Beneath Ceaseless Skies #197 Read online

  “Good morning,” I say. “You don’t look so good.”

  “Don’t I?” he says. He fidgets with his dirt-smudged white collar.

  “Look, Picket, I do feel bad for tricking you, but when you do somebody a turn—”

  “What? Oh, heavens, I’m not upset about that,” he says. “In fact, it was a very clever trick, and you are a very clever girl.” Some colour returns to his ghostly face. “So clever that I thought you might be able to give me some advice.”

  I’m powerful confused now. “Well sure, Picket, if I can.”

  “What kinds of plants do People give each other when they’re not feeling well?” Picket asks. His face is just as pale as before. His eyes are stuck on me, desperate.

  “That depends,” I tell him. “Ginger’s good for a wobbly stomach, and chewing on Cloves will numb a toothache...”

  “What about a fever? Does anything fix that?”

  “Echinacea plants are good for that sort of thing.” I point out the tall pink and purple flowers in one corner of the garden. “The ones with the black, spiny middle. You can dry the flowers, leaves and roots to make a tea.”

  Picket’s ears droop. “How long do they take to dry?” he asks meekly.

  “If you need some now, we’ve got some dried in the house,” I say. “Do you want a bag of it?”

  Picket nods. His voice is quieter than ever: “Yes, please.”

  I get a Butterfly-flutter of worry that I’m falling for another trick, but Picket just looks so ghastly that I can’t help believing him. And besides, if he only meant to eat the plant, he wouldn’t ask for the parts already dried. I run into the house and grab a net-bag of dried plant parts, searching around all the while to make sure I don’t get caught.

  Picket takes the bag in his hands. The dried bits crunch under his fingers. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and runs off before I can much wonder what he’s all about.

  * * *

  Next time I see Picket, it’s the middle of the night.

  A light rapping at my window pulls me out of a deep sleep. I’m all dozy yet, unsteady on my feet. I rub my bleary eyes and look out. Picket’s looking back at me with that haunted look in his big dark eyes.

  I unlatch my window and slide it up. “Land sakes, Picket, do you know what time it is?”

  “I know,” he says. “I’m so very sorry, but if the others had seen me, they might have tried to stop me. I need your help.”

  I cover my mouth while I yawn. “Didn’t the Echinacea tea work?”

  “A bit, for a little while, but...” Picket trails off. “I would appreciate it more than anything if you came to the Warren on the night of the full moon.”

  I look up at the sky, dressed for the evening in deep blue velvet all covered in shining sequins. The moon would be full in a few days.

  “Why the full moon?”

  “It will make travelling through the woods safer for you,” says Picket. “Also... We Rabbits say that miracles happen on the night of a full moon. Do you know how to get to the Warren? There’s a fallen-down Tree with three Mushrooms living on it...”

  “And then the signs point it out from there, don’t they?” I finish.

  “That’s right,” says Picket. “So you’ll come?”

  “I reckon I will,” I say. “Though I’m not sure why you’d trust me after I tricked you.”

  “Oh, well, that,” Picket stammers. He looks at me from under his eyebrows, and his poor moon-pale face turns pinkish. “You must understand that Rabbits have a great deal of respect for good and proper tricks, and yours was exceptional. I can’t stop thinking about it. We Rabbits might trick each other ten or twenty times if we have a... you know, a... a fancy for one another.”

  Oh shucks. I had Rabbit-flirted with Picket without even knowing it. What had I got myself into?

  “I want to help,” I say, “but I don’t know if I’ll be able, on account of I don’t know what the trouble is.”

  “I know you can help,” Picket says. “You’re the only one who can help; who’s willing to help. Here...” His hand disappears inside his waistcoat, then he reaches a flower up to me at the window. It’s the prettiest little flower, sort of like a Saxifrage, with white petals all speckled with gold, long stamens, and a pair of pink buds in the middle that look like Picket’s ears.

  “Wear that when you come to the Warren, in case you get stopped,” Picket advises.

  “I’ll keep it in water till then,” I say.

  Picket bounds off into the night.

