To Stem a Blood-Tide

[catch]

It was the seed of an idea. It was the little, silver Light, a Soul, that had shown him what to do. But it was not a showing, not a telling; rather, it was disparate bits of memory, little flutters of Catch's own thought, and all the Light did was bind it together, was puzzle the thing into a coherent whole, in a way that Catch, otherwise, would not have been able to do himself.

It was a night of pacing at an old oak tree, mourning over damage wrought, a thick wedge of weeping sap into the dust. Frightened squirrels tried to move themselves and their hordes, but the torpor was heavy upon them, and little could get done.

It gave him an idea.

As morning came over Darkenhold, Catch was in the Greenhouse, as was his wont, scarves and coat - taken from some Militia-man, by Cherny - were folded, and neatly away. The dolls were arranged, a silent spectacle along the walls. Ever scrap of greenery was torn away by impatient hands, crooked hands that were now stained with the good, clean earth that he had brought, stained with brown and with green and with crusty white. His eyes were red from work, heavy things in his hard, bestial face. His crooked back, his broken shoulders, heaved and trembled from the stress put upon them. He was not farmer, no farmsman. His lines were drunken, wobbly things. But in each row, he planted peas; in each row, he planted beans. Little and hopeful seeds, and not nearly enough to feed a populace.

A green-house may grow things when it is cold and improper outside, Glenn Burnie had explained to him, once. And afterwards, Catch had torn open his belly. That was long forgotten, but the Light let him remember.

[catch]

It should not be possible.

Two months - perhaps a month and a half - for pea-plants to grow, with the beans trailing long, green fingers behind. Not even the most skilled farmer - much less a clumsy lunatik - could force a plant when it would not grow. Catch tended his hopeful, tiny garden, hiking back and forth from town twice a day. And he sings to them, stretched out in the uneven rows, gently touching, first the earth, then the seedling-heads, with a rough finger-pad. It is a child's care, one who sees the plantlings as living things, in need of speaking and petting, water-hauling. It was slavery of a different sort.

The green-house at Darkenhold was, once more, a jungle.

It was as if the golden touch of the past summer touched here, causing the plants to stretch in their rows, clumsily tied to little sticks. The pea-pods swell on the vine, bulging pregnant, and Catch gathers them carefully. The beans needed weeks more - two or three.

It was not nearly enough to feed a starving population. But it was enough for thin, salted gruel, enough for a pot or two, a welcome bit of green in a diet of meat and gummy bread. Enough could see through a winter.

There is a crate for the Dagger. There is a heaped bowl for Airy Ann, a silent apology for tearing up her evergreen plants. And there is even a little for the Tubbians, for they were good, and sharing their food. Good things should be thus rewarded.

The rest are left about. Hopeful piles at the poorest houses, a silent and creeping Elf to leave night-cold gifts.

But none for the Council. And none for the Darry-men.