Page 10 of Howls & Harvest

“You’re going to love Puckley’s.” Ronan slides into the driver’s seat, pressing a button on the dashboard. The Hover-Hauler hums to life, gliding smoothly forward. “We’re picking up most of the ingredients for the town feast there.”

Cruising through town, I marvel at the sights, still not used to all this. Fairies flit between flower baskets, their wings catching the morning light while a group of gnomes argues over the proper way to hang a banner, their voices high-pitched and excitable.

“So, Candice,” says Ronan, breaking me from my observations. “What do you think of Evershift Haven now?”

I turn to him, noticing how the sunlight catches the silver streaks in his fur. “It’s...overwhelming. Amazing. I keep thinking I’ll wake up, and this will all have been a dream.”

He nods, his expression understanding. “It’s a lot to take in, but you’re handling it well. Some humans don’t adjust so easily.”

“What happens to them?”

He grows serious. “We have ways of erasing memories, if necessary. It’s not ideal, but it protects both them and us.”

The thought of forgetting all this magic makes my heart ache. “I don’t want to forget,” I say firmly.

Our gazes meet, and for a second, I’m lost in their piercing blue depths. “I’m glad to hear that,” he says softly.

We lapse into comfortable silence as the town gives way to rolling countryside. Fields of shimmering crops stretch as far as the eye can see, punctuated by orchards, where fruit seems to glow with an inner light.

“Here we are,” he says as we pull up to a sprawling farmhouse. The building seems to be alive, its wooden walls shifting and creaking as if breathing.

Puckley emerges from the house, her moss-covered skin glowing in the morning sun. “Welcome, welcome.” she calls, her voice as rich and earthy as freshly tilled soil. “Come to collect some of the harvest, have you?”

When we climb out of the truck, I’m struck by the vibrant energy emanating from the farm. The very air seems to hum with life. “Puckley,” I say, unable to contain my curiosity, “How does magical farming work? Is it very different from regular farming?”

She beckons us to follow her into the fields. “Oh, my dear, you’re in for a treat. Magical farming is a dance with nature itself.”

While walking, Puckley explains the intricacies of her craft. “Regular farming is all about coaxing what nature has already given—careful timing, feeding, weeding, and hoping the rain falls just right. In magical farming, you’re more than a caretaker. You’re a partner in the life cycle.”

She stops by a row of tomatoes, their leaves shimmering faintly under the autumn sun. “These beauties here have minds of their own—plants know what they need, and they’ll tell you, if you’re open to listening.” She taps her ear, winking at me. “See, enchanted plants like to have a say. They’ll grow faster or slower depending on their mood, and the energy around them, and sometimes, they even prefer certain songs over others. You don’t just feed the soil. You nourish the spirit of the plant.”

I watch in awe as Puckley hums a soft melody. The tomato plants seem to sway in response, their fruits plumping before my eyes.

“That’s incredible,” I say, “But how do you know what they need?”

She chuckles, digging a hand into a pouch at her waist. “It’s all about intention and connection. Watch this.”

She sprinkles a pinch of glittering soil around the base of a towering sunflower. The plant shivers, and suddenly, its petals burst into a brilliant array of colors.

“Regular soil, you test it, amend it, do what you must to get the right mix. This here,” she says, patting the dirt affectionately, “Is truly living soil. It carries intention. One sprinkle of enchanted soil like this can revive a field or bring strength to a sapling, but it’s also sensitive to balance. Too much magic, and you’ll get an overgrown forest overnight.”

Continuing through the fields, I’m struck by the harmony between Puckley and her crops. Plants seem to reach out to her as she passes, and she greets each one like an old friend.

“What about pests?” I ask, remembering the constant battle against insects and diseases in my small herb garden back home.

She grins, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Ah, now that’s where it gets fun. In magical farming, we don’t fight pests. We negotiate with them.”

She leads us to a patch of what looks like ordinary lettuce. When we approach, I notice tiny, shimmering creatures flitting between the leaves.

“These are leaf sprites,” she says. “They help keep the plants healthy in exchange for a small portion of the harvest. It’s all about balance and mutual respect.”

I crouch down, watching the sprites at work. One notices me and zips over, hovering inches from my nose. Its tiny face scrunches up in curiosity before it darts away, leaving a trail of sparkling dust. “They’re beautiful.”

“Very,” says Ronan, his voice soft. I look up to find him watching me, a warm smile on his face.

While we continue our tour, Puckley shares more magical farming secrets. She shows us self-watering melons that store rainwater in pocket dimensions, and pumpkins that change flavor based on the stories told to them as they grow. “And don’t get me started on weeds,” she says with a laugh. “Pulling them out of regular soil is work, but enchanted weeds? They’ll argue with you the whole time, swearing they have just as much right to be there as the crops.”

As if on cue, a patch of dandelions near our feet begins to rustle. “We’re not weeds, we’re wildflowers,” says a tiny, indignant voice. “You’re just biased against yellow.”

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