There was once a Farmer and his Wife. Bright and in love, they lived on a small farm where their gardens abounded with fruits and vegetables and the soft colors of wildflowers. Wheat swayed like golden waves, cornstalks shivered in the morning breeze, and honeybees pirouetted among the blossoms. The earth was bountiful, and the young couple wanted for nothing except a child. But that, Mother Earth could not provide.
Spells and wishes were things of antiquity, the Old Magic nearly forgotten. Still, the couple hoped; and as she tended the fruit trees, the Farmer’s Wife whispered to the dawn.
“Please,” she said, “if any magic remains in this world, let it bring us a child; a sweet, little thing with a spirit free as a swallow, and a heart warm as summertime.”
As the Farmer’s Wife returned to her chores, the Sun poked his sleepy head above the blanket of mist. Slowly, his rays reached out like long fingers, waking the Earth, and telling her what he had heard.
Later, the Farmer’s Wife parked her bicycle outside Bean Sprout Co-op. She took the apron from her bike’s basket, tying it around her waist. Warm hellos from coworkers greeted her and she was soon busy organizing produce from local farms.
Suddenly, a loud clatter came from behind the building. Concerned, the Farmer’s Wife hurried toward the sound.
An Old Woman dressed in a green frock frowned at the mess surrounding her worn, black Wellington boots. Her cart, piled high with seedlings, had toppled over, scattering black-brown earth onto asphalt.
“Dutchman’s breeches,” the Old Woman cursed.
“Let me help,” said the Farmer’s Wife, righting the cart.
“Thank you, dearie!”
A grateful smile flashed under the brim of her battered straw hat. She had darkened skin and calloused hands creased with earth. Her frizzed white curls were tied with torn linen.
“This old thing,” she rested a hand on the cart, “is as ancient as I am and about as agile! Its wheels went right out from under it!”
The Old Woman laughed so heartily it made the Farmer’s Wife smile.
When the seedlings were back in their place, the Old Woman reached into a pocket.
“A gift of thanks,” said the Old Woman, placing something small in the Wife’s hand. “For your first of three.”
The Farmer’s Wife stared down at the single pea, confused. Then a wrinkled hand took hers, closing it around the seed.
“For the truest happiness,” the Old Woman pulled her closer, “continue to prove your kindness.”
Then, she released her, shuffling away with her cart, leaving the startled Farmer’s Wife staring after her.
The long workday ended, and the Farmer’s Wife returned home. At the front gate she stopped, planting the tiny pea in a patch of sunbathed earth, and soaking it with water. Muddy fingers touched earth.
“Grow strong, little one.” Then she continued onward, the trembling mound going unnoticed.
The next day, the couple worked through the morning, and soon the Farmer’s Wife was walking her bicycle to the road. At the gate, she found that her little pea had grown! It was full and green, standing nearly a foot tall, its tendrils coiled tightly around the gatepost.
Dumbfounded, she watered the plant and cycled to Bean Sprout Co-op.
The Farmer’s Wife settled in for the long hours of a busy day. She helped customer after customer, until she began to grow weary. Her shift ended with fatigue and an aching back but as she mounted her bicycle, she noticed a mother struggling with groceries and three small children.
She hurried over, helping to carry the heavy load. The mother thanked her, brushing fair curls from her exhausted face, as the children waved cheerily from the car.
At last she approached home, and even at a distance she could see the pea plant had grown. Despite her exhaustion, the Wife tended to the plant, whispering words of encouragement.
On the third day, the Farmer’s Wife arrived early to Bean Sprout, hoping to find the Old Woman. Vendors filled the parking lot, unloading their hauls, white feathers from the caged laying-fowl tumbled across the ground, but the Old Woman wasn’t there.
The co-op was bustling with shoppers when a young woman, sun-kissed and very pregnant, stood at check-out. Light hair covered the flush of embarrassment as she frantically searched her purse, the line growing behind her.
The Farmer’s Wife rested a hand on the expecting mother’s shoulder. She smiled, reassured her, and took out her own wallet. Tears streamed down the woman’s face as she thanked her; the Wife insisted it was nothing.
The journey home was difficult in the midday heat, but the Wife felt happy. When she arrived, she found the Farmer standing in awe before the pea plant where a single peapod shook on the vine.
The Farmer’s Wife plucked the peapod. It jolted, then split open revealing a pea-sized baby. The couple stared in disbelief at the child. They knew not how this was possible, but they knew that she was theirs. The Mother carried her child carefully to the house.
The infant slept on rose petal blankets and tufts of cotton, but she grew quickly. In weeks, she was the size of a human baby, and soon she was a beautiful girl with hair the rich brown of earth and eyes, a bright green.
One afternoon, as the little girl danced barefoot through the wildflowers, an old woman appeared at the gate. She wore old, black Wellingtons and a green frock, her white curls were tied back beneath a straw hat.
For a moment, the pair watched each other. Then, the Sun’s rays reached past the Old Woman, moving along the grass until it touched the girl’s face, making her giggle.
“Lunchtime, sweet pea!”
The girl turned at the call, running back to her home. She was free-spirited, with a heart like summertime, and she was learning to always be kind.
The Old Woman glanced behind her, a smirk on her lips, and winked at the setting Sun.
S. M. Nesheim 