“Eh, maybe I was wrong,” Fealux said, around a trumpeting yawn that offered me a full view of his peculiar dental work.

“You’re kidding!” I said.

His response was a shrug that filled the room. “I told you, I’m not a druid. My information is all second-hand.”

I looked again at the collection of leaves splayed on the table in front of me. I’d pruned half the nursery trying to make this work. “I must be missing something.”

“I’m not sure what to tell you. It’s supposed to be innate. Maybe you’re thinking too hard.”

As Fealux had explained it, all things were connected. Everything that lived, in any way shape or form, had an energy. This energy was not confined to them. It leaked from them, into a great mesh of life that sat like a blanket across, well, everything. A druid, as he told it, saw this energy. Our gift — sorry, curse — was that we could tap into the energy leaking from one living thing to another, and even influence it to an extent. That was why I could understand Clive. That was why I should be able to see the properties of a herb, to know a living thing intimately. To see what it could do, and what it could be.

I couldn’t see anything but leaves.

“Maybe there’s something wrong with the plants.” I toyed with the idea, but it sounded weak even to me. I’d already stared down everything that grows in our little shop — with the exception of Mopla, who I’d rather not see or hear anything from after a night of heavy drinking.

We’d been at it for a good while. The sky wine was long since finished, and we were back on tea. I still had candles burning, so it felt like we were in a bubble of eternal night. I suspected it was probably morning twilight already, though.

“It’s late, Mel. Your company is most enjoyable, but I am old enough and wise enough to know when my bones need rest.” Fealux smiled. “Perhaps we can continue another day.”

“One more try, please.” I’d said this a few times already.

“You’ve said that several times already.”

Ah, seems he caught that.

“This will be the last one, I promise.”

“A promise is not something to be taken lightly, young druid.” He was solemn, but there was humour in his voice. “I must demand of you that you honour your word and allow this weary traveller to rest his head for what little remains of the dwindling night.”

“Last one.”

“Last one.” He sighed. “Okay, pick the leaf that feels the most alive to you.”

Neat trick, I’d clipped them all from their plants; I don’t think any of them could be described as alive. I selected a palm-sized leaf from the nightshade family — it looked a little greener and waxier than the rest. “Okay, this one.”

Fealux frowned slightly, but I think he’d lost the will to challenge me. “That will do. Okay, place a hand either side of the leaf. Do not make contact, for that will trigger the wrong senses.”

Hand either side. Easy. “Okay.”

“Now, try and experience the gulf between your hands. Try to notice the heat, the spark, the writhing of life.”

I felt the table. I felt the grain beneath my fingers. The warmth of my own hands stood out to me. I could feel the tiny hairs twitch to life on the back of my hand as my pores gasped and gaped.

“Within that gulf,” Fealux continued, “is a universe of life. It sings with its hunger, its thirst, its desire to grow, reproduce and spread. Do you feel it?”

Still pretty tabley, actually. “I’m not sure.”

“It should feel like an extension of yourself, but also alien, in a very familiar way.”

Not sure how I’m supposed to feel contradictions, but that probably wasn’t a useful criticism. “I’m trying.”

“All things are forever communicating. Just like the bugs you told me of, in the forest. Their ‘voice’ is their constant need, their will to live and be part of the whole. That leaf also has a voice. Find the voice that fits this one. Single it out. It will call to you.”

Am I feeling or am I listening, Fealux? Which is it? “I don’t hear anything.”

“Not with your ears.”

Helpful. “My hands hear even less.”

“Use your instinct. Try and remember what it feels like when the chicken talks to you. He communicates in the same way as the plant. It is just energy spilling from one living thing to the next.”

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“But I hear Clive. Clive is just plain loud.”

“No, Mel, you experience Clive.” He sounded exasperated, and I had to admit that was fair — we’d debated this point a couple of times already. “If you don’t stop trying to hear the plant and instead experience it then you will be closed off from it.”

“I’m just doing what you told me to do!”

“I have not the words for this, Mel. You ask me to describe something I have never experienced myself. Just try.”

I tried to envision a swirl of life emanating from the solitary leaf. I tried to picture it snaking from its body, a golden thread of life, caressing my hands and tangling with my own aura.

It was a pretty picture, but I felt nothing.

I slumped back in my chair, defeated. “Nothing.”

Fealux simply nodded, unsurprised. “Perhaps this is not a skill to be learned in an evening.”

“You said it was innate.”

“I also said I am not a druid, and I do not truly know of these things.” He massaged his brow. “Maybe training is required, or maybe it will simply come to you.”

“Or maybe I’m a broken druid, and I’ll never be able to get anything out of this curse. I’m doomed only to chat with poultry for the rest of my days.” That was a chilling thought.

“Then you will make an excellent farmer one day.” He finished his tea in a way that very much signalled he was done.

“For just a second, I thought that maybe being a druid could be useful. I thought maybe there was some trade-off for all the running and hiding I’m forced to do.” I felt a lump in my throat. “I don’t know, I thought maybe I could help people or something.”

“And that they would no longer resent you for being what you are?” Fealux guessed.

