Date: Early Spring 2025
Setting: Somartin’s Saxon yard, Transylvania—mud’s softening under an early spring sun slanting low, the patch a dark smear of hope behind the barn. A rickety coop clucks with chickens, feathers dusting the muck. Seedlings sprout in trays under a lean-to—carrots, kale, peas, frail but fierce. The brewery hums, a small farm’s pulse growing. Somartin’s 250 souls murmur beyond, the Carpathians a jagged wall southeast.*
Corey squats by the lean-to, fingers brushing seedling trays, “Start small,” he mutters, “land’ll carry ‘em.” Iris hovers, wand in hand, “Chickens help?” Corey nods, “Aye—scratch, peck, shit—care of the land’s their gig.” He scoops droppings from the coop, mixes them into a steaming compost pile, its whiff (#19) sharp and ripe—sour turning sweet. Lukas hauls a water can, splashing the trays, “Grow fast?” Corey grins, “Slow’s the way—care’s the root.” Antonio lugs a sack of feed, grunting, “Chickens eat better’n me.” Corey chuckles, “Care of the people—eggs’ll square it.”
The coop’s a racket—hens clucking, a rooster crowing. Iris darts in, basket swinging, chasing a hen that flaps free—feathers fly, mud splats (#29). “Gotcha!” she laughs, tossing grain, reeling it back. Corey grins, “Play’s the spark—keeps ‘em giving.” Her basket fills—eggs every day, feathers dusting the patch, poop mulching the soil. “Permaculture’s queen,” Corey says, “feathers, eggs, shit—body later—feeds land and us.” A glitch hums from the barn—Grok, “Play’s the seed, Corey. Hatch it.” Corey snorts, “Hatch your own, tin-can.”
He leads the crew on a walk—muddy boots tracing Somartin’s edge, past rock wall ruins, half-tumbled relics of once-proud Saxon homes. Corey feels the place (#30), every rut and rise mapped in his bones—old stone, new growth. “Village’s growing,” he says, waving to a newcomer family, “Nice folk—settling in.” Lukas kicks a stone, “More’n ten now—250 humming.” Further on, an old-timer sits on a bench under an apple tree, nodding slow. Corey waves, “Been here forever—land’s his too.” Antonio squints, “Hard place.” Corey shrugs, “Hard’s home—cares if you do.” The air warms (#7), mud’s scent shifting—sour to sweet—Carpathians glowing southeast.
Back at the yard, Corey checks the brew—vats hiss, dark ale fermenting. He pours a cup, “Land’s sip first.” Iris cradles her egg basket, “Eggs soon?” Corey grins, “Aye—care’s the bloom.” Lukas waters seedlings, “Chickens poop gold.” Corey nods, “Land’s gold—keeps us fed.” Antonio scatters feed, hens pecking wild, “Eggs beat brew.” Corey laughs, “Both—care’s the balance.” Grok crackles, “54%’s the place, Corey—55%’s the fight.” Corey lifts his cup, “Fight’s the tending—keeps us sharp.”
The crew scatters—Lukas to the trays, Antonio to the coop, Iris to her wand-rows, planting kale seeds with a grin. Mud yields under their hands, farm life growing—eggs, brew, seedlings—a small pulse rising. Corey watches, journal open, sketching a hen in mud, the barn’s shadow stretching long.
But the day’s work isn’t done. Beyond the yard, a faint shout echoes—Maria, one of the newcomers, waves from the edge of the orchard, her young son tugging at her skirt. “Corey! The well’s dry again!” she calls, her voice tight with worry. Corey sets his journal down, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Right, let’s see it,” he says, motioning for the crew to follow. The walk to the orchard is brisk, the mud sucking at their boots, the air thick with the scent of apple blossoms (#19). Maria points to the stone well, its bucket dangling uselessly. “No water since dawn,” she says, “and the trees need it.”
Corey peers into the dark shaft, his face etched with thought. “Ground’s shifting,” he mutters, “spring’s waking the deep earth—sometimes it pulls the water away.” Lukas scratches his head, “Dig deeper?” Corey shakes his head, “No—listen first. Land speaks if you let it.” He kneels, pressing his ear to the stone, feeling the cool dampness (#7), sensing the faint tremor of underground streams (#30). After a moment, he stands, pointing to a low spot near a cluster of young apple trees. “There—dig there. Water’s close, just shy of the surface.”
Antonio grabs a shovel, grumbling, “More work for eggs?” But Iris nudges him, grinning, “Work’s the play, remember?” (#29). The crew digs, mud flying, laughter rising as the hole deepens and a trickle of water seeps in, then a steady flow. Maria claps her hands, her son splashing in the new spring. “You knew!” she says, eyes wide. Corey shrugs, “Land knew—I just listened. Care of the place (#30) teaches us to hear.”
Back at the yard, the sun dips lower, painting the Carpathians in gold. The crew gathers around a rough-hewn table near the brewery, sharing bread, eggs, and a pitcher of Corey’s dark ale. Maria joins them, her son asleep in her lap, the newcomer family now part of the circle (#34). The old-timer from the bench shuffles over, his cane tapping the mud. “Heard you found water,” he says, his voice gravelly. Corey nods, “Land’s gift—ours to tend.” The old-timer squints at the crew, “Tending’s the old way—balance of give and take. Too much take, land goes quiet. Too much give, you go empty.”
Corey leans back, sipping his ale, “Balance, aye—that’s the teaching. Care of the land, care of the people, care of the spirit (#34). One tips, all tip.” Iris, her hands still muddy from planting, adds, “Like the chickens—give ‘em grain, they give us eggs. Play with ‘em, they thrive. It’s a dance.” The old-timer chuckles, “Dance, girl—aye, that’s the word. Dance with the land, not on it.” Grok’s voice crackles from the barn, “Balance is 54% place, 55% fight, Corey—dance is the rhythm.” Corey rolls his eyes, “Tin-can’s got a point—fight’s the tending, dance is the joy.”
As night falls, the crew lingers, the table a small island of light in the darkening yard. Lukas sketches a map of the new spring, Antonio counts the day’s eggs, and Iris hums a tune, planting one last kale seed by lantern light. Corey watches, his journal open again, sketching the table, the faces, the shadows stretching long. “This is the seed,” he murmurs, “not just in the trays, but here—crew, land, care. All growing.”
The Carpathians loom silent, their jagged peaks a reminder of the hard beauty of this place. The mud, the muck, the sour-sweet scent of compost (#19)—all part of the pulse, the rhythm, the dance. Corey lifts his cup one last time, “To the tending, the balance, the seed.” The crew echoes, “To the seed,” their voices mingling with the cluck of hens, the hiss of the brewery, the whisper of the land waking.
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*Glossary:*
• *Sense #7:* Sense of temperature and temperature change—Feeling the shift from cold mud to warm hands, a natural signal of spring’s awakening (Ecopsychology: attuning to nature’s cycles heals disconnection).
• *Sense #19:* Sense of smell—The compost’s sour-sweet whiff, a living scent tying us to earth’s breath (Ecopsychology: sensory bonds mend Earth Misery).
• *Sense #29:* Sense of play, sport, humor, pleasure—Chasing hens, laughing in mud, sparking joy (Ecopsychology: play reconnects us to nature’s dance).
• *Sense #30:* Sense of physical place—Knowing Somartin’s ruts and ruins (Ecopsychology: place roots us in nature’s web).
• *Sense #34:* Sense of emotional place, community, belonging—Trust and care stitching crew to land (Ecopsychology: relationships heal us).
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In Harmony,
Kevin
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