Clever Little Farm Girl

Thyme winged her oars through the air, guiding her boat toward the empty suspirating pen. She stowed the oars and tied off, standing with practiced balance. Studying the blue field of sky, she tried to shake off her unease, to focus on the dawn-stained clouds.

“Away,” she called. “Away to me.” The russet flash of Pike’s feathers dove in from her right, circling the edge of the billow and sending her clouds scudding toward the pen.

“In here,” she pointed the way. Pike darted through the billow, steering a small flock of grey nimbostratus through the gate. Thyme knocked it closed behind them with an oar.

“That’ll do,” she said, tossing Pike a dead mouse. He crunched it wetly, settling on a gatepost. Thyme grimaced, bending to select five pot-bellied bottles from her bag. She stood them in the boat, and whistled a series of notes.

The gathered nimbostratus shivered, resisting her—apparently no one was in a good mood today—before falling still, and sighing. Wisps of cloud breath caught the sunrise in transparent shimmering as they spiralled into the bottles.

Thyme took care to keep whistling until she’d corked them all.

“Cumulus next,” she said, reaching for a set of tapered bottles in brown glass. She rolled her shoulders, cracking a crick in her neck. Pike watched her, mouse long finished, with one yellow eye.

“Away,” Thyme called.

-----

The sun was fat and proud with day when Thyme docked at the jetty and hefted her bag onto her back. Stumping toward the ladder, she tucked her skirt hem into her belt, and began the descent. She muttered as she climbed, cursing the boisterous mood of her clouds. Cursing each rung of the unending ladder. Cursing the job waiting at the bottom.

“You’re ridiculous, little farmer girl,” came a voice from her workshop. A wallowing voice, like the threat of coming rain. Thyme sighed, counting to ten before crossing the threshold.

“Good day, Barrow,” she greeted the owner of the voice; nestled in the mossy crook of a piece of dead wood. In the habitat he’d forced her to build for him.

“It’s not,” the mushroom said. Glinting onyx chip eyes scowled beneath his velvet brown cap. “Don’t you want to know why you’re ridiculous?”

“Why am I, Barrow?”

“Your bird is named after a fish,” Barrow said, his crooked slit of mouth widening in a smirk. His gills, and the pale tendrils of his beard quivered as he chuckled.

“You’re quite right, Barrow.” Thyme crossed to Pike’s roost, letting him step from her shoulder to his perch and ruffle into a doze.

“You forgot my crickets,” Barrow said. “And this moss is too bright. I’ll get a headache. I want reindeer moss.”

Thyme screwed an empty bottle into a workbench clamp and set a flame beneath it. Fetching a bottle shrouded with a cloth, she stood it beside the clamp.

“You fomented the cumulonimbus too long,” Barrow said. Thyme took a bottle of nimbostratus from her bag.

“You’ll never succeed,” Barrow said. “You’ll be a laughing stock. Or kill yourself. Then who'll take care of me.” He settled back to watch, scratching under one of his scales.

Thyme lifted the cloth, licked her dry lips, and whistled.

Uncorking the cumulonimbus, she commanded the wind into the empty bottle. Added the nimbostratus. Still whistling, she let the combined winds sit over the flame as she donned heatproof gloves.

She pounced, corking the bottle and loosing the clamp. Letting her whistle fade, she held the bottle by its neck, swirling in a clockwise direction.

Inside the bottle, the churning winds caught the rhythm. Began to circle, funnelled into a spinning column. A tornado.

Thyme grinned.

“Fluke,” Barrow grumbled. “I bring good luck.”

“Not so lucky.” A new voice, a scrawny figure in the doorway. “Hand it over.”

“You don’t understand, this is dangerous,” Thyme said. “And more important than you know. A commission from the warfront. From the king.” She held the bottle to her chest.

“That’s what I want. That… power,” he whispered it like a sacred word, raised his hand to show a gleaming dagger.

Thyme’s thoughts raced. Her eyes landed on Barrow, watching from his bit of tree.

“Pike,” she called, “away!” The bird exploded off his perch and out of the workshop. The thief ducked, but quickly recovered and, enraged, brandished his dagger. Thyme held out the tornado. He calmed.

“You know, Barrow,” Thyme said, as if they’d never been interrupted, “you’re the lucky one.”

“Oh?”

“Lucky I don’t haul you out by the mycelium and sell you to the bog witch. You’re a needy, nasty little monster, and I’ve hated you since the day I found you in my cellar.”

“Is that so?” Barrow said, his voice quieting dangerously.

Thyme held her breath, waiting.

A puff of spores gusted from the mushroom’s gills as he swelled with rage. Thyme watched its curling dance on the air.

“What’re you staring—” the thief couldn’t finish. His eyes rolled. He shook. Blood bloomed in his ears and the corners of his eyes, rivered from his nose. Pink froth gargled from between his lips. He seemed to try to speak, but nothing human made such a noise. He fell to his knees, slumped forward onto his face, and lay still.

Shadows were creeping into Thyme’s vision. She set the tornado on the bench. Groped in her bag for the tapered shape of the right bottle. Finding it, she uncorked and pressed it to her lips, breathing deep. Still dizzy, she held up the bottle and allowed the wind to escape, scouring the workshop of the remaining spores.

She panted, trembling. Her eyes grazed the corpse, flinched away, darted to Barrow. He stared back, a wry twist to his mouth.

“Clever little farm girl,” he said, “but use me again and you’ll wish for the quick fate of our friend there.”

Thyme sank to the floor, resting her head against the workbench.

“It’s a deal,” she said.