O’Carroll, locked her eyes on me.

“There ye are, ye wee scamp!  Why did ye run off when ye knew your mother needed your help?”

I shifted on the old rock pile deep in the cool woods, turning to look at my mother as she approached.  “I’m not a help,” I said.  “Aunt Ash says I never get all the weeds out.”

“Aw but lad, your darling aunt is just trying to teach ya to be thorough.  What have I taught ye about that?” She was close now, just a few feet away, and she leaned over, resting one hand on a big rock near my leg.

“A witch has to be sure.  A witch has to check and check again.”

“Like Mr. McKenzie always says when he’s fixing things around our place. Measure twice, cut once.”

“But it’s not my fault… the weeds break,” I said.

“Of course they break, lad.  They don’t want to leave our lovely garden, now do they?” she said with a smile.  She reached out and touched my nose.  “Why is it I always find ye here, on this heap o’rocks?”

“The forest likes me,” I said.

“Oh, it does, does it?” she asked, eyes wide.

I nodded. “Especially here, by these rocks.  It even keeps the skeeters away,” I said.

Her smile slid away and she looked around my favorite spot like she was only just seeing it.  “Now that’s a curious thing, it is,” she wondered, closing her eyes, her face calming.  Much as I liked to see her smile, I liked it best when she listened to me like I was older and knew things.

“Well then, that’s a bit of a surprise, isn’t it?” she asked, eyes opening and widening just a bit.  “I ken what ya mean, boyo. It’s very calm and peaceful here, isn’t it?”

I nodded and her smile returned.  “But I do need your help, laddie.  Our garden needs the both of us and your tired aunt is busy cooking for the guests, now isn’t she?”

“Yes, Mama,” I said, climbing down off my rock pile.  “Bye, forest… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Still smiling, she took my hand in hers and we walked out of the woods and across the grassy yard to the big patch of dirt and plants.

“Now then, what do we do before we enter?” she asked.

“We ask for blessings and we touch the key,” I said.

“Keystone, lad, but yes.  Why?”

“Because our food comes from the Earth and we want to thank her for it.  And we touch the key stone to keep the deer from eating all our food.”

“Deer, wee rabbits, groundhogs, and the bane of your aunt’s existence, the chipmunks,” she agreed, gesturing for me to touch the stone.

I thought about the garden and, like my mother had taught me, imagined an invisible fence that ringed the plants with protection.  When I could see it glimmer like gold in my head, I reached down and touched the rock.  It was big and gray, and it sat on what Mama called the west node.

A tiny spark jumped from the rock to my finger and then back again.

“This rock is from the pile in the woods, isn’t it, Mama?” I asked as realization bloomed.

“Well now, that’s true, but just how are ye knowing that?”

“It just feels like the ones in the pile,” I said.

“Oh, you’re a sharp one, Declan me boy.  Now, how about I show ye a way to get the weeds to give themselves up to ye?”

“Like the bad guys to the sheriff?” I asked.

“Jest like that,” she agreed.  “And if ye listen close and try real hard, after we’re done, I’ll show ye a new trick, how’s that?”

I loved learning my mother’s tricks, so I nodded and knelt down next to her by a row of beets.

“The thing about weeds is that they’ll listen to ye, lad.  Ye was born knowing the Earth, and the weeds and the beets are both of the Earth.  So what ye need to do is first thank the weed for growing and tell it how proud ye are of it.  Then ye jest need to explain that it doesn’t need to do its growing here, next to the beets, and if it will just pop on out of the ground, ye’ll show it to where it might be fine growing.”

“You mean the yard?” I asked.  The plants in my mother and aunt’s yard didn’t look like the ones our neighbor had.  Instead of just straight green blades of grass, our yard was a wild jumble of dandelion flowers and other plants that Mother said had more of a right to grow there than what she called AstroTurf.

“Aye lad,” she said.  “Now attend, me boy, for this is Craft.”

Those words were guaranteed to capture my attention.  Crafting was everything.  She knelt, folding down gracefully, and cupped her hands around a weed which I recognized as clover, a fact I now find ironic, but at six I was just excited to know its name.  She whispered to the clover, her words too soft to hear but the warm tone of them familiar and comfortable.  Her body glowed with soft green light to my eyes, something I had already learned that most people couldn’t see.  She lifted her hands, just loosely cupped around the weed, but it came right out of the ground and she set it into the gardening basket by her side.

“Now you try,” she said.

I did. I spoke to the clover, loud enough for her to hear my words, a smile forming on her lips.  “Mr. Plant, you are big and strong.  Will you go to my yard?”  It worked on the first try, not as smoothly as she did it, but the weed, a plantain I think, came out, roots and all.

“Look at you, getting it right the first time,” she exclaimed, her pleased surprise real and sincere.

Eager for praise, I jumped to the next one, and the one after.  I stumbled a bit on that one, rushing my plea and yanking instead of coaxing.  The plant, a

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