Petunia blinked.
Rubbed her eyes with her knuckles.
“Did I imagine that?” Leaving the onion-gathering for a moment, she walked over to the very clearing where the wondrous vision had appeared to her and looked around carefully.
Among the proud pines surrounding the clearing, she spotted wild strawberry and fern patches, a scattering of mushrooms that looked like honey fungus, and a bunch of leeks, which she immediately recognized by their broad, dark green leaves.
Otherwise, the clearing was covered in young grass, with not a single blade disturbed.
Only a little to the side there was a bare patch of soil.
On that small patch, Petunia discovered a faint, barely visible cloven hoof print.
Whether it was from that beautiful beast or some other…
she had only ever seen deer in pictures, and her inexplicably acquired tracking skills didn’t extend to reading prints.
“Well, so what?” she sighed and turned away to gather the onions, when a passing breeze stirred the rosehip bush growing between the pines, and something glinted in a ray of light.
Petunia knelt beside the bush and examined it carefully.
Among the green leaves and sharp thorns, ripe berries glowed enticingly red.
She parted the branches with her hands, looking for what had just glinted, then carefully reached in and plucked something delicate and weightless from a thorn.
Her reward was a small tuft of snow-white fur, left on the bush when the stag had bolted away in fright.
It lay in her palm, stirring with the air’s movement, sparkling in the sun’s rays as if it were a magnificent diamond.
“So I didn’t imagine it!
Such beauty…” She played with her find for a bit, turning it this way and that; once she’d had her fun, she carefully wrapped it in a broad burdock leaf and tucked it into one of the little inner pockets of her bag.
A trophy!
Maybe she should put together a shelf, especially for anything she found here?
Heh-heh.
First a book, now this — fur from a wondrous beast.
Who knew what else might turn up?
Petunia yanked out a leek, shoved it in her bag after carelessly shaking the dirt off its roots, and continued gathering spring onions.
When she was done, her bag was stuffed almost to the brim with plants.
She could have gone home, but she still circled around a bit, always keeping that first clearing in sight.
A little further on, she found another clearing with onions, and Petunia, unable to resist, picked those too.
Now the bag was packed completely full and wouldn’t even close.
Carefully settling it on her shoulder, Petunia headed home.
Finding her way back was quite easy thanks to the markers she’d left, and Petunia relaxed a little.
Only occasionally checking that she was going the right way, she turned her head, surveying the surroundings.
If at first the forest had seemed empty to her, now she kept seeing swaying bushes and hearing the squeaks of small animals.
Once she even caught a glimpse of a luxuriant red squirrel tail flickering rapidly among the branches.
The forest was vast.
If she remembered correctly, there should be a river and a lake somewhere in it.
She wondered — was that the same river that flowed through the city?
Could realities be stitched together so that water from one world flowed into another?
And what about fish?
Petunia stopped and slapped her knee in annoyance.
What a silly goose!
She had seen a fishing rod in the storeroom herself, and here she was crying about a lack of food.
She slipped through the gap between two cliffs and emerged on the other side of the mountain.
At home, she first checked whether the fishing rod was still there.
It was.
Standing in the corner, hidden behind a scythe and a shovel.
No wonder Petunia had forgotten about it.
Petunia pulled the rod out of the storeroom and leaned it by the door inside the room.
Tomorrow, she remembered, rain was forecast all day.
And her grandfather used to say the best fishing was in the rain.
And digging for worms would be easier when the ground was softened…
Having mapped out her plans for tomorrow, she turned to her finds.
There were so many gifts of nature that they covered the entire table.
It wasn’t a very big table, barely enough for two people, but still.
The tabletop, hidden under a pile of fresh greens, inspired Petunia to culinary feats.
But first, she ran to get water, thoroughly washed each shoot, each leaf — and got stung by the nettles again!
— then laid them out on the porch to dry properly.
It was then, looking at the abundance that had fallen into her lap, that an idea came to her.
There was one thing on the farm that she had never tried.
The wooden food crate.
It looked perfectly ordinary — just a box knocked together from boards with a hinged lid.
Nothing special on the outside — no lock or latch.
And inside — Petunia had poked her curious nose in — nothing either.
Mr.
Cory had written in his letter that she could put surplus harvest in this crate, and he would buy it.
She wondered if wild-growing plants would do?
No sooner thought than done.
Petunia took the biggest horseradish, fastidiously chose large onion shoots — both leek and spring onion — then, after a moment’s hesitation, added fern fronds.
It felt awkward to send the sorrel and nettle.
After all, they were practically weeds.
She tied the selected plants with string.
She carried the resulting thick bundle to the crate and solemnly placed it at the bottom.
The solemnity of the moment was slightly marred by the fact that the bundle didn’t disappear anywhere right now.
Petunia clicked her tongue, lowered the lid, and went back inside.
She sorted the dried plants again, laid them out in piles, and stared at them.
What could she make with this set?
She could chop up a salad, but chewing plain greens without salt and dressing was boring and barely edible.
