why wouldn’t he have told you?” Samiris asked, frustration rolling under her skin like boiling water. “Why wouldn’t he have thought to tell you?”

  “Refus isn’t... all there,” Marla admitted. “A sweeter man you’ll never meet, and strong, too, but he’s a bit slow.”

  “Don’t you know what this means?” Samiris demanded, springing up from her seat. She had too much restless energy within her to sit down.

  “I confess I don’t,” Marla admitted, watching Samiris pacing with a bewildered gaze.

  “All of our families,” Samiris said. “We can feed them all.”

  A collective gasp emitted from the three women.

  Samiris didn’t wait for further prodding to explain her idea. “If Refus is agreeable, we could harvest the whole garden every two hours. And then we dry the fruit, can the vegetables, thresh the wheat and bag the flour, and send it out on carts. At the rate that the garden produces, we could pull a full harvest every two hours. Think of it!”

  A silence descended after Samiris’ words as they thought about the possibility.

  “Isn’t that... stealing?” Aster asked in a small voice.

  “Not if it’s extra. Not if I buy the jars and pay the drivers,” Samiris argued.

  “It would have to be a secret,” Marla said. “The Northern merchants won’t want extra food diluting their market.”

  “It will serve them right,” Gia said. “Snakes that they are, preying on the weak and sapping every coin they can get.”

  “Can Refus be trusted? Will he agree?” Samiris asked.

  “Yes,” Marla said, stoutly. “He’s a good boy, like a son to me. And I know the house steward, Westcott, will keep our confidence as well. We can ask him to reassign Deems and Marcus to garden duty. Maybe Ramsey, too. They can be trusted. We’ll need baskets, an outdoor kitchen, hundreds of jars and burlap sacks. A threshing wheel and drying racks, too.”

  “What?” Samiris said, confused. “The four of us could harvest three times a day, at least. We shouldn’t need helpers.”

  “We will need helpers,” Marla said firmly, “when the garden is as large as it used to be. If we are going to do this, we aren’t just going to feed our families. We are going to feed everyone.”

  Samiris stared at the cook, her mouth and eyes round in shock. Then she nearly throttled Marla with a hard hug aro
und the neck.

  “Ack, girl. Calm yourself. We’ve lots to do.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Samiris agreed to go to the Chosen breakfast, to keep up appearances, as Marla had suggested.

  “Dropping like flies,” Narcise said, as she brushed past Samiris roughly. “Doesn’t take a genius to guess who’ll be next.”

  Samiris smiled. She felt so light that she wouldn’t be surprised if she started to float away. The secret idea of feeding the nation using the very magic that had made the country starve was like a fire burning within her. She was warmed from the inside, and no cold social winds would chill her.

  “Then again,” Narcise continued, “I’m just surprised that the pretty one was sent away before you were. I wonder what social disgrace she did in front of the Crown Prince to get kicked out before you.”

  “Maybe she forgot to lift her pinky finger when she drank her tea,” Samiris said. “Then again, maybe she tried to kill him.”

  Narcise frowned. “I don’t think you’re right in the head.”

  “By your standards, no. I’m not.” Samiris grinned.

  Her smile seemed to unsettle Narcise, who bustled away without further comment. Samiris laughed low to herself, garnering strange looks from the nearest group of Chosen, several seats over.

  The next day, a flurry of letters left the castle, at least one per indentured servant, with those who knew how to write helping those who didn’t. The letters were short, and to the point:

  Send a cart with empty jars. If you don’t have jars, just send a cart. If you don’t have a cart, send a horse. If you don’t have a horse, send a man. If you don’t have a man, send a letter. There is food here, enough to feed a village, and you can have it free. Send this message with whomever you send, and park at the back entrance to the castle at midnight. If a guard asks, say you are there with a delivery for Marla. Keep this secret as precious as you would my life.

  Each servant signed his mark, and the house steward Westcott sent them out under his personal seal. Westcott had the occasion to send hundreds of letters, so no one would question the sudden outpouring of mail. Then they had six days before the first cart might arrive: three days for the letter to arrive to the nearest recipient, and three days for the cart to arrive.

  Samiris gave over her week’s allowance of hektes, and Marla sent Gia and Aster to the market to buy jars and burlap bags. Refus, Marcus, Ramsey and Deems plowed and planted the rest of the field and built an outdoor kitchen with two hearths. Overnight, the tiny corner of a garden became a virtual paradise of produce, with trees, plants and vines at full maturity.

  The first night, they harvested all of the stone fruits and set them out in racks to dry. Samiris returned to her room that night sticky from head to toe, exhausted, her hair matted and tangled as a bird’s nest, but high and giddy on the feeling of being able to do something. The next morning, she slipped away from morning tea with the Crown Prince to pick and preserve tomatoes. That same afternoon, she ditched dancing lessons to help Refus harvest and bag potatoes. Their storage shanty was bursting at the seams by day four, but they didn’t stop.

  They discovered that not only did the plants grow, but the animals reproduced with alarming frequency. They quickly learned that the rooster and the male rabbits had to be separated from the females, lest insanity break out. Only Matilda, the giant sow, was allowed to roam and pillage the garden at will. She had become a garden mascot of sorts, and Samiris knew no one would ever have the heart to butcher her.

