The Winged Child by Henry Mitchell

Author:Henry Mitchell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Creative James Media

“We’ll be back before sundown,” Millicent said to Molly Deere, who governed the settlement’s day school. Alice sailed away to join several other children who were cavorting among the topmost branches of an old hemlock. “Here’s her lunch,” the mother said as she handed a loaded basket to the teacher. “There’s plenty in there to share.”

“We’ll be fine,” Molly said, taking the food. “Don’t get lost out on the mountain.”

Millicent laughed. “Don’t worry. We can’t get lost anymore. The trees know us too well.”

“You hunting today, are you?” Molly asked, as she glanced over her shoulder to ascertain that her squealing charges were still aloft.

“Yes. One of the foragers told Eric they had come across a colony of Queen’s Crown. We’re going to see if there are any suitable for transplanting in the Talking Garden.”

“Children, come down from there before somebody takes you for fairies,” Molly called aloud. Get you all now to Learning Circle, she thought at them when she had their attention. She turned back to Millicent. “Is it true what they say at the Hungry Dragon? Do Queen’s Crown really speak?”

“Not aloud,” said Millicent. “They’re just lilies, after all. But Eric’s starting to connect with them. They come through so wordy, it feels almost like they are voices. Eric thinks they might be a bridge into Greenmind, that we might be on the brink of deep conversation with Shaconage.”

Be found, thought Molly, Laurel’s equivalent of have-a-nice-day.

“You, too,” said Millicent aloud. All who knew her said she was talkative. She still harbored a fondness for the soundful flow of words spoken. In her opinion, a stream lived in its music. Behind her, the air was a clamor with childmind as she turned and hurried away to meet her husband, who would have their gear packed and ready by now.

She found him waiting with Sergeant at the Talking Garden. Eric started the garden soon after his arrival in the district. There among the green lives he collected, he called them his “influencers,” he pursued his neurobotany experiments, heavily biased by an obsessive conviction that, eventually, plants could become as communicative with humans as they were among themselves.

Sergeant, who grew up on a farm, and so far, having minimal policing duties in the Laurel, had volunteered as a practically full-time assistant gardener. He proved to have a knack for gleaning impressions, and occasionally, messages from Greenmind. “He grew up close to the ground,” Eric told Millicent in a praiseful moment. “It shows.”

When he saw his wife, Eric gestured at his companion. “Sergeant wants to go with us,” he said. “We might need some help carrying back our finds.”

“My husband is so optimistic,” Millicent said to Sergeant. “But there’s a good walk in it for you, at least.”

Sergeant just grinned and hoisted his pack, a large basket woven from white oak splits, fitted with shoulder straps. It was mostly empty. Eric’s plan was that it would be filled with green life by the time they started home. He slipped Millicent’s basket onto her shoulders and she adjusted it to comfort.

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