Fortune's Magic Farm by Suzanne Selfors (i read book .TXT) 📗

he touches things they grow extra-fast. If he stays in one place for too long, whatever he’s sitting on or lying on starts to grow. Hey, Walnut. Wake up.”

The old man yawned. He scratched the bald spot at the top of his head. His long white hair grew in a ridge above his ears and hung past his shoulders. “Where am I?” he asked, spitting out a leaf.

“The Northern Shore,” Sage replied. “You fell asleep.”

“Oh. Why, hello, Sage.” He sat up and his wrinkled face folded into a smile. He had a gentle face that reminded Isabelle of the twins, Boris and Bert. But unlike the twins, the Walnut fellow had a full set of teeth.

Sage held out his hand and helped Walnut to his feet. “I’ve just returned from Runny Cove,” Sage told him.

“What’s that you say?” Walnut pushed back his hair and pulled a fern out of his ear, roots and all. “Fernicus Splendiferous,” he mumbled, examining the plant. “Native only to the Northern Shore. Prefers moist soil, filtered light and, so it would seem, ear cavities.”

Sage rolled his eyes. “Walnut, I’ve brought the tender.”

“Oh?” Walnut stuffed the fern into his pocket and pulled another fern from his other ear. “Say again?”

“The tender. The one we’ve been looking for.”

“Why yes, of course. Where is he?”

“Behind you.”

The old man pulled a pair of glasses from the pocket of his plaid jacket and perched them on the ridge of his nose. Then he turned and looked at the front of Isabelle, then walked around to her back, then back to her front again. Isabelle stood very still. She had been inspected many times before. Mr. Supreme’s assistants always inspected the workers to make certain no one tried to sneak an umbrella out of the factory, and Mama Lu inspected her tenants for hitch-hiking slugs.

Walnut furrowed his brow and shook his head. “I don’t think this is a boy, Sage. I think it’s a girl.”

Sage rolled his eyes again.

Was Walnut the person who would answer all of her questions? It didn’t seem likely, if he had been expecting a boy. He stood about the same height as Isabelle so when he leaned close they were nose to nose. He blinked eyes as green as moss. “She doesn’t look anything like a Fortune. Are you certain?”

“She made the Love Apple seed sprout. She’s got it with her.”

Walnut pushed his glasses further up his nose. “But whatever is the matter with her head? She’s got another set of eyes right at the top of her head. Is she… deformed?”

Isabelle pushed the marmot onto her shoulder. “It’s my marmot,” she explained.

Walnut scratched his nose with a dirt-stained fingernail and peered at the furry creature. “Yellow-bellied Marmoticus Terriblus, a rock-throwing rodent native to the mountainous regions of the north. Impressive frontal fangs.” Then he turned his attention back to Isabelle. “You don’t look very healthy. Are you dying?”

“I don’t think so.” Isabelle stifled a cough.

“It’s just that you’re so pale and thin. You look like you’ve been living in a hole.”

“I’ve been living at Mama Lu’s Boardinghouse.” The cough overtook her and she turned away, her lungs rattling with each breath.

“Living in Runny Cove is like living in a hole,” Sage told Walnut. “There’s no sun.”

“No sun?” Walnut gasped. “How can a tender live without sun? Well, all that will soon change. She’ll soak up the sun like a banana tree. What’s this?” He peeled a piece of lichen from Isabelle’s hair. “Lichen Itchycus.” He smiled. “How wonderful. I wasn’t able to grow Lichen Itchycus until after my twentieth birthday. What else can you grow?”

Isabelle cleared her throat. “Mushrooms. But only after I’ve been walking in the mud and my socks get all wet.”

“Between your toes?”

“Yes.”

“Delightful! Fungus Amongus, a toe-loving mushroom with culinary aspirations. I have known a few people who were squeamish about eating toe mushrooms but I can assure you that the soup is to die for.”

“Now do you believe me?” Sage asked. “She’s the missing tender.”

“Indeed.” The old man clapped his hands. “Indeed, indeed, indeed.” Then he grabbed Isabelle’s hand and shook it. “Welcome. My name is Walnuticus Bartholomew Fortune, but you can call me Great-Uncle Walnut.”

“Great-uncle?” Isabelle’s entire body stiffened. This was it. The it she had dreamed about. “Really? You are my great-uncle?”

“None other.” He let go of her hand and freed a bit of shrubbery from his sleeve. “And what might your name be?”

“Isabelle.”

Walnut frowned. “Isabelle? That’s not much of a name, is it? Not the sort of family name we usually have. Would you be amenable to changing it, say perhaps to Floribundy, or Violabombola?”

Isabelle shrugged. “I’ve always been Isabelle.”

“We should get going,” Sage interrupted. “I’ll hitch the oxen.” He strode over to the creek.

Walnut pointed the bit of shrubbery at Isabelle. “What about Horticulturina? She was your great-great-great-great-grandmother. Truly one of the finest tenders the world has ever known. Her spit could quench a plant’s thirst for months at a time—most convenient during a drought. But Isabelle? Who could possibly have chosen such a plain name as Isabelle?”

Isabelle didn’t want to hurt her great-uncle’s feelings, having just met him. But her Grandma Maxine had chosen the name and it had always seemed like a fine name. And the names Uncle Walnut had mentioned were long and difficult to pronounce.

“Are you really my great-uncle?”

“Indeed. Brother to your grandfather.”

“I have a grandfather?” Her voice rose excitedly. It was all coming true, just as she had hoped. She had a family.

Walnut cleared a few more branches from his clothing. “What about Petuniarium? That was my mother’s name. Or Larkspuria? That was the name of my first love.” He sighed, then snapped his fingers. “Oh, I know. Why not change your name to Vanillabeanly since you are so pale. I think that suits you. Vanillabeanly Fortune.”

Luckily, Isabelle didn’t have to tell her great-uncle that she thought all those names were a bit weird, because Rolo the raven swooped from the sky, filling the meadow with his cries.

Sage, who had been leading