  * * *

  The moon is a big old lantern lighting my way through the woods. The night birds are singing a beautiful chorus from up in the Trees, passing verses back and forth to one another, harmonizing and chanting rounds, making the woods feel like an enchanted place from a storybook. The Wolves whistle their short ditties, a secret code, somewhere far away. Some Wolves say they feel a kinship with People, but kinship don’t stick when you’re hungry. I walk a little faster.

  The deeper I go, the farther away the voices fade. I pass the fallen-down Tree and tip my hat. “‘Evening, Mushrooms.”

  They give me back a funny grumble, which is their way of saying hello.

  Glowing Lichen grows all smattered on the Tree trunks and lights up the signposts hammered into the ground, pointing the way to the Warren. The path is a zigzag, and I notice I’m crossing back and forth along my own tracks. Of course the way to the Warren would be confusing and tricky.

  I get a start when two figures hop out of the Trees on either side of the path. Lucky thing the moon is out, so I can see their long ears.

  “What are you?” says one, and “What do you want?” says the other.

  “I’m a Person, and I was invited,” I tell them. I take the pretty little flower from inside my wool-lined coat and hold it out for them to see.

  They come close and look at the flower, give it a sniff. Brown eyes share a look.

  “Alright,” says one. “You can pass,” says the other. They leap up into the Trees on either side of the path. After a mighty rustling of leaves, I can’t see nor hear either one of them.

  I’m glad to walk into the shelter of a big glade, surrounded by enormous Trees with their roots tiptoeing above-ground, like they mean to get up and dance at any moment.

  There are Rabbits all around, sitting on Tree roots and Tree branches or else lying on the soft Grass that covers the bowl of the glade. Big saucepan eyes stare at me from every dark corner. Rabbits freeze and chatter stops when I walk past.

  I finally spot Picket as he’s dashing out from the shade of a Tree root and he flings himself at me.

  “You’re here!” he cries. His hug fixes my arms to my sides.

  “Get off, you fool Rabbit,” I chide him. “A gentleman don’t just go embracing a lady like that.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Picket. He lets go and starts fidgeting with his shirt cuffs. “I’m just so happy... Quick, you must come with me!”

  And just like that, he grabs up my hand and starts dragging me along behind him, out between the Trees surrounding the glade and down another path. The Mushrooms and Lichen out here glow extra bright, with a light blue colour I haven’t never seen them glow before. The mirror-smooth surface of a big old pond reflects the funny light back, and everything looks dreamy and strange. It’s like the whole pond is in a cave: The heads of the enormous Trees block out the sky completely, except for a hole in the middle where the moonlight streams down like a waterfall.

  “Are you gonna tell me what I’m here for or not?” I say.

  We’re stopped at the edge of the pond. Picket just hangs his head.

  “It’s my mother,” he whispers. “She’s... very sick.”

  “Oh,” I say, guilty for snapping at him now. I squeeze his hand. “I’m sorry, Picket.”

  I hear Picket breathe in, and he points out to the middle of the pond. “See that lone Tree out there? Under its roots is the only place that Rabbit Grass grows.”

  “There ain�
��t no such thing as Rabbit Grass!” I cry, yanking my hand out of his. Have I been hornswoggled again?

  “There is,” insists Picket. “That part was true. Everything else I said about it was a lie. Well, except that it’s very fickle. That’s true, too.”

  “So, how do we get across?” I say with my hands on my hips. There’s no boat that I can see.

  “There are safe places to step. I know where they are.” Picket kneels down and peers at me from over his shoulder. “I’ll carry you.”

  I climb onto his back. He smells like fresh earth after a rain, and like nutmeg. He stands up with no trouble and leaps out onto the pond. His foot splashes on a shallow knoll or a rock, whatever’s under the water. He jumps from spot to spot, fleet as a Flea, even with me on his back. I know Rabbits are good jumpers, but I never would have guessed just how good.

  “What makes it so fickle?” I ask him.

  “It refuses to come out of the ground,” Picket says. “It might be telling us what it wants in order to oblige, but we can’t understand what it’s saying. Likewise, we can’t tell it what we want.”

  “And Rabbit Grass must be a powerful cure,” I guess. “That’s why you need it for your mother.”

