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

caravan into the wet driftwood. Rocky followed the other marmots as they scurried off into the fog.

“Rocky?”

“Don’t worry. They can smell the clover,” Walnut explained, wrinkling his nose. “But I don’t see how with that stench in the air.” He pointed to the distant hill where the factory sat, a multicolored plume snaking from its chimney.

“THANK YOU, KING NEPTUNE,” Nesbitt said, bowing to the seal. “WE WOULD BE FOREVER GRATEFUL IF YOU AND YOUR PROMINENT PROBOSCIS WOULD AWAIT OUR RETURN.” Neptune nodded and rolled onto his back for a belly scratch. “And thank you, lovely ladies,” Nesbitt said to the wives, who had perfect hearing. “May I add that both of your rumps are looking plumper than usual.” They batted their lashes at him.

The wind stung Isabelle’s face and her lower jaw began to tremble. Sadness swooped down and covered her like a blanket. Can I do this, or have I made a terrible mistake? she wondered. For sadness can make a person feel small.

Her grandfather, sensing her doubts, placed his hand on her shoulder. His strong, steady grip eased her fear. She wasn’t alone. She had two tenders, a protector, and an army of rowdy rodents on her side. The happy ending was at hand.

Sadness only makes you feel small if you let it.

“Follow me,” she said.

As dawn’s faint rays filtered through the ceiling of clouds, Isabelle led her companions across the driftwood forest, up and over the sand dunes to the edge of the gravel road, midway between the village and the factory.

“How do you wish to proceed?” Nesbitt asked.

“Me?” Isabelle strained her neck to look into his eyes. “You’re the Head Tender. Shouldn’t you make that decision?”

“My dear Isabelle.” His back creaked as he bent close to her. “You have chosen to use magic for its very best purpose—to improve the lives of your fellow human beings. And you made that choice, not after years of study and training, but simply by using your heart. Today, you are the honorary Head Tender.”

“Congratulations,” Sage said.

“Wow. Thank you.” Isabelle’s mind raced. What should she do next? “We can’t deliver the cherries to the boardinghouses because the landladies will take the fruit for themselves. Believe me. They take everything.”

“I like a woman who knows what she wants.”

Nesbitt folded his arms. “We are not here to find you a wife, Walnut. Go on, Isabelle.”

“We can’t take the cherries to the factory because we don’t want Mr. Supreme to know about them. Or to know about us.”

“Right,” Sage agreed.

BAROOO!

Walnut almost dropped the chest. “What was that? It sounded like a dragon’s fart. Are there dragons around here?”

“That was the factory’s horn,” Isabelle explained. “It’s time for the workers to leave the boardinghouses.” Then it dawned on her. “Almost everyone works at the factory. We can hand out the cherries right here in the road, before they reach the factory. Then Mr. Supreme and his assistants won’t see us.”

“That seems an excellent plan,” Nesbitt said.

And so they waited. The sound of coughing was the first thing to emerge from the fog bank—lots and lots of coughing. Next came the sound of marching feet. Isabelle’s feet began to march in place, entirely of their own volition, matching the marching rhythm of the workers. The morning march was as much a part of her feet as her toes and toenails. Then pasty faces and yellow slickers emerged. Row after row of workers walked up the road, with eyes half-closed and faces void of expression, their puckered skin as translucent as the fog. Isabelle brushed her fingers over her smooth, sun-kissed face. No wonder Sage had called her ugly.

“Sadness,” Nesbitt said quietly. “They are shrouded in sadness.”

As the front of the crowd drew closer, Isabelle stepped into the middle of the road. “Hello,” she called out, waving. “I’ve come back.”

One might think that the sight of the four strangers in kelp suits would have stopped the factory workers dead in their tracks. One might think that they would have noticed a skinny boy with tangled black hair, a short old man with long white hair, a tall old man with orange-streaked hair, and a girl with hair as green as a blade of grass. But they continued their steady march up the road, sloshing through the potholes and mud.

“Wait,” Isabelle cried.

“We can’t wait,” a worker said. “If we wait then we’ll be late.”

“But it’s me, Isabelle. I’ve come back. I’m here to help you.”

Walnut pulled his glasses from his pocket and slid them onto his wet nose. Then he nudged Isabelle. “Who is that woman with the gray hair and prune-like face?” Of course, he had just described every woman in the crowd. “The one pushing her way to the front? Look how strong she is, how forceful, like a plow. Is she married? I like a woman with spunk.”

“Let me through!” Grandma Maxine elbowed her way out of the crowd. Her long braid fell free as she pushed off her slicker’s hood and held out her arms. “Isabelle! I heard your voice. Look at you. You’re the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.”

The very worst part of the last few days was laid to rest as Isabelle hugged her living, breathing grandmother. Grandma Maxine squeezed so hard she lifted Isabelle right off her feet. She had grown so strong, she could probably beat Mama Lu in a game of tug-o-war.

After wiping away tears of happiness, Isabelle took her grandmother’s hand. “Grandma, look who I’ve brought. This is my grandfather, Nesbitt Rhododendrol Fortune.”

“It is an honor to meet you,” Nesbitt said with a bow. Even when bowing, he still towered over most everyone. “Thank you for taking care of Isabelle. I will be forever in your debt.”

Grandma Maxine’s smile fell. “Yes, you will,” she replied sternly, shaking a finger. “Terrible thing to leave a baby on a doorstep. What kind of people are you?”

“They are good people, really they are,” Isabelle said. “This is my Great-Uncle Walnuticus Bartholomew Fortune.”

“Please call me Walnut, madame.” He also bowed.