It’s for the good of the group. That’s what everyone says.
It’s what Rosemary says, her voice stern and tinged with disapproval.
It’s what Sorrel says, matter of fact and kind.
It’s even what Basil says, soft and quiet and mildly unsure, but still voiced.
And it makes Sage want to scream.
Even now, she sits in front of the den, tail twitching in badly suppressed irritation, as her mother goes on, looking down at her eldest daughter with a nearly identical look of irritation.
“It’s tradition, Sage,” Rosemary says, sorting the little piles of plants in front of her with nimble paws. “I don’t care how ridiculous you think it is.”
“I didn’t say I thought it was ridiculous,” Sage grumbles. But she does. She really does. She tilts her head back to look at the den currently being draped with bright pink globes of amaranth and the small yellow bundles of primrose. Basil sits on top of the hollow log they are in the process of turning into the den, carefully arranging the wide, white moonflower blooms. The log, which only a day or so before had smelled of damp wood and wet moss now holds the heavy, sweet aroma of perfumed flowers, and it makes Sage’s head spin.
“I think it’s pretty,” Basil says in her soft voice, clearly trying to ward off the full argument she senses is coming, but it only serves to make Sage feel more irritated. She doesn’t want it to look pretty. She doesn’t particularly care if it looks pretty. She pokes at a clump of ambrosia moodily, the tall green flowers slightly dry. They make a rustling sound as they brush together, and Rosemary gives her daughter a dark look.
“Sage, stop behaving like a kit. I know that this may not be what you intended for your life,” Rosemary says, raising her voice when Sage opens her mouth, talking over her daughter. “But it’s for the good of the group. And they’ll be here tonight, so you had better wrap your mind around it.”
Sage knows that it’s true. She should be getting used to the idea, to let it become comfortable in her head instead of the knot it currently is now, more akin to indigestion than acceptance.
But how is she supposed to become comfortable with this if she can’t even remember his name?
From the entrance to the den another cat appears from behind the curtain of hanging flowers. She twitches an ear and gives a warm smile to Sage when she catches her eye.
“The inside has officially been decorated,” she says. “It is ready for occupation.” The words are accompanied with a wink, and it makes the uncomfortable feeling in Sage’s chest grow. Sorrel is teasing, but there’s a real truth behind the words, of what’s expected of her in only a few nights, and it makes her skin crawl.
She doesn’t even remember his name.
Basil hops down from her perch on top of the den, landing on light paws. She settles next to Sage, curling a slim tail around small paws, a barrier between her and Rosemary. Sitting side by side, it’s clear that the three of them are related. All three of them are silver-furred and long-limbed, and if not for their eyes they would be so identical it would be hard to tell them apart from a distance. But Basil’s eyes lean more towards mint rather than her sister’s bright blue, and Rosemary’s blue-green eyes hold an ice that neither of her daughters inherited.
“When are they supposed to arrive?” Sorrel asks, dropping a small bundle of excess flowers on top of Rosemary’s pile. Rosemary wrinkles her nose, but instead of getting irritated at her sister like she would have her daughter, she simply sets to sorting them into their designated piles.
“Sometime before sunset,” Rosemary replies, “Aster and Persimmon, at least. The rest will arrive tomorrow, to give us a bit more time to find accommodations.”
“It will be nice to have the camp full again,” Sorrel says, and Basil hums in agreement. “It’s been far too quiet since the fever.”
Aster. The name triggers a memory, and Sage takes the name and places it neatly in a corner of her mind. It takes some discomfort from her, but not a lot. Not nearly enough.
But, if she’s really being honest with herself, she’s not sure if she’s ever going to be comfortable again.
-
Sunset creeps steadily closer, and with it, the knot in Sage’s stomach grows tighter. Rosemary doesn’t seem to notice; she’s too busy overseeing the cleaning of the camp. Basil might notice, but she and Linden are busy tucking mayflowers into every corner of the camp, the little white blooms a show of welcome that Rosemary insisted on.
The mouse in front of Sage makes her stomach churn. She picks at it, not truly eating it, not really paying attention to anything in particular, which is why she startles so badly when Sorrel settles down next to her, a small songbird in her teeth.
“It’s okay if you’re nervous,” Sorrel says, starting a careful project of removing the feathers from her meal. “But it will help if you remember-“
“That it’s for the good of the group,” Sage snaps, a thorn in her voice. “I know. I’ve heard it about a thousand times. From everyone.”
