Sunflower Deeproot - Chapter 5
Sunny found himself alone in a clearing deep in the woods outside of town. The familiar stump upon which he liked to sit was damp with the early morning's dew. So he simply stood, facing the east, ostensibly waiting for the sunrise though the horizon was quite obscured by trees. His mind wandered through thoughts of dinner parties, gardening plans, stolen books, and potentially unrequited love.
A flash of indigo-colored light from somewhere behind him caused Sunny to whirl in surprise. There, in an aura of gentle blue light, cloaked in softly shimmering violet robes and a hood that cast a shadow upon it's wearer's face, a mysterious figure stood.
"Wha- Who goes there!?" Sunny cried out, his voice cracking bravely.
The figure said nothing, only reached out one arm. The violet cloth fell away, revealing a pale, slender wrist, a closed hand, palm down.
Sunny's heart raced, his blood pumping in his ears. The woods were eerily silent, seeming to hold their breath even as Sunny held his. He found himself reaching out with both hands open, palms up, as if receiving a precious gift.
A handful of seeds fell into Sunny's open palms just as the hooded figure disappeared, leaving only a flash of blue-white light in his mind's eye.
The seeds were heavy. They seemed almost to possess a bit of their own gravity. When Sunny first looked at them, trying to get an idea of their size and number, there seemed to be a few more than he could count at a single glance, maybe a dozen or so, dark green, about the size of cherry pits. He closed his hands around the seeds and drew them to his breast.
He looked around, suddenly suspicious of potential onlookers. Had someone seen him receive the seeds? No, there was never anyone else out this far from the village this early in the morning.
He stole another glance at the seeds, and this time there seemed to be several dozen maybe, midnight black, the size of apple seeds. Sunny shook his head and looked again, and saw hundreds of tiny brown seeds.
If these seeds keep dividing, he thought, they'll soon slip through my fingers. He clutched the seeds to his chest with one hand and with the other pulled his little leather pouch of pipeweed out of a coat pocket. Hastily, he emptied the pouch out onto the ground, barely registering the loss of his last longwallow leaf, and carefully filled the pouch with a handful of coarse bronze dust, the now thousands of rust-colored seeds.
He pulled the drawstring tight, knotted it again around the pouch, and tucked the seeds safely away in his coat. Then he set off for home, taking as direct a route as possible, constantly conscious of the steady comforting weight in his pocket.
Back in his burrow, he locked the doors and drew shades down over the windows, blocking out the morning sunlight along with any nosy neighbors. Certain of his privacy, he carefully withdrew the pouch from his pocket and poured the seeds out into an empty bowl on the kitchen table. Then he sat and watched.
The seeds were sort of spiky, irregular, a similar size and shape as beet seeds perhaps, except that they were a deep purple hue and they seemed to be glowing slightly.
Sunny had never heard of anything like this, in all his books, in all the stories he'd ever heard. But there were stories of strange things, unexplainable things, often in connection with a mysterious race known as the Far Folk. Far Folk were definitely probably real, at least most everybody he knew had heard of a friend of a friend who claimed to have seen one once. And there were lots of stories written about them, some less far-fetched than others. Unlike Pïkings, of whose existence only Sunny had ever seen evidence, and somewhat unreliable evidence at that, it was generally accepted that Far Folk were real, just as real as Nice Folk or Tall Folk, if extremely rare in these parts.
Though it was less than an hour ago, the moment when Sunny received the seeds seemed like the distant past, and his memory of it happening was strangely fuzzy. The weight of the seeds in his hands, that much was crystal clear, he was the recipient of seeds that could only be described as magical. But who was the giver? And why? And what would grow when the seeds were sown?
The seeds, tiny white umbrellas, seemed determined to hold onto their secrets, and though Sunny had been watching them the whole time he couldn't remember seeing them change shape or size or color or quantity, though clearly they had. As much as they changed in appearance, the seeds did at least always seem to take up roughly the same amount of space, and they were consistently a hundred times heavier than they looked.
Sunny briefly considered planting a few, but the mental image of pushing the seeds into the dirt in his garden, his garden that was in plain view of any random passersby, seemed somehow perverse. And yet he could not simply keep them in a bowl on the kitchen table. They didn't belong here in Eastshire, that was clear. And if the seeds didn't belong here, then neither, he supposed, did he.
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Chapter 6
The idea that Sunny would one day leave Eastshire behind, that he would leave his comfortable home, his well-tended garden, his friends, the idea had never really seemed realistic. It was one of those fantasy things that only characters in stories did. And yet here he was, stuffing clothes and books and food into suitcases. It was too much to carry by himself, of course, he wouldn't get far lugging his belongings through the woods, but Sunny had no plans to travel by foot. He would take a merchant carriage.
Every week or two at least, a merchant would arrive from Westshire, hoping to profit from geographical differences in supply and demand. Wool, smoking leaf, and grains from Westshire's farms, and sometimes intricate mechanical devices from Spire City or even exotic spices or silks from the South Sea, these were often offered in trade for things that were plentiful here in Eastshire, like dried fruit and nuts, hardwoods, and furs. Occasionally, as in the case of the band that played at that most recent dinner party to which Sunny was not invited, travellers would arrive or depart with these carriages.
Sunny had faith that the seeds would let him know when he had arrived, and though he knew not where his journey would lead, he knew the first step was to go to Westshire.
A merchant carriage arrived the next day, and as usual most of the town showed up to shop, or trade, or haggle, or just to gawk at all the commotion of the market in action. The arrival of a merchant was always a festive occasion.
