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three

Losing Light

I n the wake of six clanging chimes, Heather and Jessa rose before the dawn’s break.

The entirety of servants gathered in the kitchen to end their fast. The morning meal for them was a rushed affair, as they were the first to rise at court.

Most of the gentry would sleep in, having entertained themselves late into the night.

His Majesty, the exception. He awoke at eight chimes, steady like the ticks of a clock.

The kitchen’s outer door was once again ajar, revealing the torrent of rain.

Heather sighed deeply as anxiety churned her stomach.

At this rate, the vegetation and crops would begin to rot and molder.

Heather hoped the raised planting beds would be an aid, preventing their vegetation from washing away with the water flow.

Since she had chimes before she had to taste test, she thought she might as well see if she could help preserve the garden. Anything that she could do to be proactive would do a great deal to ease her worry.

Heather donned a waxed cape and her lone pair of boots, before dipping out into the storm.

First, she’d take stock of each bed’s health. There were plots of basil, mint, chives, parsley, rosemary, sage, thyme, lemon balm, bergamot and fennel. The vegetable patches were as extensive with squash, peas, beets, celery, carrots, broccoli, cauliflower and cucumber.

She pulled the cape’s hood secure over her ribbon twined hair, and in doing so, her coarse palm caught on its fibers. Chimes upon chimes of scouring dirty dishes with acidic suds had cracked the skin of her palms and rendered them abrasive to the touch.

Everything growing in the garden had a purpose.

Even the flowering flora. Roses weren’t solely ornamental, servants gathered the petals for ingredients in soaps, oils, and perfumes to mask body odor.

Lavender was applied in the laundry, and dandelions were mashed into teas and jams. Several other budding plants were pleasing to the eye, however, they were also the main ingredient in Medicinals.

Nonetheless, there existed botanicals which were deemed unworthy.

Her namesake, the thistle, was a thorny plant the gardeners worked diligently to extract.

Even though it too had a purpose. The prickly, purple bloom could alleviate liver pains and soothe a failing heart.

But here on the Emerald Isle, the weed was wrested from the ground before it could blossom.

Its leaves, thorn like, far too harsh on the gardener’s hands.

She huffed at the irony of her own damaged fists.

Raindrops pelted down on her, as she inspected the beds. It was clear, a fortnight of perpetual rain had taken its toll on every living thing. There were large bodies of standing water, and at present insects were gathering and multiplying in the pools.

Plants were a sickly yellow, the flowers were lying limp on the vine and the raised plots were leaching soil.

She had a difficult time holding her feet steady in the loose earth as it flowed past her boots, a river of mud.

The summer squash was unrecognizable, but thankfully, she possessed a rote memory of what was planted where.

Green tendrils were covered in dark splotches of mold as far as she could see. The kale and spinach were stinky, soggy lumps. Leafy greens usually thrived on water, but too much of a good thing was detrimental as well.

The gardens were in shambles! If the rain ceased today, it was beyond the point of return. For the damage was already done. Heather and those dearest to her would be living on crumbs in a matter of days.

Fresh propagations were vital. That’s what Heather admired most about gardening. Plants were their own magick. The ability to regenerate themselves with the right conditions proved remarkable.

She pulled her sickle from the pocket of her apron, and sheared a stem from the nearest stalk, the first of many.

She’d suggest to Mae, they root them in kitchen earthenware.

The tiny shoots wouldn’t be feeding them any day soon, but they’d have a little hope in tomorrow.

It was difficult to focus on the good in their current situation.

Their outlook was as bleak as the overcast sky bearing down on her.

Her heart was sinking into the waterlogged mire.

Her hot tears blended with the rain dripping from her cape hood.

She was no stranger to hunger. One of her foulest childhood memories was prior to her mother joining the kitchen staff.

Starving, their village neighbors resorted to consuming a beloved pet.

Fee roused fresh recollections every time Heather saw the cat.

She could already feel ghost hunger pains gnawing in her stomach.

Mayhap, it would be better to fall victim to poison meant for the king, instead of slow starvation. Which was the lesser evil?

She waded her way over to the bed of herbs when something green flashed before her eyes. Flinching backwards, she slipped in the muck. By good fortune alone, she settled her feet, avoiding collapsing into the mud. Vibrant green flicked once more in the corner of her eye.

A sole Luna Moth zipped around the lemon balm.

It circled back and darted towards her face!

She windmilled her arms wildly but gathered her balance at last. She resisted the urge to swat the moth away, not wanting to mean it harm.

Lunar Moths were sacred. Ballads were sung about them throughout the kingdom.

Custom was to leave them be, as spotting a Lunar Moth was a symbol of new beginnings.

A brief flash of hope captured her heart. Was this moth a sign? Maybe things wouldn't be too horrible after all?

Remarkably, the fragrance of the bergamot patch pervaded through the moisture heavy air. The earthy, refreshing scent overwhelmed her senses, surprisingly settling her tumbling stomach ache.

Heather pocketed the last of the viable stems, marking the sun’s path through the storm, each soggy booted step squelching as she retreated indoors.

She regretted she’d have to don them in the great hall to taste test, but standing before His Majesty and the court unshod…

that simply would not do. Ulcer would have plenty to say about her exposed feet.

He would complain about her muddy boots, but at least he’d say less.

His relentless griping didn’t do her nerves any favors.

Then again, he might enjoy the sight of her toes a bit too much.

Another reason to wear the boots, muddy or no.

She took squelching steps over to the wide mouthed hearth and warmed her hands by the flames.

The rain leeched all the warmth from her veins.

What else could possibly go awry? She tried not to think of the vast crops of barley and rye in the outlying pastures and what a possible disaster they were.

The kingdom counted on those crops to take root and thrive until harvest, ensuring that they would survive the harsh winter to come.

Mae froze amidst kneading her dough, her eyes widening on Heather’s form. “Dearie, you can’t track mud into the great hall,” Mae lamented.

Jessa’s gaze swept to Heather’s booted feet while loading King Willem’s plate.

“Let’s switch, we’re about the same size,” she suggested.

Heather shook her head. Her boots were an uncomfortable mess.

She didn’t want Jessa running around the hectic kitchen in slippery shoes, fearing she would slip and fall into a heated oven. Like a dreadful nursery tale.

“Take ‘em off, let them dry by the fire. I’ll be fine as frog hair in my stockings.” insisted Jessa as she covered the royal plate with a cloche.

Heather relented and thanked her. Heather’s heart filled with gratitude and appreciation for her compassionate lone friend.

They were each other’s shadow, doing everything together since the death of Heather’s mother.

There wasn’t much she could place her faith in, but Jessa and her friendship was one of them.