Ancestors, if she hears it one more time, she thinks she will actually start screaming. She heard it about three times from Basil within the
last few hours, her sister well-meaning but going about calming the Sage’s nerves in entirely the wrong way. It was only after Sage just about blew up on Basil that she had finally left, joining Linden in scattering mayflowers throughout the camp.
But Sorrel doesn’t look put off by Sage’s prickle. “He’s probably as nervous as you are.”
It’s something that Sage hadn’t considered. Sure, she does not know him, but he does not know her, either. And it was Sage’s mother who has arranged the entire thing, and because of it, they are staying here. It is Aster and his group who are coming to unfamiliar grounds, not the other way around.
“I didn’t think of that,” Sage admits. She stares down at the mouse between her front paws, trying to quell the anxious nausea steadily rising enough to eat, but the mouse looks like the most unappetizing thing in the world at the moment.
“And your mother would not choose someone cruel to be your intended,” Sorrel continues. “She may not be the warmest cat, but she does not want you to be unhappy.”
“I don’t want it. This,” Sage says bluntly. “Why does it fall on my shoulders?”
“Because you’re the oldest, and she trusts you,” Sorrel says. “It’s the biggest compliment she could possibly give you. Because while Basil is the more traditionally sweet of the two of you- don’t look at me like that, you know it’s true -you are the one who will get things done. You will be able to run things when Rosemary is no longer able to. You will be able to make the hard decisions. You’re responsible in a way Basil most likely will never be.”
“Responsibility can go rot in the swamp.”
Sorrel sighs. “Sage, I-“
“They’re coming!”
It’s Florien who sounds the call, bounding into camp, fur puffed in excitement. The tom’s eyes are shining as he bounces in excitement, barely more than a kit. Rosemary’s head shoots up from across the clearing, and inside Sage, something starts stomping in her stomach.
“Okay, everyone in your positions!” Rosemary calls, and is in front of Sage before she can even blink. Rosemary not so gently pushes Sage onto her paws and starts herding her towards the entrance of the camp.
“Sage, where are your flowers?” Rosemary snaps, pushing her into place next to Basil. Basil is already wearing the purple wisteria blooms draped around her neck, and she has more, carefully woven together at her paws. Rosemary arranges them around Sage’s neck, and Sage sneezes at the heavy fragrance, ducking out of the way of her mother’s tongue.
“My fur is fine!”
“Don’t fight me on this right now, Sage! You only get one first impression! Why couldn’t you have at least cleaned your fur?”
“I didn’t have any time!” Sage replies. Her entire insides seem to be fusing themselves together, and she wonders if she has enough time to go and throw up before the cats get into the camp. Behind them, she hears the rest of the group arranging, and both Basil and Rosemary are schooling their expressions into warm smiles of welcome; Basil’s genuine, Rosemary’s less so, and Sage, at the last minute, tries to copy them. It probably comes across as more pained grimace.
And then, there they are. The she-cat comes first, the setting sun turning her orange-yellow fur into a brand of fire, and then, there he is.
Aster.
Her intended. Her match.
Her future mate.
The thought causes the anxiety to rise up her throat even worse than it already was, and she has to clench her teeth and dig her claws into the ground to keep herself from throwing up where she stands.
“Welcome, Aster! Persimmon,” Rosemary says with a warmth that Sage is not accustomed to hearing form her mother. Rosemary touches noses with both of the cats, both nearly a head taller than she, before they all turn to Basil and Sage.
“These are my daughters. Basil is my younger.”
Basil dips her head shyly, shuffling her paws.
“And, of course, Sage.”
Sage forces herself to meet Aster’s eyes. His expression is blank, and he absolutely towers over her, shoulders broad and build solid, and it takes all of Sage’s strength to keep her expression peacefully neutral.
“It is lovely to meet you both,” she says, and it’s a small miracle that her voice is not shaking horribly.
“It’s about time,” the she-cat says. “I’m Persimmon, and this is Aster.”
“Hello, Sage,” Aster rumbles, voice deep, holding traces of the accent that Persimmon also holds; small traces of a burr all those coming from beside the river have.
“You must be hungry,” Rosemary says, when the pause gets slightly too long. “Come, eat! You can talk and meet everyone once you rest.”
As soon as Aster and Persimmon are out of earshot, Sage deflates, sagging against Basil. Basil props her sister upright patently.
“He’s cute, at least,” Basil finally says, but Sage doesn’t say anything back. She can’t think of anything in reply.
-
She makes herself scarce for the rest of the night. She’ll face Rosemary’s wrath for this later, she’s sure of it, but she ditches the wisteria wreath around her neck at the first possible opportunity and spends the rest of the night pacing in careful circles around the camp, avoiding anyone who looks like they may want to talk to her.