Tom was already there when Sunny arrived, and surprisingly, Daisy was standing with him. They both waved at him and Daisy called out, "Sunflower!"
"Oh!" Daisy. Leaving might mean never seeing her again. Somehow this fact had not crossed Sunny's mind until now. He briefly considered trying to duck into the crowd and maybe hide behind the carriage, but it was no good, they'd already seen him, and besides he was too tall.
Sunny tried to seem casual as he approached, but he kept one hand on his coat pocket, subconsciously checking that the seeds were still there.
Daisy said, "Tomato here was just telling me about you having lost some things."
"Oh," Sunny managed, "Oh, just some books mainly. I didn't just lose them, I was... I mean..."
Daisy had pulled two books out of her bag and was holding them out to Sunny. He took them and read off the covers:
"'Mutiny on the Bounty' and 'Fire Upon the Deepness in the Sky'"
"That's the one you lent me about the flying ships and the talking dogs and the Far Folk!" Daisy said, "I liked it! Sorry I took so long to get it back to you. I got a book for you! It's about South Sea sailors on an adventure and... well, you'll see! It's really cool. I hope you like it."
"Oh, thanks Daisy! It sounds cool, I can't wait to read it!"
Tom interjected, "You're not gonna believe what the merchant brought today. The whole town's talking about it."
The three of them made their way around and through the crowd to where they had a view of the merchant's display. "There!" Tom pointed. Between a long, curved sword and a row of jars filled with strange mushrooms, there sat a rather plain-looking wooden box. "Well it's not doing it right now, but that box plays music. Not just a little tingly tune like you wind up either. Real music. Raccoon Armor!"
Daisy sighed and stared dreamily at the box. "They played at that party at Willigood's. They rock so hard, and their lutist is so sexy."
"And other stuff." Tom continued, "Like it played some songs by these bands from Spire City called Mole Invasion, and The Dragon Riders. It plays music off these little plates, and each plate has a few songs on it."
"How does it work?" Sunny asked.
"Beats me. Some kinda mechanical whatsit and one of those spire coils."
Someone else had garnered the merchant's attention and was gesturing at the wooden box. The merchant, who sported long hair and a bushy mustache, made a show of dramatically opening the lid, carefully placing a round grooved plate, adjusting some kind of stick with a needle, screwing a brass funnel onto the box, and then flicking a switch.
The plate began spinning and the sound of drums and a lute and singing issued forth from the funnel and added themselves to the overall din of the crowd.
Some girls started dancing and singing along and Daisy ran off to join them.
"I'm leaving, Tom." Sunny said.
"What?!" Tom yelled, cupping his hand to his ear in imitation of the box's brass funnel.
Sunny cupped his hand to his mouth, forming yet another funnel, and yelled "I said I'm leaving, Tom, I'm going to Westshire!"
"What!? Why?!"
"I don't fit in here, Tom!"
"Aye, that's true. Westshire's got a few Tall Folk from being so close to the big city, innit? And Nice Folk there don't seem to pay too much a mind. You always were a queer one, Sunny."
Now it was Sunny's turn to ask, "What?!" But Tom just waved him off and made his way over to the growing crowd of dancers.
Sunny made arrangements to travel with the merchant, whose name was Oliver. They planned to leave for Westshire the very next morning.
Sunny stayed up late that night, he just couldn't fall asleep. He wrote and subsequently discarded three multi-page letters to Daisy before falling asleep. He woke up an hour after he was supposed to meet Oliver and rushed down to the waiting carriage. Apparently some last-minute trading was going on so the merchant was in no rush to leave without him, but by the time he had all his belongings stowed Oliver was ready and they set off towards the west.
Tom happened to be around while the carriage was leaving and waved goodbye to Sunny. "Tom!" Sunny called out as the carriage took him away, "tell Daisy, I... tell Daisy I think she's nice."
Tom yelled back, "Sure thing, buddy! Have a safe trip! Come back to visit!"
And with that, the carriage rounded a bend in the road and the little town of Eastshire was swallowed up by the woods.
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Days 256-260 (part 5)
Oh yeah, I did a little bit of writing. The hobbity plot is thickening, and the praise is rolling in. Here's a glowing review: "You're just a bad writer, Evan, not a bad storyteller."
In other news, the Chateau
de Poo is still functional, even with a foot of snow on the roof.
I took a panorama picture from Duck Lookout. You can see, from left to right: the berm marking the eastern edge of Lewisylvania, some freshly cut and limbed poles leaning on a tree across the road, Rexcavator hiding behind some trees, mountains to the south, Jesse's house/bike-jump-landing, the future wheat field of Chrisantinople, the bone-fence of Téjas, the great wall of Téjas, Siesta hiding behind some trees, the Ministry of Quacks, Lewis Lane, a big rock on the southern edge of Anarcadeah, the Department of Ducks hard at work bringing law and order to Anarcadeah, the big berm marking the eastern edge of Anarcadeah, mountains to the north, Pascal Road before being plowed.
Austin, one of two brothers that have been working on insulating the red cabin down at basecamp, plowed the road up to the lab. It's still pretty impassable to vehicles without four-wheel drive and/or good winter tires, but it's at least a bit easier to walk on. Thanks Austin!
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It is hard to tell with some of the others considering the cordage used. The cordage is the right kind to tie something to burn, but something rounder and with less "hair" is better for demonstrating knots because it is easy to see where the lines go.
