Fortune's Magic Farm (13 page)

“He’s going to drive us to Fortune’s Farm.” Sage put his hands on his hips and walked in a slow circle, surveying the surroundings. “He’s probably fallen asleep again. I just have to look carefully… there he is.” Sage walked over to a mound of shrubbery. “Yep, that’s him.”

A shrub was going to drive them to Fortune’s Farm? Isabelle held back the question, knowing full well that Sage’s response would be, “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a shrub that can drive.” The marmot tapped on Isabelle’s foot to be picked up, then draped herself over Isabelle’s head to get a better view. Certainly, that marmot was the heaviest and wheeziest hat that Isabelle had ever worn.

“He’s under here somewhere,” Sage said. “He’s a tender, just like you.”

Isabelle gasped. “You mean, I’m going to turn into a shrub?”

“No.” Sage pushed back the shrub’s branches, snapping some off in the process, until a curled-up old man came into view. “This always happens when he falls asleep. When he touches things they grow extra-fast. If he stays in one place for too long, whatever he’s sitting on or lying on starts to grow. Hey, Walnut. Wake up.”

The old man yawned. He scratched the bald spot at the top of his head. His long white hair grew in a ridge above his ears and hung past his shoulders. “Where am I?” he asked, spitting out a leaf.

“The Northern Shore,” Sage replied. “You fell asleep.”

“Oh. Why, hello, Sage.” He sat up and his wrinkled face folded into a smile. He had a gentle face that reminded Isabelle of the twins, Boris and Bert. But unlike the twins, the Walnut fellow had a full set of teeth.

Sage held out his hand and helped Walnut to his feet. “I’ve just returned from Runny Cove,” Sage told him.

“What’s that you say?” Walnut pushed back his hair and pulled a fern out of his ear, roots and all. “
Fernicus Splendiferous,
” he mumbled, examining the plant. “Native only to the Northern Shore. Prefers moist soil, filtered light and, so it would seem, ear cavities.”

Sage rolled his eyes. “Walnut, I’ve brought the tender.”

“Oh?” Walnut stuffed the fern into his pocket and pulled another fern from his other ear. “Say again?”

“The tender. The one we’ve been looking for.”

“Why yes, of course. Where is he?”

“Behind you.”

The old man pulled a pair of glasses from the pocket of his plaid jacket and perched them on the ridge of his nose. Then he turned and looked at the front of Isabelle, then walked around to her back, then back to her front again. Isabelle stood very still. She had been inspected many times before. Mr. Supreme’s assistants always inspected the workers
to make certain no one tried to sneak an umbrella out of the factory, and Mama Lu inspected her tenants for hitch-hiking slugs.

Walnut furrowed his brow and shook his head. “I don’t think this is a boy, Sage. I think it’s a girl.”

Sage rolled his eyes again.

Was Walnut the person who would answer all of her questions? It didn’t seem likely, if he had been expecting a boy. He stood about the same height as Isabelle so when he leaned close they were nose to nose. He blinked eyes as green as moss. “She doesn’t look anything like a Fortune. Are you certain?”

“She made the Love Apple seed sprout. She’s got it with her.”

Walnut pushed his glasses further up his nose. “But whatever is the matter with her head? She’s got another set of eyes right at the top of her head. Is she… deformed?”

Isabelle pushed the marmot onto her shoulder. “It’s my marmot,” she explained.

Walnut scratched his nose with a dirt-stained fingernail and peered at the furry creature. “Yellow-bellied
Marmoticus Terriblus,
a rock-throwing rodent native to the mountainous regions of the north. Impressive frontal fangs.” Then he turned his attention back to Isabelle. “You don’t look very healthy. Are you dying?”

“I don’t think so.” Isabelle stifled a cough.

“It’s just that you’re so pale and thin. You look like you’ve been living in a hole.”

“I’ve been living at Mama Lu’s Boardinghouse.” The cough overtook her and she turned away, her lungs rattling with each breath.

“Living in Runny Cove
is
like living in a hole,” Sage told Walnut. “There’s no sun.”