Anvil, it didn’t sound great when you put it like that. “Is that so bad? So I don’t want to be hated; does that make me a bad person?” I could feel myself welling up. I had enough wherewithal to wonder how much my tears were composed of Runoff and sky wine.

I felt Fealux digging deep for the patience to comfort me — I had to marvel at his compassion. “If that makes you bad then we are all a little bad. Nobody wants to feel an outcast. Least of all those who had no say in their fate.”

“It just doesn’t seem fair.” He handed me a handkerchief to catch my six proof tears. “I’m not even good at being the bad guy!” I laughed, and maybe it was a bit manically.

“Go to bed, Mel,” Fealux said, not unkindly. “There is nothing more to be gained from torturing yourself.”

“Sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying.” I wiped and laughed and wiped and laughed, and felt several shades of silly.

“Tomorrow you will wake up and realise that it is good to be Mel. It is good to have friends and family, and to make tea, grow vegetables, and, yes, it is even good to talk to chickens.” He winked.

“Ha! Doubtful. If that happens, I’ll have woken up a very different Mel.”

I woke up a very different Mel.

I woke up a horrifically sick Mel.

Unless the light was lying to me, it was afternoon — fast becoming a regular time for me to wakeup — and the sky was ablaze. Someone had dragged the sun closer. It had burned the clouds with its Forge fuelled fire and set them dancing in the sky like candles floating on a pond. It was dreadful.

I lay in bed battling my hangover like a knight against a dragon. The beast snapped and clawed at me relentlessly, and I took every blow through wicker armour and a shield of parchment. My head rang beneath my helmet, rattling through my teeth.

Curses upon Runoff, and curses upon sky wine. May every bottle be buried beneath the boundless oceans and guarded by sea wolves.

“How is our resident party animal?” Alicia said, announcing herself with a delicate knock that was absolutely deafening.

“Aaaah,” I replied.

“I thought you might say that.” There was amusement in her voice that I found just plain rude. “Tea and soup for our wounded warrior?”

“Ugh, I don’t think I can.”

“Best you try. Future Mel will thank you.”

“Mel has no future,” I said, shuffling up in the bed.

I tucked my pillow behind my back and cringed as my fingers brushed a pool of drool.

“Here.” Alicia handed me a cup of tea. “The lady I got this from assures me this brew will put a spring back in even the most exhausted young lady’s step.”

Cute. It was one of my own concoctions. “Thanks.” I took a sip of piping hot liquid and grimaced. “Ugh, it tastes like sky wine.” Even the air tasted like sky wine. It was tragic.

“Sky wine tea, now there’s an untapped market.”

“Why are you so chipper? Not fair,” I grumbled.

“Because I know when to stop.” She wagged a finger.

Okay, a little fair. “Did Fealux get back alright? I don’t remember him leaving.”

“Fealux was found in the early hours of the morning, slumped in the same chair he spent the entire night. I’m told his snoring woke Mirra.”

“Poor guy.” I took another sip, enjoying the heat more than the tea itself.

“She walked him to his tavern earlier. The way she tells it, I think it’s fair to say he’ll be sleeping that one off for a while.” Alicia had a sly, knowing look to her. I suspect she took a shred of pleasure at our comeuppance.

“That’s a shame. He’s good company.”

“Always has been, that one. Just as well, when you talk as much as that, you’d best be interesting!”

I snorted. “He does love the sound of his own voice.”

“Any more excitement after I left?”

“I mostly just scowled at tea leaves.”

“A fine pastime.”

“And felt rubbish about being a rubbish druid.”

Alicia frowned. “Don’t forget it was druids that caused the drought. I’d say you’re a good deal better than that lot.”

“So that’s the trick, just set the bar ridiculously low. Iffan could turn back floodwaters, and my ability is that I can not murder all Tythia?” It was meant to be funny, but I think it came across as sullen.

Alicia lay on her side, right over my legs. She was heavy, but I didn’t have the energy to move her. “So that’s why you’ve got a face of thunder?”

“That and the hangover.”

“First she doesn’t want to be a druid, and now she’s upset because she’s not enough of a druid! My, my, my, the youth of today.” She was enjoying teasing me way more than I appreciated right now.

“If you’re going to be and awful person, you may as well do it well.” I leant my head back against the wall and swore at it for not being cooler.

“Carrob seeds, pounded to a dust. Simmer in sugared water overnight. Add fresh mint, a spoon of animal fat, and a paste of dixit, raindew, chestnut and sage.”

“What’s that, a hangover cure?” And if so, why didn’t you bring it?

“That’s the very first remedy I learned to mix myself. A helpful one too, as it helped Iffan’s migraines,” she recalled.

“Hold on, you know some remedies? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Just basic stuff. They always come out better when a druid makes them.” She reached for the book on my bedside table and started flicking through idly. “I’m not a druid, by any stretch of the imagination. Still, when we came here years back, I decided I had a choice.”

“What choice?”

“I could either beat myself up over what I could and couldn’t do, or” —she handed me the book— “I could learn.”