Strathclyde was not the sort of man who believed in fairy tales. He was a man of fact. A man of science. He trusted in the seasons, in the rain, the sun, the fog, and the land. That is not to say that Strathclyde was not a man of faith. He had watched far too many flowers grow, too many seeds become vegetables, and too many boys become men to presume that the world of glorious science he found all around him had no designer. In his mind, science required faith, and to hold to one without the other was to lose half the wonder of life.
The morning dew was shimmering in the garden the way it had shimmered for the last seventy years, since Strathclyde was a wee boy building castles among the dirt clods. He stood at the head of the garden for some time, surveying his kingdom. His eastern border was guarded by the stalwart parsnips and carrots. To the west, his apple trees kept lookout over the moor. The blackberry hedge stood sentinel at the southern gate, and before him, the heartland flourished: cabbages and cauliflower, broccoli and beans, potatoes, tomatoes, melons and strawberries—each bringing forth their bounty in season and fulfilling their duties year after year.
Strathclyde sighed with satisfaction. He loved every plant like a child, and knew every dip and rise of the fertile ground. He had planted the apple trees himself as a young man and had built the garden’s many benches and arbors over the years. It was a glorious place, and Strathclyde knew his garden better than he knew himself—which is why it was so unsettling that he couldn’t find his spade.
The old man knitted his brows and rubbed his scraggly chin as he walked toward his palace—the wooden shed he had built in the corner just beside his willow tree. The shed was a wonder. It smelled of fresh earth and clay with just a hint of the metallic tang of rust in the air. The black soil was beaten hard from Strathclyde’s work boots and the walls practically glittered with the polished iron of his carefully categorized, meticulously placed tools. The spade’s place, just over the hand plow, was empty. And this troubled Strathclyde. Oh, he had other spades, but this spade was out of its place, and he didn’t know where it had gone.
“Troubling. Troubling indeed,” he muttered to the wall. “Where have I put you? Or could it be…no.”
A snuffling sound just outside told him a visitor had arrived in the garden. “Come here, girl!” he shouted through the wall, and old Dot flew in from outside and into Strathclyde’s outstretched arms. The old man laughed as the dog bathed his face in kisses, and he returned the love with a rough scratch behind both her ears. They crouched together on the ground, Dot following the gardener’s gaze to the empty space on the wall.
She whimpered in sympathy.
“Where do you think it’s gone, girl? I know what my old man would say, God rest him: ‘It’s the sign of the spade!’ he’d say. ‘Look out for trouble!’ Crazy, wonderful old man. I wish you could talk, girl. I bet you remember where I’ve left it.”
Strathclyde used the hand plow as a brace as he stood up creakily. “Blasted rheumatism,” he complained. Dot followed him out of the shed and into the bright sunlight. The dew had lifted, but not enough to please him. “Gonna be a wet one,” he said to no one in particular, though not a cloud was in the sky. “Suppose we’d better find that spade before it gets a soaking. No one likes a rusty spade, eh, girl?”
Dot barked in agreement before bounding off to the blackberry hedge to help with the search.
Strathclyde headed toward the apple trees to see if perhaps he had dropped the spade there during an afternoon slumber, but stopped short when he caught sight of a black boot shooting upward and out of sight among the branches.
“Tom! Newton!” the old man shouted. “You boys come down here at once!” Hilarious snickers erupted from the branches before four long legs, four gangly arms, and two giggling ginger heads fell in a heap at Strathclyde’s feet.
“Hello, Strathclyde! Hello, sir!” the boys laughed together, trying to untangle themselves.
The old man grinned in spite of himself and extended a helping hand to each. They finally found their feet and stood up, Tom, the eldest, almost eye-to-eye with Strathclyde.
“Boys, I have told you time and time again not to climb that tree. That’s the old woman’s pie tree and you know she hates footprints on her apples.”
“We know, sir,” Tom said, only slightly apologetically.
“It was Lily, sir,” Newton offered.
“That’s right,” Tom agreed, “she won’t leave us to ourselves. Always wants to play with us.”
“And we keep telling her we don’t play anymore. Playing is for babies and we don’t want her around.”
“Oh, boys…” Strathclyde began.
“And we told her again today but she started throwing kippers at us!”
“’Arthur wants to play with me!’ she said. ‘Arthur is lovely and kind, not like you!’ she shouted, and kippers were flying through the air and we had to escape, Strathclyde. So, you see, we weren’t in the tree for fun. It was for safety,” Tom explained, his eyes growing wider with every word.
“For safety,” Newton repeated.
Strathclyde stood very still for a moment, knowing he should scold the boys for being so harsh to their sister, but also knowing the feeling of needing a quick escape from flying kippers. “Who is Arthur?” he asked.
The boys rolled their eyes, “A mouse,” Newton said.
Tom added, “Who plays the piano.”
“She told us a story at breakfast just now about a bird that she rescued from a hawk and the bird apparently talks and it told her about a battle between some rooks and some hawks and it took her to a magical place in the forest and there she met Arthur. A mouse who plays the piano,” Newton elaborated.
“We think she’s gone mad,” Tom said.
“Maybe we should send her away somewhere. They make special hospitals for children who see talking animals, don’t they?”
“But that was just a dream she had,” Strathclyde corrected.
“That’s not what she told us. Sounds to me like she’s been reading too many storybooks. Or she’s as crazy as old Mr. Coffintop!” Tom cackled, and the two boys collapsed onto one another in glee. Tom pushed Newton, and Newton pushed Tom, and before Strathclyde could say another word, they had both climbed the apple tree, leapt over the garden wall, and disappeared from view.
“She’s maaaaaaaaaaaad!” they shouted in unison as they sprinted down the lane.
Strathclyde shook his head. “Those boys,” he said, and turned around to look for his missing spade.
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