The radishes didn’t work. I mean, they kinda worked. But there were three problems.

Problem one was that only the radishes at the center of the thaumic whorl were running at a red or two. The radishes that were further out, away from the center of the whorl were not as amplified. Some were as low as a couple hundred eerie's.

Problem two was that not only do humans find thaums tasty, so do all the other animals. Gophers, moles, rabbits, and any number of other critters ate half the crop or more. Beetles, worms, and even ants were participants. We got maybe fifteen thousand of the fifty thousand radishes we--I mean Tom--planted.

Problem three was the amount of work. We, this time meaning I, Kevin, spent 6 or more hours a day for a month playing roots music to the roots. In terms of cost-benefit, it just wasn’t there. I mean, roots isn’t my favorite genre, but it's okay. It is more that getting eight oranges each from working a full quarter of a month isn’t the kind of productivity either of us would like. Thirty days at six hours a day is almost two hundred hours of playin' for plants.

Well, mostly Tom was unhappy with the results. I was just chillin', playin Townes Van Zandt and Lucinda Williams and more. Biggest problem for me is they were a bunch of singer-songwriters without a good drum line. So I had to build my own for the songs. Tecumseh Valley wasn't hard, because it's got a nearly drum beat, but some of these others tunes are rough. I had to shade into the Dead and Bob Seger and other folks playin' Dylan to get good roots-y rhythms. I guess Juliard wasn't a complete waste. I apparently learned something about composition.

Tom figured he could get better at this whole thing. Mixing rapid breeding and his plantomancy, he thought he could improve. Also, we discovered that it only takes about four hours of play to get a radish crop to fill up on thaums.

Second month, we raise three batches of radishes, at two reds apiece. Third month, we raise three batches at two and a half apiece. Each month, we’re losing more to varmints than we recover. We really need terriers or gopher-poison. Overall, three months spent, another hundred oranges gained.

We hunted each day too for an hour or so. That was worth a couple hundred. The crocodile by itself was worth five each. But it was forty feet long, six inch teeth, and scary as hell. Might as well have been a dinosaur. We were pretty close before I noticed it. I gotta do something about "searing" things that are in the water. I need to handle stuff that’s underground too. I can just imagine a giant mole or badger popping up to bite my foot off.

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Besides huntin’ and growin' vegetables, reds are literally falling out of my ears. I’ve got the whorl down to a five layered oscillation at eight times speed. Thaumic density is almost sixty times what it naturally is, but that’s not helping the plants any longer. On the other hand, I can pull several reds an hour out of my ear.

After four months on the farm, I'm pretty done. I'm a drummer, not a hunter, and not a farmer. Tom is kind, laconic, and he doesn’t go for a lot of kinds of music. Just really old country. Garth Brooks and that kind of thing. While I enjoy it a bit, they don’t have enough drums. I need a band. Over dinner that night, we talk about it.

“Hey Tom.”

“Whassup kid?”

“I need a band.”

“Kinda figgered. ‘S been real nice havin’ ya. And it’s been good fer the plants. When ya leavin’?”

“I should probably bugger out tomorrow. Anything I can do before I go?”

“Nah. Thanks for spendin’ a couple months with an old man. I’ll miss yer drummin’. Or at least the plants will.” He chuckles at me. "Imma get some sleep tonight, so I can see ya off in the mornin’. G’nite kid.”

“Goodnight, Tom.”

The next morning comes, and I’m packing up my stuff.

Tom ambles out of his room, cooks up some coffee and breakfast, and finally says something.

“Know where you’re goin’ kid?”

“I dunno. I’m lookin’ for people. You got any ideas?”

“Last couple fellers came by came from thataway. If ‘twere me, I’d head that way.”

“Thanks. Then that’s the way I’ll go.”

As I’m turning to leave, he calls out, “Hey kid.”

I turn back, and he pulls out a beautifully crafted, standard guitar, with a radish etched on its face.

“You seem kinda forgetful. Figure you could use somethin’ to remember this farm by.”

“Thanks, Tom. I didn’t get you anything.”

“I know, kid. Yer a drummer, not a builder. Go get to drummin’. Come back and visit someday.”

He stands there watching me as I drum and speedwalk my way off towards the hills. When I look back for the last time, all I can see are his white shirt, blue jeans, black face and white hat. I’m gonna miss the old fart.