  One night, an hour before midnight, Samiris dressed in her servant’s costume, stole down to the stables and found Behemoth already hitched to an overflowing wagon. Samiris smirked at the thought of what Artem’s reaction would be if he saw his war horse pulling goods like a common mule. Deems was perched on top of the precarious load in back, tapping out a percussive beat on a tarp-covered box with his fingers, and Marla and Marcus were up front. Samiris had demanded that she be the one to drive, as it would be her getting into trouble. The servants could claim that she had forced their help.

  Under Samiris’ careful guidance, the large cart trundled to the back entrance of the castle. Here they were halted as expected, by guards. Marla hefted her bulk off the front seat of the wagon with surprising grace, carrying the bundle that she had brought along just for this occasion.

  Minutes later, she hoisted herself back onto the smooth wooden seat with a satisfied smile. “I told them we were going to pick edible night-blooming flowers. They knew it was a lie, but they know who I am. The fresh-baked bread and crocks of strawberry jam didn’t hurt, either. I told them we would be back in a couple of hours.”

  With a well-oiled groan, the huge iron portcullis rose like the curtain on a fearsome stage. When it loomed well above their heads, Samiris flipped the leather reins over Behemoth’s back and he leaned forward and pulled the heavy cart as easily as if it didn’t hold three grown adults and a year’s worth of food.

  They had chosen to use Behemoth because he was battle-trained. He would not shy or rear up if the wagon was swarmed with eager people, as might be the case. When they reached the Sands, they parked in the center of the gravelled square. From here, there were three different avenues of escape should this endeavor prove dangerous.

  “Light the lanterns,” Marla said, crisply. “Deems and Marcus, take your places in the back of the wagons. Lady Orellana, hold the reins. You know our deal. If something happens, climb onto Behemoth’s back and leave us behind. That beast will get you home safely.”

  They lit four lanterns and hoisted them high on poles that fit to the sides of the wagon. Deems and Marcus were both large men who had armed themselves with heavy clubs, but still Samiris felt a shiver of fear up her back. Showing a wagon full of food to starving people was risky at best.

  “Well, nothing for it,” Marla said when they were as organized as possible.

  Marla picked up a pot, and gave it a few bangs with a wooden spoon. To Samiris, the noise sounded deafening against the silence of the night.

  “Line up orderly!” Marla’s commanding voice rang out over the waking camp. “If there is disorder, we will leave immediately.”

  Over and over, Marla banged her pot and yelled her instructions. For several minutes, there was no response from the surrounding shanties. Then, one by one, like cockroaches seeping out of cracks in the earth, the people gathered. One moment, there was no one, the next, there was a crowd.

  Marla repeated, “There is plenty for all! Line up orderly! One parcel per family!”

  The crowd coalesced toward the back of the wagon, with one man stepping forward before the others.

  “What is the meaning of this, rousing us from our beds?” he said, squinting up into the lantern light.

  “We have come with gifts for you. If you do as we say, we will come back in a few days with more,” Marla called, loud enough for the whole crowd to hear. “If you harm us, we will never come back.”

  “Who is this from?” yelled another man in the crowd. “What is the cost?”

  “There is no cost!” Marla called.

  Samiris heard a ripple of whispered conversation flow through the crowd at that announcement.

  “It is from an anonymous benefactor, who has been touched by your plight,” Marla continued in her loud, clear voice. “But if we are harmed, we will never return. There are more of you than there are of us, so we need you to keep this a safe, orderly affair.”

  The first man turned back toward the crowd. He seemed to be some sort of unofficial leader, because the crowd listened when he said, “You heard the woman. Get in line. I’ll stand against anyone who disrupts.”

  The first person in line was a middle-age man who shuffled forward as if his feet were too heavy to pick up. He wore little more than rags against the chill of the night. He glanced nervously back and forth between Deems, Marcus, and the townsma
n that stood with the cart.

  “Hold out your hand,” Marla said.

  “What for?” he asked, his eyes darting around as if for a trap.

  “I will mark you with ink, so you cannot receive two parcels.”

  “That’s fair enough,” the leader said. “Hold out your hand.”

  He did, and Marla marked his hand with a paintbrush and handed him a parcel. Each package was wrapped in a burlap sack. There were five pounds of potatoes, some vegetables, dried fruit, dried beans, a small jar of oil, a jar of eggs, and a small bag of flour. The man looked quizzically up at Marla, then back down at the hefty package in his arms, like he was waiting for something else.

  “Keep it moving,” Marla called. “Next!”

  Under the leader’s nod, the man shuffled away with his package, back out into the darkness. Time and time again, it was the same. Marla painted hand after hand with the ink. Every once in awhile, the town leader would turn someone away.

  “Not you, Jeb,” he would say firmly. “Your father already took the package for your family.” Or, “Not you, Mikke. Your brother got yours. Go find him.”

  Along the way, those who had taken their parcel home and seen what was inside came back to report to those still waiting.

  “Got a tomato in mine,” one would say. “Never had a fresh one before.”

  “Apples in our bag,” another called out. “Firm and juicy, too!”

  Fires were lit, and the smell of cooking eggs and roasting potatoes wafted through the air. The night took on the air of a celebration, the excitement shared between those who waited impatiently for their turn, and those who had unwrapped their parcels. Children were rousted from their beds to share the first full meal in their memories. Hope unfurled through the camp slowly, like ink dropped into a pail of clear water.

  The line dwindled along with the pile of packages, until finally, there were only about twenty parcels left, and no one else pressing forward. It had taken over an hour, but it didn’t matter. All Samiris could see were the families gathered around their fires, eating their fill. Tears pricked at her eyes, and her lip wobbled beneath the shawl she had wrapped around her face.