Fortune's Magic Farm by Suzanne Selfors (rainbow fish read aloud .txt) 📕

running smoothly, but now that the farm’s falling apart I’m doomed to bachelorhood. What sort of woman would be willing to deal with this mess, day after day?” He grunted, swinging the blade above his head, then held it in midair. “You wouldn’t happen to know any unmarried women in Runny Cove who have farm experience, would you?”

The only unmarried woman she knew, other than Mama Lu, was Gertrude, and even if she had “farm experience,” and maybe she did, Isabelle wouldn’t tell her great-uncle about it. No way was Gertrude coming to live on the farm.

“They’re all married,” she lied. It is perfectly acceptable to lie when it means saving someone from a fate worse than being eaten, squeezed, or spontaneously combusted.

“I suspected as much.” With another grunt he brought the blade down upon a thorn-covered branch.

“My grandmother wasn’t married. She’s the one who found me.” Isabelle ducked as a thorn flew past. “She died and the undertaker took her. You would have liked her.”

“I’m sure I would have.”

Beads of sweat trickled down Isabelle’s neck. Though a gentle mist drifted from the ceiling it did not provide relief from the greenhouse’s humidity. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve.

Walnut stopped hacking and wiped his forehead too. “The tropicals love this heat,” he explained, catching his breath. “Especially this one.” He plucked a yellow pod from a tree. “This is called a Suncatcher. I always try to keep one of these in my pocket. They come in handy when it gets cold.” He cracked open the pod and sunlight spilled across his hand. “Great for warming up your bed. Once the sunlight is released, the pod evaporates.” Which it did, right before Isabelle’s eyes.

“Oh, and these are blades of Glow Grass.” He picked a blade and stuffed it into his pocket. “I always keep a few in case I find myself in the dark.” Isabelle remembered the blade from their trip through the tunnel.

“Great-Uncle Walnut,” she said, shaking an incandescent beetle off her hand. “Who is that man in the tower?”

“Ah.” Walnut paused thoughtfully. “His name is Nesbitt. Nesbitt Rhododendrol Fortune. My older brother. Your grandfather.”

“My grandfather?” How could that be? “But he said that I wasn’t wanted. He yelled at me to go away.”

Walnut pulled loose a vine that had begun to curl around his neck. “Your grandfather has been in a bad mood lately. Well, for about ten years, to be exact. But he’ll come around.” He frowned. “That’s our hope, anyway.”

“Why would he want me to go away? Why isn’t he happy to see me?”

“We can better discuss that in the Depository.” He slid the machete into his belt. “I think we’re nearing the end. Just have to get through this forest of Belchiferus Bamboo. I highly recommend that you hold your breath.”

Walnut got to his knees and began to crawl between thick brown stalks. Isabelle followed, her hands pressing into the rich greenhouse soil. Burping sounds erupted overhead. Thin streams of black gunk oozed down the stalks. She couldn’t hold her breath any longer.

“Yuck,” she said as a noxious stench shot up her nose.

“That, my dear, is the bamboo’s natural defense mechanism. Surprisingly, that secretion makes delightful pancake syrup. Ah, here we are.”

He pushed aside some soil to reveal a small door, set in the floor. After pulling it open, he handed Isabelle a blade of Glow Grass. They started down a steep flight of stairs, the air cooling with each step. “We’ve found it best to store our seeds underground. They can sleep down here for hundreds of years, if need be.”

The stairs ended in a large room. While the Glow Grass was too dim to illuminate the room itself, it bounced off multiple pairs of red eyes. “This is the Seed Depository,” Walnut announced as he lit a cluster of candles, bringing the room into view. The eyes belonged to a group of black squirrels, caught in the act of stuffing their cheeks with seeds. “Shoo!” Walnut said. The squirrels squeaked, then darted into various holes in the walls. “Thieving pests.”

Like the kitchen, the depository was a mess. Boxes lay everywhere, some overturned, others stacked. The box closest to Isabelle read: LUNAR MOSS. COLLECTED WINTER, 1453. USED FOR LOVE ELIXIRS AND TERMITE MANAGEMENT. The box lay open and empty.

“Everything’s out of order,” Walnut said, throwing his hands in the air. “My seeds used to be alphabetized, but those squirrels keep moving everything around.” He took two cotton gloves from his pocket and slid them onto his hands. Then he started picking seeds off the table. Isabelle realized that with his warm hands and his special ability to make everything grow quickly, he had to wear the gloves to keep the seeds from sprouting.

“Great-Uncle Walnut? My grandfather? Remember?”

Walnut sighed and dropped the seeds. “What’s the use?” he asked. He pushed aside a box and sat on a stool. “New seeds are going to waste in the garden because I can’t collect them fast enough. And old seeds are fattening up the local rodents.” He hung his head over the table. “How can I do everything without any help? It’s too much for an old man, I tell you. Too much.”

Isabelle knew, all too well, what it felt like to be overwhelmed with work. She cleared away some boxes and sat on a stool next to her great-uncle. “I know lots of people who would love to come here and help you. Gwen and Leonard would make great farmhands. And so would Boris and Bert, but…” She stopped, remembering the tombstones and the horrible ways that some of the farmhands had died. “I don’t want any of them to get eaten or squished.”

“That hasn’t happened since the turn of the century,” he assured her. “But that’s beside the point. No one can work here without the Head Tender’s permission. And your grandfather is the current Head Tender. He’s the one who decided that we didn’t need farmhands any longer. He’s the one who fired them.”

“Why did