Page 50

thirty-seven

The Art of Wishing

T heir party paused at the precipice of a bogged plain. Acres of farmland rendered useless by the rains stretched across the hillside. The air hung heavily with moisture.

Heather’s hand ached from clenching the reins.

Her knees buckled when she descended the conveyance.

Luckily, Skye was at her side, grasping her elbow before she could collapse.

Skye gave their feathered friends a farewell pat before the magick of the chariot dissipated into air and the robins dispersed into the forest. His touch ignited a growing need within her.

Heather’s wings fluttered, scattering pastel pink dust to the ground.

“We haven’t the time for none of that!” griped Rhoden. He pulled his plumed cap from his head and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

Skye growled low, silencing his friend. “Tread carefully, my fellow, ye begin to sound bitter, like Tarragon. We shall spare a moment to catch our breath and clinch our thirsts.”

With Skye’s palm on her lower back, he guided Heather over to the cover of a wide leaf.

His hand remained at her elbow as she lowered herself onto a mossy rock.

The lush forest was quiet, the chirps and twills of birds creating a lovely ambiance.

Residual raindrops fell from the boughs above.

The skies beyond the tree line were a dark promise.

“Are ye thirsty? Skye tugged on a smaller sprig above their heads, pulling it down so the collected rain dripped from the crease of the blade.

“Drink.” He loosened his grip on its pointed end, allowing a drip to free fall into Heather’s open, expectant mouth. Like a baby bird. He twisted the leaf above it over his own lips, absorbing plenty before holding it out to Heather again.

“Are ye going to leaf feed me too?” taunted Rhoden. Skye snarled, baring his canines.

Rhoden looked abashed. “I beg yer pardon.” He lumbered over to another rock in close vicinity, shaking his head and muttering something about ‘newly mated pixies.’

“Surely, Rhoden doesn’t truly mean anything by his remarks. His concern for Tarragon is making him snappish,” said Heather. Skye loosened a long breath.

“We’re both on edge. This was the untaxing leg of our journey. From here out, our way will prove perilous, as we’ll be without the security of the forest, vulnerable to natural predators and humans alike.”

The human realm was bleak. Although the rain had ceased, the promise made by the air spirit upheld, the skies were washed dark gray. Churning, ominous clouds hovered low, a visual threat.

Something foul pervaded the air. Heather covered her mouth.

Rot.

The thick ferment was heavy in the cottage garden lining the forest’s edge.

Like none Heather had ever smelled before.

Black mushrooms with melting tops spouted in the muck.

Rhoden coughed. Soggy remnants were all that remained in the vegetable beds that should have been thriving at the height of summer.

The patch was small, most likely the last threads of hope for a laboring household.

If Heather could heal these plants, it’d keep the relentless gnawing of hunger at bay a bit longer.

Well worth all the effort, even if it would feed only a scant few.

Her inadequacy was a thorn in her flesh. She wished she could do more.

She tugged on Skye’s arm until he halted, suspended in air next to her. “I wish to heal this garden.” Rhoden flutter-hovered nearby. Heather swiftly dipped to land on the edge of a raised bed under the shadow of a wilted tomato vine.

“Halt!” Skye bellowed. In a flash, he swooped down to her side. “This stench is more than rot. Goblins are nigh.”

“Goblins?” cried Heather. She drew in a sharp breath, eyes widening.

Lowering her voice, she asked, “Goblins exist?” She searched the dying landscape for the monsters mothers cautioned their young about.

They were notorious for sneaking into homes, severing toes, and snatching naughty youngsters during the night.

And they were more than myth? She clutched the dagger’s hilt on her hip.

She’d light a candle for the protection of the realm’s children when she returned home.

“Be vigilant,” warned Skye. He drew his rapier from its holster.

With Skye and Rhoden as her guards, she fluttered over to a vacant potato patch, dropping to her knees.

Sinking her hands into the waterlogged earth.

She could feel the spark of life within, a thrumming song.

With mere thought, she commanded the remnants of a root system to revive.

She felt the roots contract, as if they were drawing a deep breath.

They spread like a shot of lightning through the soil.

Magick moved through the loam, spreading to each taproot.

In her mind’s eye, she could see the vegetables forming, until green sprouts vibrant with vigor emerged from the dirt.

She stood from the ground, about to flutter over to the next patch, when a branch snapped loudly among the outlying hedge. Skye’s hand grasped her upper arm, halting her.

“We must be on our way. We’ve tarried too long. They can scent the magick.” He whispered as he pulled her into flight with Rhoden guarding their backs.

Heather peered behind. Movement rustled dying leaves, baring a hint of unearthly, olive-green flesh. She spied a form no larger than a feline skitter through the bramble. Heather pushed all her energy into her wings, wishing herself as far from the monsters as she could get.