There’s a strange, uneasy energy building in her paws, and somehow, she finds herself in front of the den again, looking up at it. It’s ridiculous, covered in flowers, gaudy and perfumed and a reminder that Sage does not want in the least.
She assumes the paw steps she hears come up behind her belong to Sorrel, or Basil because they don’t carry any of the anger that she knows Rosemary’s paw steps will, once she finds a chance to come and yell at her daughter for not entertaining her guests.
But the form that sits down beside her is heavier, broader, and Sage nearly flies out of her skin when a wholly unfamiliar voice says,
“I always liked this element of the ceremony.”
Aster’s voice is expressionless, and Sage stares at him, eyes wide in surprise, chest still pounding from being startled. “I always thought it was romantic.”
He turns to look at Sage, tilting his head. “Don’t you think?”
“Romantic?” Sage looks at the den on relax. “Sure?” She doesn’t mean it to come out as a question, but it does.
“This den will be ours after the ceremony,” Aster says, and it’s the complete lack of emotion in his voice that makes it so unsettling. “In two nights.”
Two nights. The knot of internal organs is starting in earnest in Sage’s stomach once more.
“I can hardly wait,” Aster says, and that is what makes it snap.
“I’m going to take a walk!” Sage announces, jumping to her paws.
Aster blinks at her. “You are? I will come with you!”
“No need!” Sage says, her voice sounding oddly high pitched in her ears. “I’ll be fast! Super fast! You’ll hardly notice I’m gone!”
“But-“
Sage is already gone.
-
She doesn’t remember starting to run. But she is, so fast that she can barely keep up with her paws, trees turning to blurs around her. She feels sick and her heart is pounding and two more nights circles in her brain, an insistent fly she wants to just go away, go away. She doesn’t want to deal with this.
She doesn’t want this.
It’s for the good of the group but she doesn’t want this.
The ground, dry dirt and pine needles, turns into soft grass and squishy moss, and she staggers off and vomits what little is in her stomach into the ferns. The world is still spinning around her, the earth still moving beneath her paws, and she can’t draw in a full breath. There’s a weight sitting on her lungs, compressing her rib cage.
Two more nights. A den made for the two of them. A ceremony taking place in two nights.
Sage sits down hard, head hanging as she pants, tries to bring the earth back into stillness. And, slowly, the world stops spinning and it no longer feels like she can’t draw in a full breath. And that’s when she smells it.
It’s soft and floral, a delicate scent, not the overwhelming smells of wisteria and mayflower that seemed to hover over the camp in a heavy fog. Roses. But there are no roses in the clearing.
Or there weren’t. And yet, when Sage looks up, there they are. The bush is large, the branches thick and tangled, and the roses…the roses are full, the size of her head, and the deepest, darkest red she has ever seen.
The roses are red as blood, the light from the moon, heavy and full in the sky, casting a silver glow across their petals.
It makes no sense. They have never been here before.
And yet, here they are.
Sage steps forward, and as she does, a small pathway through the roses seems to emerge out of nowhere. She dips down so her stomach brushes against the grass, peering down the dark tunnel, but she can see nothing.
She glances over her shoulder, hesitating. She could go back. She should go back. Sage may not want…any of what waits for her, but she doesn’t want anyone to worry, either.
Sage turns her head, looking back down the tunnel, and something seems to call her. It looks big enough to fit her. She steps forward, the floor of the tunnel damp and rich under her paws, looking back one more time. But the tunnel calls to her, and so without hesitating again, she turns around and ducks down.
Sage enters the tunnel, pulling herself forward on her stomach, seeking out whatever waits on the other side.
-
To anyone who might have been watching, they would have seen the tip of Sage’s tail vanish through the small hole. The roses would tremble, as if with a slight wind, and then, the small entrance would have once more vanished into the thorns, as if it was never there at all.
For the briefest of seconds, it feels like the bramble walls are pressing down on Sage, squeezing the oxygen from her lungs in a spiky
embrace. And then, she’s out of the tunnel, soft grass under her paws and the almost-full moon hanging silver and heavy above her head.
Perhaps she could think that this was part of the forest she was so familiar with, a small pocket that Sage has somehow managed to never
visit. But she knows she could never miss this. It’s a maze of entwined walls that hang with roses, larger than her head and a deep, dark crimson red.
There is no way she could have ever missed this.