  “Yes,” says Picket. “We have stories about Rabbit Grass we’re told as wee kits. You can make a soup out of it, fresh, and it will cure anything. That might be a slight exaggeration—you know us Rabbits.”

  “I surely do.”

  “But I still believe it has some power, being so rare and fickle, and having so many stories about it. Don’t you think?”

  “‘In every lie there’s a seed of truth,’” I quote. “That’s what us People say.”

  The lone Tree is growing on an island in the middle of the pond. Its bare roots make a trellis all around. Picket crawls into the small grotto under the Tree’s trunk. I tuck my skirts up over my knees and crawl in after him.

  We have to crouch in the grotto. There’s that blue Lichen all over the underside of the Tree, lighting up the smooth pad of Grass and the single shrub growing up right in the middle. The long, pointed leaves start spring-green at the bottom and turn rusty red on the way up.

  Picket takes hold of the base of the leaves and pulls till his face is all screwed up. The leaves slip out of his hands and he falls onto his back.

  “Easy now,” I say.

  “That’s what always happens,” Picket says sadly, picking himself up. “It just won’t come out.”

  “Let’s have a listen,” I say, and I get right down so as my chin’s level with the top of the root. Picket gets down, too, with both ears turned towards the Rabbit Grass.

  There’s a sound not quite like a sound, in my ear closest to the leaves. It reminds me of Picket’s scream when the Pigweed got away on him.

  “It didn’t like you tugging on it,” I report.

  “I’m sorry, Rabbit Grass,” Picket moans. “If I only knew what you wanted. My mother is sick, and I think you can help. Please?”

  The Rabbit Grass stops wailing. Its leaves shiver in a way so smallish you’d barely notice. “It’s listening. Tell it more about your mother.”

  “Will it understand?”

  “Plants will pick up what you’re feeling. Plants don’t need the meaning of the words, just the words and the feelings under them.”

  “Um, my mother is very important to me, Rabbit Grass,” Picket says. “She loves me and my brothers and sisters, and we love her, too. She’s so tricky and clever, and very funny, but then she got sick and now she can’t tell jokes or play tricks anymore. Her fever is a vicious one, and some Rabbits who catch it... don’t make it, you see. But I’ve heard that Rabbit Grass will cool it, if only you’ll let me boil you in a soup. I know I wouldn’t want to be boiled in a soup, but maybe plants enjoy that sort of thing. I don’t know. I just want my mother to get well. I don’t want her to die.”

  Tears glimmer in Picket’s eyes and spill down his cheeks, wetting the soil. I blink back tears welling up in my own eyes.

  Then, I feel a vibration in the dirt. The roots are trembling with excitement—as excited as plants ever get, being so slow and thoughtful—digging up to get at the soil where Picket’s tears wet it.

  “That’s it, Picket,” I say. “It just wants to be watered by your tears.”

  “That’s rather cruel,” Picket says with a sniff, wiping his eyes with his hand and then rubbing the tears into the soil.

  “I reckon it is a bit,” I say. “But if you’re crying, that means something is really wrong, and maybe the Rabbit Grass don’t want to be bothered unless there’s a real crisis. Try pulling it up now.”

  Picket sits up and takes hold of the leaves with both hands. The root comes right up out of the ground.

  Picket gives a yelp of joy. “It worked! You did it!”

  “We both did it,” I say. I reach into my coat and take out my penknife. “Now we got to replant a bit of the root, so the Rabbit Grass don’t all disappear in one pot of soup.”

  Picket hands me the plant. The root is all knobbly and gnarled, like Ginger. I cut off a knob and bury it in the soil.

  * * *

  Picket carries his wet shoes back to the glade. He leaves them outside a door set into the tiptoeing roots of an enormous Tree. He knocks on the door, then lets himself in. The doorway is wide and squat, so he slides down feet-first. He turns and helps me down into the cellar-ish house.

  Picket’s ears just clear the wispy roots hanging from the ceiling. It’s a very cozy little house, with oil lamps burning warm gold. There are stuffed pallets in one corner and a stove in the other, with a chimney snaking out through the spaces in the roots.

