I woke with dark clouds dripping all over the grass and flower beds. I chided myself for complaining and shuffled off to the kitchen where a robust fire awaited me. I thanked the Master of the fireplace and began to make my tea and toast, asking questions about his plans for the day. He had none, and I hinted at a few things he could do if, of course, he felt so inclined and then went about my morning chores. Watering plants, cleaning, and preparing for ‘A Night of Tales.’ A meeting of the local bards and bardesses of Broken Branch Forest.
As I sat at my desk wishing for the sun, its brilliance nearly catapulted across the room with light. Pumpkin raised his orange head and glared at me for my squeal of exuberance at the light flooding into my office.
“Frown if you wish, Pumpkin, but I’m going outside to play.”
I laced up my boots, found my winter cloak and wool cowl, and fled out the back door, yelling, “I’m going outside.”
As I stepped onto the back porch, I witnessed snowdrops in bloom in two of my three pots, sitting on the descending steps. The plants along the back garden path seemed to call me. “Come to us and see, for we have no feet to come to thee.”
“Oh, my little darlings,” I cried with joy. As I walked my garden path, the new life that sprang from the damp brown earth gave me hope and strength to make greater plans for other plants to grow. I saw a bearded iris here, the blue and yellow kind, and a peony bush big and tall over there. Hydrangeas nestled under the shade trees on the bank of the back garden stream.
My booted feet turned to distant paths, and to my surprise, the tri-color willow was beginning to push leaves into the sunshine, and my two flaming bushes seemed to be waking as well. Maidenhair ferns were also leafing out, and then my old ears were sure they heard angry words being cast about.
“No! Mort, don’t you see the violets must go under the shade of the holly bush, and you must place holly leaves around the border to keep your milking slugs away because you know they will eat them.” Tavia cried in sheer exasperation with Mort.
“Oh, all right, but you’ll see me be right. The wind will blow the wee leaves away down the path, and you still won’t have enough violets to candy for the spring soloists’ feast. Mayhaps Pinky the Night Wisp will guard them by night. It would be a chore to gather up me slugs until after the feast, but I’ll do it for ye ’cause we’re…”
“Mort, Tavia, such a lovely sunny morning,” I said, “though it’s a bit damp. I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation, and I’m afraid so did the Robin and the Blue Jay. May I help in any way? Wait, let me drag that bench over. I’m not sitting on this wet ground.”
I walked to the Three Sisters and pulled the wooden bench over to the tall holly bush. “Now, what’s this about candied violets? It sounds delicious. You must save some for me.”
“Madam Bard, Mort’s milking slugs will eat our violets if we plant them under the holly bush without protection, and he doesn’t want them there and doesn’t want to put holly leaves around them. Though I don’t know why not, and now he wants poor Pinky the Night Wisp to stand guard over them. I don’t think her light is hot enough to keep the slugs away. It’s always so difficult to deal with male things!” Tavia placed her little lavender hands on her hips and glared at her green-faced friend.
“Tavia, I told you I would corral me slugs until after the Soloists Feast. But that won’t stop the wild herd.”
“Oh, dear. There must be a way to resolve this. Let me see.” I placed my elbows on my knees and leaned over to look at the lovely little violet garden they had prepared. It would be a shame to move the violets elsewhere. “Have I met Pinky?” I asked, stalling for thinking time.
“No, of course not. She’s a Night Wisp. She only comes out at night.” Mort scowled at Tavia. His hands jammed in his pockets.
“Oh, yes, quite right. I’d still like to meet her. Is she really pink?”
“Yes, she is, and her voice is so beautiful. You’d love it, Madame Bard.” Tavia’s smile was so brilliant and sweet. I glanced at Mort, who had lost his angry green and had returned to his new leaf-green. It seemed anger had passed. That was a good sign, I thought.
“I have it. Rosebush sticks.”
“Rosebush stick?” They both squeaked, looking at each other with laughter in their little eyes.
“Yes, I want to trim my rose bushes. I will have plenty to give you, and the thorns will stop all slugs. We will have candied violets for Soloist Feast. Come follow me, and I’ll get them for you. It won’t take but a minute.”
The afternoon wore on, roses were trimmed, purple and white violets were planted, and fences were carefully built. Tavia and Mort sat tiredly on the third pot on my porch when they both squealed and shot up from the pot. Crying, “Did you hear it, Bardess, the rumble of spring? It’s the pot; it’s shaking.”
“Look, look, a daffodil leaf is breaking through the soil. Come quick, and you will see its birth.”
Humoring them, I tiredly walked to the pot and bent over to watch as the leaf slowly slipped from the soil to catch the last few rays of the setting sun. I stood there stunned at the wonder of life and the small part I had in its encouragement. I bayed my dear friends good night and watched them walk down the back garden path hand in hand while their laughter rang through the gloaming twilight.