And there is a cat. Pale golden and yellow-eyed, with a softness of fur that suggests youngness but eyes that are much, much older than her appearance betrays.
“You’re here,” she says, which such an air of surprise that it makes Sage feel surprised, too. The cat comes forward, hesitantly, looking Sage up and down, as if she can barely believe that Sage is standing in front of her.
“I’m here?” Sage says, a bit questioningly. The cat laughs, and from under her paws snowdrops bloom, tiny white petals unfurling before Sage’s eyes.
“You’re here,” the cat says again, with such undisguised joy, tinged with an almost tangible ache of loneliness in her voice that Sage suddenly realizes why it comes as such as a surprise. Because this cat has been alone in this maze of blood red roses, possibly for a very long time.
“I’m Clementine,” the cat says, “and are you going to stay? Just for a little while?”
Before waiting for Sage’s answer, she’s already walking away, glancing back over her shoulder to ensure that Sage is following. And, after a brief hesitation and a glance back towards the entrance, she does, the strangeness of the garden and the cat who inhabits it bringing curiosity to the surface, rather than apprehension.
The dirt is rich and damp under her paws, and each inhale brings in the taste of a just-finished rainfall, heavy, lush, and cleansing. The gardens burst with growth; brightly colored flowers bloom, displaying petals of pink and red and blue, herbs with their sharp, biting scents cluster in small bunches, and moss creeps across the dirt in plush clumps. There’s a pond, spotted with lily pads and their broad, pink flowers, lined with drooping willow trees with small, soft bulbs making the entire tree look fuzzy.
Sage spins in nearly a complete circle, jaws gaping, as she tries to take everything in. How has she not known about this before? How is it possible that she missed this?
Clementine sits down, wrapping her tail over her paws then yanking it away, as if she is nervous. She watches Sage, head slightly tilted, seemingly waiting for the inevitable storm of questions.
Sage opens her mouth, closes it. She has so many questions, but she can’t quite figure out how to voice them. Clementine simply waits, gaze mildly anxious but not alarmed or guarded, and there is no hostility to her stance.
“Okay,” Sage says, slowly, trying to gather scrambled thoughts. “Where…where am I? Where are we?”
“My garden,” Clementine says simply, as if that is all there is too it.
“Okay,” Sage says again. “How about how in the name of the freaking all-powerful ancestors did I get here? How have I never noticed an entire garden bigger than our camp?” Her voice rises in pitch, a strange, antsy energy running through her veins.
“Oh, that’s simple!” Clementine says, a bit too cheerfully in Sage’s opinion, considering Sage is slowly working herself into a full-fledged freak-out.
“Magic!”
Clementine says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and Sage stares at her for a full minute, gaping.
“Magic. Magic.” Sage shakes her head. “Okay, yes, because that’s the most logical option. Magic. Like out of nursery stories?”
“One and the same.”
“Ancestors,” Sage mumbles. “I must have hit my head. Or I’m still dreaming. Maybe this is a very weird, vivid dream. I have been stressed lately, and Sorrel always says that stress leads to weird dreams.”
“What’s your name?”
“What?”
“What’s your name?” Clementine asks again, and it takes Sage a minute to bring her brain around to this different subject.
“Sage,” she finally says, a bit hesitantly, and Clementine smiles.
“Well, Sage, welcome to my garden.”
And, from under her paws, sage uncurls and blooms, narrow, gray-green leaves unfurling. Clementine beams. Sage stares at the plants for a good few minutes.
“Okay,” she mutters. “Definitely dreaming.”
-
Sage is not dreaming. She figures that out quickly, after she accidently steps on one of the trailing brambles that grow large and wild. The bush drips with unseasonable blackberries and the thorns brings blood to her paws, and she yowls mostly in surprise rather than pain, but it confirms that she is, in fact, awake.
She does not handle it as well as she could have.
“This cannot be real!” she yells at nothing in particular as she paces in wide circles, fur bristling and eyes wide with a frantic energy. “It can’t be! Magic isn’t real, it’s from stories you tell to kits to get them to fall asleep faster. It’s doesn’t exist, and this garden shouldn’t exist, and you need to stop doing that!”
The final bit is directed at Clementine, who freezes, one paw in the air, pale purple carnations and the occasional sage plant tracing her path across the garden as she follows after Sage. She slowly sets her paw down and another carnation blooms, the round, wrinkled flower unfolding before Sage’s very eyes.
“It can’t be possible,” Sage whispers, sitting down hard, and Clementine comes forward slowly, as if she expects Sage to lash out.