“No sun?” Walnut gasped. “How can a tender live without sun? Well, all that will soon change. She’ll soak up the sun like a banana tree. What’s this?” He peeled a piece of lichen from Isabelle’s hair.
“Lichen Itchycus.”
He smiled. “How wonderful. I wasn’t able to grow Lichen Itchycus until after my twentieth birthday. What else can you grow?”

Isabelle cleared her throat. “Mushrooms. But only after I’ve been walking in the mud and my socks get all wet.”

“Between your toes?”

“Yes.”

“Delightful!
Fungus Amongus,
a toe-loving mushroom with culinary aspirations. I have known a few people who were squeamish about eating toe mushrooms but I can assure you that the soup is to die for.”

“Now do you believe me?” Sage asked. “She’s the missing tender.”

“Indeed.” The old man clapped his hands. “Indeed, indeed, indeed.” Then he grabbed Isabelle’s hand and shook it. “Welcome. My name is Walnuticus Bartholomew Fortune, but you can call me Great-Uncle Walnut.”

“Great-uncle?” Isabelle’s entire body stiffened. This was it. The
it
she had dreamed about. “Really? You are my great-uncle?”

“None other.” He let go of her hand and freed a bit of shrubbery from his sleeve. “And what might your name be?”

“Isabelle.”

Walnut frowned. “Isabelle? That’s not much of a name, is it? Not the sort of family name we usually have. Would you be amenable to changing it, say perhaps to Floribundy, or Violabombola?”

Isabelle shrugged. “I’ve always been Isabelle.”

“We should get going,” Sage interrupted. “I’ll hitch the oxen.” He strode over to the creek.

Walnut pointed the bit of shrubbery at Isabelle. “What about Horticulturina? She was your great-great-great-great-grandmother. Truly one of the finest tenders the world has ever known. Her spit could quench a plant’s thirst for months at a time—most convenient during a drought. But Isabelle? Who could possibly have chosen such a plain name as Isabelle?”

Isabelle didn’t want to hurt her great-uncle’s feelings, having just met him. But her Grandma Maxine had chosen the name and it had always seemed like a fine name. And the names Uncle Walnut had mentioned were long and difficult to pronounce.

“Are you really my great-uncle?”

“Indeed. Brother to your grandfather.”

“I have a grandfather?” Her voice rose excitedly. It was all coming true, just as she had hoped. She had a family.

Walnut cleared a few more branches from his clothing. “What about Petuniarium? That was my mother’s name.
Or Larkspuria? That was the name of my first love.” He sighed, then snapped his fingers. “Oh, I know. Why not change your name to Vanillabeanly since you are so pale. I think that suits you. Vanillabeanly Fortune.”

Luckily, Isabelle didn’t have to tell her great-uncle that she thought all those names were a bit weird, because Rolo the raven swooped from the sky, filling the meadow with his cries.

Sage, who had been leading the oxen toward the caravan, stopped and craned his neck. “Where?” he called out.

The raven replied, circling frantically.

Sage grabbed the oxen by their collars. “We must leave immediately,” he cried. “Did you hear me, Walnut? Right now.”

Walnut removed his glasses and slid them back into his jacket pocket. “Dear boy, why are you in such a hurry? This is a family reunion. Surely we have time for a cup of tea?”

“No, we don’t. According to Rolo, we’ve got trouble.”

T
rouble? What kind of trouble?”
Isabelle asked. But neither Walnut nor Sage answered, for a flurry of activity had erupted. Sage hitched the oxen while Great-Uncle Walnut ran around the caravan, gathering up personal belongings. He threw Sage’s satchel and the saddle into the back, patted Eve on the head, then bolted the door. Then he hoisted himself onto the driver’s bench.

“Come on, Isabelle,” he called, holding out a hand.

Isabelle grabbed the marmot and climbed onto the cushioned bench. Walnut flicked the reins and the oxen began to pull the caravan from the meadow. “Where’s Sage?” Isabelle asked.

“Don’t worry about him,” Walnut said. “He ran ahead to look for danger. It’s his job to protect the tenders.” He flicked the reins again but the oxen appeared to have only one speed—lumbering.

“Protect us from what?”

“I don’t wish to worry you, dear, but we must keep our voices quiet. There are people who would like to get rid of us tenders.”

Isabelle shivered. “Get rid of?”