  Two brown-haired Rabbits are crouched next to a pallet, where a third Rabbit is lying down. I can hear her laboured breathing.

  The two brown-haired Rabbits look up, first at Picket, then at me, then at the flower still sticking out of my coat.

  Picket holds up the Rabbit Grass and says solemnly, “I’ve got it. We’ll take care of Mother. You two go out and play.”

  I see the lips on the two brown-haired Rabbits move, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. Their velvety ears twitch.

  “Don’t whisper in front of company,” Picket chides them.

  The two Rabbits looked abashed. They hop up into the doorway, peering at me and the flower all the while.

  “Good luck, Picket,” says one in a voice even littler than Picket’s, and they close the door behind them.

  Picket stokes a fire under the stove and pours some water from a jug into a pot.

  I crouch down by the Rabbit asleep on the pallet. She’s got to be Picket’s mother. Her hair is white, and so are her eyebrows and eyelashes. She’s got the same round cheeks and pointed chin as most other Rabbits, but there’s crinkles around her eyes. I don’t think she’s very old, but she’s lived a lot. Her skin would have been tanned like mine from the sun, but now she looks ashen with fever. There’s a dish of water with a wet cloth by her head. I take up the cloth and start to dab her forehead with it.

  Picket is quiet by the stove. The only sounds are from the fire and the chuckling pot, and from the chop of a knife. I can smell nice soup smells, and a mix of herbs and spices pinches at my nose. Pretty soon, Picket’s got a bowl of brothy soup full of hunks of the Rabbit Grass root, leaves chopped up all tiny, and specks of spices.

  “Let’s sit her up,” says Picket.

  Picket holds her while I stack up cloth and fluff and whatnot behind her head. Then Picket takes a wooden spoon, carved by hand, and gets his mother to wake up a bit and try the soup. Her eyes are bright pink but glazy. When she turns her head to look at me, she must notice my round Person ears, because her eyes twitch with confusion and worry.

  “Don’t worry, Mother,” says Picket. “Aril is here to help.”

  Picket dips the spoon in the soup and cools it with his breath, then holds it up to his mother’s lips. She takes some soup, slow at first, but right before my eyes, she seems to wake up a little
more, and even gains the strength to chew up some Rabbit Grass root. Her forehead breaks out in sweat, which I dab away.

  “That... might be enough for now, dear,” says Picket’s mother. She sounds weary, but judging by the glistening in Picket’s eyes, I’d say she hadn’t spoken in a long time.

  “Alright,” says Picket. “There’s plenty more when you want it.”

  She turns to look at me again. She considers me for a moment, and then the flower in my coat. She smiles.

  “Lapinium,” she says dreamily. “The same flower your father gave me.”

  Picket turns pink right up to his ears. “You must still be feverish, Mother. You should go back to sleep.”

  Picket’s mother laughs a little, then closes her eyes and falls into a peaceful doze, her breathing quiet and regular.

  * * *

  Picket gives my foot a boost to help me climb back in my room through the window. I land just as quiet as I can so as not to wake Mama.

  “Thank you,” Picket says at my window. “I can’t really... You don’t know... know what this...”

  “I got an inkling,” I say. “But don’t mention it, Picket. Really, don’t mention it. Mama will be sore if she knows I been running around all hours of the night.”

  “I won’t say a word,” says Picket. He looks at me from under his eyebrows again. He’s becoming more clear under the lightening sky. “I suppose it wouldn’t be right of me to keep showing up at your fence...”

  “Hogwash,” I say. “Don’t you miss a single day, Mister Picket. I still mustn’t let you into the garden, though.” Picket’s ears drop just a tiny bit. “Mama would never let me hear the end of it if I did. But I’d like it if you came to the fence every day, and we could talk, and I could even teach you how to talk to plants.”

  “Then I really could grow my own garden,” says Picket.

  “Maybe I could sneak you some seeds, just to get you started.”

  The stars are starting to fade in the sky, but Picket’s eyes are all alight. He’s looking up at me, edging closer, like he’s fixing to kiss me. He does look awful sweet right now, and he smells like nutmeg and ginger. He isn’t such a bad Rabbit. I lean down and give him a kiss on his cute little cheek.