“But it is possible,” Clementine says. “All stories as based in truth, and why can’t magic be one of those truths?”
Sage groans. “It’s just…”
“You spend your whole life being told that it is not real, once you grow out of kithood,” Clementine says, shrugging. “But if they have no proof, how should they know?”
“How long have you been here?”
It’s the first time that entire night that Sage has seen Clementine look afraid. She did not look afraid when Sage was yelling, when she was
storming around the garden like a wild creature, but she looks afraid now, after one simple question.
“I don’t…I don’t know,” Clementine whispers. “It is my garden, but I do not know how long I’ve been here.”
“Did you grow it?”
“I don’t know,” Clementine says again, and she sounds so distressed that Sage lets the subject drop.
They sit, side by side in silence, the only sound the soft ripple of the pond and the gentle hush of light wind against the many leaves.
It’s Sage who breaks it.
“How have I never seen this before? I know this land like I know my own den, but I’ve never even see the entrance.”
Clementine brightens a little, clearly relieved to have been asked a question she knows the answer to. “It’s because of the moon.”
Sage blinks. “The…moon?”
“The garden only shows itself on the three nights that the moon is fullest. Tonight, tomorrow, and the night after, and then it will be another month before it shows itself again.”
Sage glances up, towards where the moon hangs heavy and nearly full in the sky, a few, dark, wispy clouds marring the surface. And, perhaps, that’s where it hits her fully and completely for the first time. “It’s magic,” she says, and then she laughs. “Magic!”
And suddenly, she’s a kit again, curled up at her mother’s stomach as she tells her and Basil stories: of the traveler who held fire in his eyes, of a ghost who fell in love with the moon, of the kit born with downy falcon’s wings. Back before responsibility and expectations, back before the phrase it’s for the good of the group was repeated every time someone drew in a breath to speak with her.
And it’s almost freeing, the feeling. As if she hasn’t quite been able to inhale for the longest time, and just drew in a full breath.
But, she then remembers.
Her mother. Her mother, who will be furious.
She stands up reluctantly.
“I have to go,” she says, “I’m sorry that I mostly only panicked. And that I yelled at you.”
“It’s fine!” Clementine says, but her voice is a touch too sunny, a bit too bright. “It was nice not to be lonely, if even for only a little while.”
And like that, Sage’s heart breaks, just a little bit, for this she-cat standing in front of her. And although she knows that she will be getting back to her mother’s rage, and even though she knows that doing this a second night would be ill-advised for the same reason, she asks anyways.
“Do you think…I could come back tomorrow?”
Clementine’s smile lights up the garden.
-
The entrance is slowly shrinking before Sage’s eyes as the moon dips lower and lower toward the horizon, as it creeps closer and closer to dawn. She has to take a deep breath and steel herself before she drops to her belly to push forward into the brambles, trying to shove all thoughts of dying a spiky, plant-caused death from her mind.
The thorns are close enough together now that they scrape against her spine as she wiggles forward, but even with the shrinking gap, she pauses, glancing back towards the garden and the cat that stays with it.
Clementine is watching her, and though Sage is already too far away to see her expression, she imagines that it is slightly sad, the loneliness already starting to creep back into the bright yellow gaze. The garden fades in a colorful, lush smudge, and for a moment, Clementine seems to flicker, her form becoming vaguely indistinct for a second or two before coming back to a solid shape.
A thought crosses Sages mind at the sight, a wiggling suspicion in the back of her head, but she pushes it away. It’s a ridiculous thing to consider.
The brambles are pressing closer, though, so she faces forward once again, and pulls herself through the gap. She pops out into familiar forest with a gasp and an undignified scramble just as the sun rises over the horizon, casting everything in warm, yellow glow. Sage turns around just in time to watch the brambles knit themselves together, the crimson roses withering away, petals falling to the ground and disappearing as if they were never there at all.
As if the entrance had never been there at all.
And, at that sight, Sage once again starts to doubt. Because it could have been a dream, still. The most vibrant and real she has ever had, but still a dream. She could have fallen asleep here, on the pine needles and tree roots, and only just have woken up.
Yet, as she takes a step, there’s a small pinch of pain from one of her pads, and she turns her paw over. And, sure enough, there it is. A small spot, barely noticeable, but there. The perfect size of a stepped-on thorn.
Sage exhales, and places her paw down. She is going back to an inevitably irate mother, an intended chosen for her that she barely knows, and a responsibility she does not want.
And yet, magic is real. It is real, and just out of sight, and it’s that, that small thought, that gives her the strength she needs to set off on the path home.