“Kill us, to put it bluntly.”

“Kill?” Isabelle nearly shrieked the word.

“There are others who would like to kidnap us and imprison us. Some would torture us for our secrets, even
enslave us. That’s why we must always keep the location of our farm a secret. But I do not wish to worry you.” Not a twinkle to be found in his eyes, nor a smile hidden at the corners of his mouth. He was dead serious.

Why would Sage want to be a tender if it meant getting kidnapped, tortured, or killed? After all her waiting, being killed would be far worse than being disappointed. At least no one in Runny Cove wanted to kill her!

“But why would someone want to kill me?” The marmot squeezed onto the bench, curling into a nap between the two tenders. “Is it because I grew things inside? Mama Lu said I wasn’t supposed to grow things inside her house. She got really mad. But I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Ah, I see that Sage hasn’t told you much.” Walnut kept his voice low. “I asked him not to. Thought it best to come from a family member.” He leaned in close. “What we tenders do is grow magic.”

“Magic? But magic’s not real.”

“ ’Course it’s real. As real as this sapling.” The back of the driver’s bench, against which Walnut leaned, had sprouted. He pulled out the sapling and tossed it onto the trail. “You do know what magic is, don’t you?”

“Magic’s when you close your eyes, make a wish, and it comes true.”

“No, that’s coincidence.”

“Magic’s when a princess kisses a frog and it turns into a prince.”

“No, that’s evolution.”

Isabelle scratched her neck. “Well, then, what is magic?”

“A gift, dear Isabelle. A gift from long, long ago.” He flicked the reins again. The oxen snorted. “Tenders are the only people in the entire world who can grow magical ingredients.”

“What do you mean, exactly, by magical ingredients?”

Walnut peered around the edge of the caravan, then leaned in close. “If someone wants to cast a magical spell, that person needs certain ingredients. Do you see? Only a tender can grow those ingredients.”

“Like Love Apples?”

“Exactly. Now, we must be quiet. Keep your eyes peeled for Rolo. He will warn us if danger lies in wait.”

Isabelle tried to be quiet but a sneeze forced its way out.

“
Pneumonia Stubbornia,
which is Latin for a cold that won’t go away,” Walnut said, shaking his head. “Poor Isabelle. I’ll give you some medicine for that as soon as we get to the farm.” Then he asked, a bit shyly, “This Mama Lu you mentioned. Is she married?”

“She used to be.”

“I’ve been searching for a wife for some time. Do you think…”

“No!” Isabelle stuck out her tongue. “She’s horrid and rotten and mean.”

Walnut sighed. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Late afternoon turned to dusk, as it typically does. The trail followed alongside a river, climbing steadily into the mountains. In places the river flowed deep and smooth. In
other places it rushed by, churning around rocks and stumps. Beyond the river stood a forest with trees taller than the boarding houses that lined Boggy Lane. They grew in clusters, reaching out to one another with arched branches like friends holding hands.

Who were these horrible people who wanted to hurt tenders? Isabelle scanned the sky for signs of the raven. She watched for Sage at each bend in the trail, hoping he would be waiting to say that all was well. The sky darkened and for a moment, she lost sight of the trail. Her heart began to beat wildly as the oxen slowed even more. Then, she nearly fell off the bench. “What’s that?”

“What?” Walnut, who had nodded off, sat up straight.

“That!”

He cleared some soil from his ear. “Bat? Did you say bat? Which species?
Vampiria
or
Fruitola
?”

“No. I said,
What’s that?
” Isabelle pointed at the ridge of light above the trees.

“That is a moonrise, of course.” Walnut took a knit hat from his coat pocket and pulled it over his bald spot.

The moon peeked over the trees, quickly gliding into full view. Hanging alone in the sky, it reminded Isabelle of the lightbulb in her bedroom, only the moon didn’t have to abide by Mama Lu’s eight o’clock shutoff rule. And it was much, much bigger. “How does it do that?” she asked. “How does it make so much light?”

Uncle Walnut cleared his throat. “Yes, well, er… You see…” He cleared his throat again. “A very complicated
system of circuits and wiring but the details have escaped me at the moment. Nothing to do with magic, I know that much.”