Or she could boil up another flour-based soup, but add other greens besides the leek this time.
But the flour…
Petunia weighed the packet in her hand and sighed.
The flour was running out.
Enough for two more times, maybe, but that was it.
Riffling through the recipes she knew, she suddenly remembered one.
In a book once, she’d read how the characters, finding themselves in a desperate situation, made soup from nettles, and it kept them going until a supply caravan arrived.
She remembered being so amazed — nettle soup, can you imagine!
— that she’d pestered her mother to make some.
Lily had joined in too — she hadn’t been conceited back then — and their mother laughed and promised to make it.
That evening for their first course they had the most delicious green soup.
Petunia recalled it contained potatoes, carrots, celery, and half a hard-boiled egg floating in each bowl.
Petunia smacked her lips and sighed.
That was a good soup.
The broth was probably beef, and their mother hadn’t been stingy with salt and pepper.
And she had nothing here but nettles.
And sorrel.
But what did she have to lose?
A bunch of greens she could gather again any day?
Just the thought that she now knew how to find food in the forest put Petunia in a good mood.
Humming a tune, she busied herself by the fireplace.
She hung the kettle with water, and while it was coming to a boil, she finely chopped a bunch of sorrel and sliced the leek into rounds.
When the water boiled, she carefully scooped some into a mug, stepped onto the porch, and poured it over a bunch of nettles.
She chopped those too, then dropped them into the kettle along with the sorrel.
While the sorrel and nettles were cooking, Petunia pulled a frying pan from the storeroom and shoved it into the hearth fire.
The flames crackled somewhat indignantly; she mechanically promised to bring a tasty log.
She splashed a little water into the pan, added the leek slices, and sautéed them for a few minutes.
It was terribly inconvenient.
She had to sit on the floor, squatting, careful not to stick either her hair or her hand into the fire.
The leek cooked quickly.
Wrapping her hand in a towel, Petunia pulled the pan out of the fire, transferred the onion into the kettle, and then salted generously.
With a heavy heart, she decided not to skimp on the salt.
Otherwise, the “broth” made from mere greens would almost certainly be inedible.
Ah…
the heroes of adventure books could always find wild bird nests and feast on their eggs when needed.
Petunia looked at the green swirl in the cauldron and reluctantly admitted that even a small egg would have significantly improved this “soup.” Lily had more ingredients in her potions than this “soup”!
After letting the brew boil a little longer, she pulled the cauldron from the fire and set it aside.
Leaving the soup to steep and cool, she put away the plants in the pantry, tying them into bundles, then walked over to the woodpile.
As she was thinking about which log to pick — a small one, so she wouldn’t have to struggle with the ax — a knock came from the gate again, just like yesterday.
Petunia flinched and looked in that direction with confusion.
Was it yesterday’s ghost again?
Or a different one?
She threw on her cardigan, remembering how cold it had been yesterday, grabbed a lantern, and headed to the gate.
And there he stood — the ghost.
Today it wasn’t so frightening anymore.
Petunia raised the lantern, illuminating the figure in a cloak before her, and recognized yesterday’s acquaintance.
“Good evening,” she blurted out, and the ghost greeted her with a bow.
“More water?” She had boiled enough to serve not just one, but two or even three ghosts.
How thoughtful of her!
But to her surprise, the ghost shook his head, then mimed scooping something with a spoon and putting it to his mouth.
“Now you want to eat?” Petunia was surprised, and immediately remembered the soup.
It should have cooled a bit and steeped by now, and be edible in principle.
Not a chef’s dish, of course.
But carrying a hot cauldron to the gate seemed like a bad idea.
If that was the case, there was only one option.
She sighed, thought as convincingly as she could that if the ghost had wanted to harm her, he would have done it yesterday, and waved invitingly: “Come in, then.” The ghost tilted his head questioningly, as if asking if she was sure, and Petunia repeated her invitation.
Hesitantly, he stepped forward, under the arch, but was stopped by an invisible barrier.
His cloak was instantly covered in sparks in a dozen places, and the ghost recoiled, spinning on the spot to put out the flames that were catching.
“Oh no,” she protested, realizing she’d have to carry the hot cauldron after all.
“We’ll be at this till morning, and I need to sleep, you know!
Come on, get in!” She decisively stepped through the arch, grabbed the ghost by the hand, and yanked him toward her.
Caught off guard, he flew under the arch without meeting the usual resistance of the magical barrier, stumbled, and from the sudden movement, his hood flew off his head, revealing what lay beneath it.
Petunia hiccupped nervously.
Her hand, which was holding the ghost’s hand, began to freeze again.
From the ice-cold tips of her fingers, the cold crept slowly upward, first to her wrist, then to her elbow, but right now she could barely notice it.
All her eyes could see was the face under the hood — dark and translucent, which was why when the hood was on, it created the impression there was no face — beautiful to such a degree that it absolutely could not be human.
My God, who had she just invited into her home?!