The fresh beds pleased the eye with the blackness of the dug and watered earth, and the special smell of fertile soil emanating from them instilled confidence in the future of the newly minted farmer.
For a moment, she even thought she could see the first green shoots pushing up through the soil, but of course, that couldn’t be.
At least a week would pass before she saw the first sprouts, and for now, all she had to do was water and make sure no weed rushed to take root in the beds.
Buoyed by her successes today, Petunia decided to take a short walk.
After all, she still hadn’t seen most of her new property.
Filled with the determination to explore the entire farm, Petunia bravely ventured into the grove by the pond.
When the light filtering through the dense crowns began to dim, she came to her senses.
Mr.
Cory’s stern warning not to stay outside until dark popped into her head, and, as if on cue, something rustled suspiciously in the thicket around her.
If during the day Petunia could still dismiss these sounds as wild hares or birds — a couple of times a creature startled by her steps had appeared before her, leaping out of the bushes — then at night, her rational side failed her.
When another rustle sounded, Petunia froze and even began to breathe in spaced intervals.
The branches of the nearest bushes were swaying far too suspiciously, without any wind, and a couple of times she heard sticky, elastic sounds, like someone repeatedly dropping jelly.
“Oh, come on, it’s just my imagination…” Petunia said to herself.
She hoped the sound of her own voice would dispel the frightening atmosphere, but the effect was exactly the opposite.
At her words, the silence around her only thickened, and in the midst of it, the sounds of falling jelly grew even louder!
And then, in the suspiciously swaying bush, among the intertwined branches, two yellow eyes lit up!
Petunia squeaked and, forgetting everything in the world, took off running blindly.
She tore between the trees, miraculously dodging them each time, stumbling over not a single root.
Only a few low-hanging branches managed to lash her head and shoulders — and it seemed to her that someone’s hands were trying to grab her, which only frightened her more and made her run faster.
When the light finally began to thin up ahead, heralding the edge of the grove, Petunia rushed forward with a last burst of strength and tumbled out into the open, collapsing onto her knees, gasping for breath.
The house was close — there it was, fifty yards away.
The yellow eyes from the thicket had not followed her.
She looked back.
The bushes bordering the grove swayed softly, but there were no more suspicious sounds, and the yellow eyes did not reappear.
“Okay… okay…” Petunia whispered, trying to calm her racing heart.
“It worked out.
I’m safe.
I’m home.” She said that last word and froze, letting it sink in.
Home.
A strange, unfamiliar house in a strange land… but it was her home.
Her own.
And, as Mr.
Cory wrote, a place where she could be safe after sunset.
Petunia got to her feet, brushed herself off, and limped the remaining steps to the porch.
She had a suspicion she’d have a few bruises from her mad dash — she’d hit something painful with her hip, and branches had scratched her arms.
She’d need to take a closer look.
Squeezing through the door, Petunia pressed the heavy bolt firmly into its slots.
She sat down by the hearth for a while, trying to catch her breath and calm down.
The fire was still humming softly in the hearth.
Petunia threw a couple more branches into the flames.
The water in the pot had warmed up — she could wash at least a little.
Remembering the water she’d set aside for drinking, Petunia poured herself a mug and took a sip.
It was pleasantly warm and tasted of smoke, but that wasn’t something to be fussy about.
“Right then,” Petunia said to the room.
“We need to plan.” Mr.
Cory had written that the pantry would provide everything she needed but nothing extra.
That meant food didn’t count as a necessity, at least not yet.
But what about things like a knife, a fishing rod, a needle, thread?
She’d found kitchen tools, but the chest hadn’t had any sewing supplies… Maybe she needed to formulate her request more precisely?
Petunia walked up to the pantry door, took a breath, and said clearly: “I need a needle, thread, and scissors.” She hesitated and pulled the door open.
On the toilet chair, there was now a small box.
Petunia picked it up and opened it.
Inside, neatly placed, lay a pair of small scissors, several needles of different sizes, and spools of white, black, and gray thread.
“Excellent!” Petunia snatched the box and retreated.
Now she could at least mend or hem something if needed.
She stashed the box in the same chest where the kitchen utensils were kept.
The chest was, apparently, some kind of magical storage — she could probably put other things there too.
Meanwhile, the sun had set.
Petunia, glancing cautiously out the window, saw darkness fall outside with incredible speed, as if someone had simply pulled a thick black curtain over the world.
