Chapter 31: Bloom
A few days earlier, the woodcutter Leonard Frank had asked Alan for help with weeding his backyard.
The magical density in this area had always been exceedingly thin since ancient times. Even so, the Blood Moon’s negative catalytic effect on magic had still dealt Green River Village a nasty blow.
The fernhounds rampaging through Mrs. Rainer’s backyard were the best proof of that.
Fernhounds are magical creatures that evolve from vigorously growing ferns. They look somewhat like small dogs covered in fluffy, tender green leaves—but in truth, they are nowhere near as cute as puppies.
If land trampled by fernhounds is left untreated, then for many years afterward, no matter what seeds humans plant, the only thing that will grow are clumps upon clumps of lush green ferns. Not to mention that fernhounds, unlike real animals, do not feel pain. When they get into fights with animals raised by humans, they always come out on top—a fact that has utterly crushed the pride of the village’s four-legged, furry residents.
Of course, this does not mean that fernhounds are especially difficult to deal with. After all, their emergence requires a large infusion of dark mana. Most of the time, in a place like Green River Village, people only need to plant some mistletoe imbued with the power of light around fences or fern patches to eliminate the problem at its root. Unfortunately, when Alan had first arrived in the village a few years ago as the local mage, his overly youthful face and slender build had made it hard for the naturally cautious old woodcutters to put their trust in him.
Now, however, with the arrival of the Blood Moon, even the hard-tempered Leonard had no choice but to pull a stiff face and send Alan a request for help.
Naturally, in front of others, Leonard would never admit that it was a plea for assistance.
“Don’t be ridiculous—just a bunch of green-furred dogs. Those things wouldn’t last a quarter of an hour under my axe. I simply wanted to see what that pretty-faced little mage is actually capable of—”
That was what the old man, his cheeks flushed and his beard long since turned gray, declared in front of his neighbors.
However, that was only what he said. When Mrs. Frank cheerfully set about brewing her signature secret hot fruit tea to welcome Alan’s arrival, the usually miserly and harsh Leonard merely lifted his chin and snorted coldly, making no move to stop his wife from tossing handful after handful of honeyed dried fruit from the jar into the earthen pot.
Plums, cherries, peaches, apples, apricots…
The fruits had all been picked during the harvest season, dried under the sun until they were shrunken and wrinkled, then carefully soaked by Mrs. Frank in golden honey. When taken out, every little piece of dried fruit had soaked up its fill of syrup, turning crystal-clear in the sunlight, sparkling like gemstones bestowed upon humankind by nature itself.
Once a third of the earthen pot was filled with dried fruit, Mrs. Frank poured in cool, sweet spring water, then added cinnamon, cloves, and green lime leaves—beloved by all mages.
As the tea in the pot bubbled and burbled, the fragrance of fruit and cinnamon spread through the woodcutter’s small cabin. Just breathing in that aroma was enough to conjure the hot fruit tea’s wonderfully sweet-and-tart flavor.
And when Mrs. Frank, humming a little tune, took the jam-filled hot pies she had baked especially for Alan out of the oven, even Charlie—the little dog who had been keeping watch in the garden over those detestable fernhounds—came back into the living room, drooling as he squeezed inside and flopped down on the mat in front of the sofa, staring longingly.
“Oh no, I’m sorry, Charlie, but this isn’t for you.”
The old lady, who had always doted on Charlie, said helplessly to the little dog.
“I really don’t see what there is about that country mage that makes you like him so much…”
The old man, well past fifty, muttered sourly from the sofa, earning himself a reproachful glance from Mrs. Frank.
Yet they waited and waited—until the fruit tea in the pot had grown overly heated and developed an unwanted sour-bitter edge, and the jam inside the pies had stopped flowing altogether—before the slender figure of the village mage finally appeared, belatedly, at the end of the garden path leading to the woodcutter’s home.
“By the Goddess of Life, Alan—I thought all mages understood the importance of time… Good heavens, what is that?”
Leonard started grumbling the moment he saw Alan, his lips curling in complaint. However, before he could finish, he let out a startled cry at the sight of something that suddenly sprang out from Alan’s collar.
It was a vine.
Judging by its glossy, luxuriant leaves, it was clearly well nourished and carefully tended. Sheltered by the foliage, the vine was studded with bowl-sized flowers, vivid and lush, as though brimming with life.
One had to admit, the flowers were beautiful.
…If one could ignore the sharp, chilling fangs occupying the very center of each blossom.
More importantly, even flowering vines were not supposed to coil, writhe, and sway restlessly like a venomous snake the way the one on Alan’s shoulder did.
“I’m truly sorry I’m late, Mr. Leonard. It’s just that something—well, something unexpected came up at my place this morning—darn it, Little Green, if you don’t behave I really am going to get angry!”
Alan looked rather disheveled. Panting, he apologized to the Franks on the porch, and even as he did so, he fumbled frantically, trying to yank the vine out from his clothes and stuff it into his backpack.
But at the moment, that proved far from easy.
Because the vine was… how should one put it… busily fighting with itself.
Yes—fighting.
Those blossoms that looked so pretty yet faintly unsettling were now opening and closing their mouths (if that tooth-lined spot could be called a mouth) as they swayed nonstop. Like frog-headed geese in the breeding season, they were viciously gnawing at the neighboring flower heads. Between rows of fine teeth, crimson petals scattered to the ground.
Only when Alan finally snapped and barked a reprimand did they grudgingly, and most unwillingly, bring the absurd brawl to a halt.
Only, along the drooping vine, its leaves were still sneaking little slaps at one another, as though doing so might knock the buds growing from the same vine to the ground.
“What on earth is going on?”
Mr. and Mrs. Frank stared at the absurd scene before them, dumbfounded, and couldn’t help asking aloud.
Alan’s movements stiffened for a moment.
He wished he understood what was really happening himself—
That morning, when he woke up, he hadn’t even had time to properly sink into self-reproach over his moral failings before he heard violent fighting noises coming from the box on the shelf that belonged exclusively to Little Green.
Before he could react, Little Green—at least twice as thick as it had been before he fell asleep—had forced the lid open and burst out, its appearance having changed into something Alan barely recognized.
Its leaves had become extraordinarily lush, and between them were studded countless flower buds.
Then, right in front of Alan, it began to bloom at a speed visible to the naked eye.
And then… the flower heads started fighting each other.
…Veles hadn’t told Alan that dragon vines could flower, let alone what one was supposed to do when something like this happened.
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Author’s Note:
Let’s quiz everyone—what kind of organ are flowers, again?