An involuntary shiver ran down her spine.
She stepped away from the window and didn’t go near it again until morning.
The night passed quietly.
The fire crackled in the hearth.
To save firewood, Petunia began to ration it — she’d bring in fresh wood in the morning.
But just to be safe, she kept the fire going through the night.
For some time, she read the newspapers spread out in the chest under the kitchen tools, but they turned out to be local publications from several years ago.
They contained nothing interesting — just announcements of sales and a few small notes about who had won the pumpkin-growing contest and whose pig had broken through the fence.
Bored, Petunia made herself comfortable by the fire and dozed off in the warmth, occasionally waking up to put more wood on and check that the flame didn’t go out until dawn.
Soon a gap between the trees loomed ahead, and within it — something white.
With her last reserves of strength, Petunia pushed forward and, nearly breathless, tumbled out into the open space, falling onto all fours, completely spent.
Her heart pounded like mad, her arms and legs trembled from exertion, and she greedily gulped the cold evening air with a mouth parched from thirst.
Once she caught her breath a little, she crawled forward, trying to get as far away from the frightening trees as possible, barely registering where or why she was going.
Only when her hand touched a brick fragment did she stop and lift her head.
Before her lay the remains of a greenhouse.
Its roof had collapsed inward; the frame gleamed white in the gathering dusk like a skeleton bleached by time, and shards of glass still jutted here and there between the panes.
The brick piece she’d grabbed was from the base that had once faced the building.
The grove behind her rustled again, and Petunia — where did the strength come from?
— scrambled nimbly to her feet and ran into the ruined greenhouse, collapsing to the floor only once she was inside.
But there, in that greenhouse, dilapidated as it was, she somehow felt safe.
Pressing her back against a fragment of wall, she breathed slowly, feeling the fear gradually recede and the heavy weariness in her arms and legs.
Without moving or even turning her head, she swept her gaze across the greenhouse’s interior.
She could still make out the remains of old planting beds and broken garden pots, with withered plant remnants poking out of them.
She could only imagine how beautiful it must have been when the greenhouse was whole, and Petunia generously imagined lush greenery, warm moist air, and bright exotic fruits hanging from branches.
But even now, there was green in here.
Her eyes, adjusting to the dimness, spotted a small patch of green.
Petunia shifted back onto all fours and, careful not to step on broken glass, crawled closer.
Several green leaves stuck out from the soil — long and narrow, shaped like daggers — and below, where the plant’s roots went into the ground, the stalk was white and thick.
Petunia had seen a similar plant at the greengrocer’s before.
Could it really be that?
Grabbing the leaves, she pulled hard, but the plant held firm with its roots.
Petunia wished she had a shovel or a hoe, but armed herself with a piece of the greenhouse frame, dug into the soil, and only then managed to yank the plant free.
It was the largest, most beautiful leek she had ever seen, with the longest and thickest white roots.
Petunia imagined how appetizingly crisp the leek would be if she ate it raw, or how much flavor it would add to her flour porridge when she tossed it into the pot, and she nearly drooled.
This leek was a truly valuable find.
A real treasure!
A sudden realization struck her: “So this is what ‘gifts of nature’ look like?!” By then, the sun had fully vanished behind the horizon.
A sliver of sky beyond the tall western hills still glowed, but it, too, would soon fade.
Petunia grabbed a protruding piece of the frame to help herself stand, then trudged toward the cottage.
Fortunately, even mad with fear, she had run in the right direction.
After passing several trees, she reached her planted beds.
The tools she’d been too lazy to bring inside right away were still lying there, and Petunia nearly caught a rake to the forehead when she tripped over them in the dark.
Grumbling, she bent down to pick them up — and immediately dropped them in disgust.
“Ugh, disgusting,” she muttered, wiping her hand — smeared with some kind of slime — on the grass, then on her pants.
Then she wiped the slimy filth off the shovel and rake handles and carried them inside.
After a quick cleanup, she set to cooking.
She washed the leek shoots she’d gathered in what was left of the water and tossed the dirty water off the porch, making sure not to leave the warm, hearth-lit room.
Then she picked one shoot, dried the rest thoroughly, and put them away.
On the cutting board — generously provided by the magical pantry — she trimmed off the root ends and the dark green parts of the leaves, then sliced the remaining stalk into pieces about half an inch thick.
By that time, the pot hanging over the hearth had warmed up.
Carefully measuring out half a cup of flour from her precious stores, Petunia poured it directly into the pot and, stirring constantly, toasted it until a rich, nutty aroma rose from the pot and the flour turned a pleasant cream color.
Hurrying and regretting that she couldn’t adjust the fire’s strength in the hearth, Petunia carefully poured a cup of water into the pot and stirred the flour thoroughly, trying to eliminate any lumps.
Then she added another cup of water — maybe a bit more — to the resulting paste.
Her vigorous stirring made the pot swing over the fire, and Petunia herself got a bit sweaty from the heat.
But hot as it was, she kept stirring, waiting for the soup to come to a boil.
Once it did, she added salt and the leek slices, followed by a few leaves — purely for aroma.
And that was it; all that remained was to wait for the leek to cook through.
Meanwhile, she could tidy up a little, set aside things for washing, and prepare her clothes for tomorrow…
about ten minutes passed in these chores.
Petunia decided the improvised soup was ready and took the pot off the fire.
The soup tasted a bit bland — a lack of spices.
Ideally, she should have salted it more generously, added some pepper, and maybe a pinch of nutmeg.
But the leek leaves gave the soup a fresh aroma, and the boiled leek pieces, soft and tender, pleasantly diversified the simple dish.
As she ate, Petunia thought about everything that had happened to her that day.
There was so much on her mind — the garden, the letter, the greenhouse, everything.
So much that she couldn’t even think fast enough.
Naturally, the idea of keeping a diary occurred to her.
That way, she could write down everything that worried her and everything that happened, remember important things, and leave notes for the future.
After dinner, she pulled a general notebook out of her satchel.
Its first pages were filled with lectures from typing courses.
Petunia didn’t remember why this notebook had been forgotten, but that forgetfulness now came in handy.
Folding back the written-on pages so they wouldn’t get in the way, Petunia picked up a pen and thought.
What was the date today?
She had met Mr.
Corey on February 25th.
The next day, she got on the coach and traveled all day and all night, and when she stepped off, she immediately landed in spring.
And not early spring, when the snow hasn’t fully melted and frost keeps returning, making people bundle back up in heavy winter clothes, but rather spring in full force — warm, bright, wildly blooming.
Well then.
Petunia neatly wrote at the top of the page: “Day 1 on the Farm” and immediately below it jotted her first question: ask Mr.
Corey what the date was.
Then the pen, as if of its own accord, began to dance across the page, recording everything on Petunia’s mind.
First, she described her plantings in detail, setting aside a separate page for tracking the harvest’s growth, then moved on to her impressions of the farm and the evening’s events.
Describing today’s incident gave her the idea to draw a map of the farm.
She boldly drew a horizontal line, added a vertical one, thus outlining the right corner — the only one she knew, since that’s where the house stood.
Then, guesstimating the scale from memory, she marked the gate, sketched a dotted path to the house’s rectangle, and noted both the mailbox and the sale stand next to it.
To the left of the house, she drew two more rectangles — one she divided into individual strips and shaded to represent the garden, and the other she simply labeled “greenhouse” and between them, she drew a few strokes to show the trees growing there.
A little below the house, another cluster of trees appeared, separating the pond from the house.
But everything beyond that territory remained unknown for now.
Petunia looked at her drawn plan and thought.
The farm, so generously placed in her hands, was truly large.
Her estimates could only be approximate, but the land here was clearly no less than a thousand acres.
On such a territory, the modest little garden she had planted looked like an utterly ridiculous joke.
A thrifty housewife — which Petunia desperately wanted to be — would certainly start an orchard, a large vegetable garden, a poultry yard, a cowshed, and pasture for goats.
She could raise fish in the pond, and if a river flowed somewhere on the still-unexplored territory, she could even set up a mill… “Honestly, how silly of me,” Petunia sighed, looking at the short list that had appeared in the margins next to her farm plan.
It included the orchard, the vegetable garden, the poultry yard, the goats, the cow, and the mill.
She shook her head, then decisively put the notebook away.
“Time for bed, Tuney.
Maybe you’ll dream of your wonderful farm.” Having said that, she laughed quietly at herself, slid the bolt, and slipped into bed.
Warmed by the heat from the hearth and the satisfying dinner inside her, Petunia quickly fell asleep.