The Seed
The Muddy Way
Tales from Somartin’s Soil
Early Spring 2025
Mud softens under an early spring sun slanting low across Șomartin’s Saxon yard. The patch behind the barn is a dark smear of hope. A rickety coop clucks with chickens, feathers dusting the muck. Seedlings sprout in trays under the lean-to — carrots, kale, peas — frail but fierce. The brewery hums. Woodsmoke threads from the village. The Carpathians rise jagged to the southeast.
Corey squats by the lean-to, fingers brushing the trays. “Start small,” he mutters. “Land’ll carry them.”
Iris hovers, wand in hand. “Chickens help?”
“Aye — scratch, peck, shit — that’s their work.”
He scoops droppings from the coop and mixes them into the steaming compost pile. The smell rises sharp and ripe, sour turning sweet. Lukas hauls a water can, splashing the trays. “Grow fast?”
“Slow’s the way. Care’s the root.”
Antonio lugs a sack of feed, grunting. “Chickens eat better than me.”
Corey chuckles. “Eggs’ll square it.”
The coop is a racket — hens clucking, rooster crowing. Iris darts in, basket swinging, chasing a hen that flaps free. Feathers fly. Mud splats. “Gotcha!” she laughs, tossing grain, reeling it back.
Corey grins. “Play keeps them giving.”
Her basket fills. Eggs every day. Feathers dust the patch. Poop mulches the soil.
He leads the crew on a walk along the muddy edge of the village, past rock-wall ruins, half-tumbled relics of old Saxon homes. Corey feels every rut and rise in his bones. “Village is growing,” he says, waving to a newcomer family. “Nice folk — settling in.”
Lukas kicks a stone. “More than ten now.”
An old-timer sits on a bench under an apple tree, nodding slow. Corey waves. Antonio squints. “Hard place.”
“Hard’s home — cares if you do.”
The air warms. Mud’s scent shifts — sour to sweet. Carpathians glow in the low sun.
Back at the yard Corey checks the brew. Vats hiss. He pours a cup. “Land sips first.”
Iris cradles her egg basket. “Eggs soon?”
“Aye. Care’s the bloom.”
Lukas waters seedlings. “Chickens poop gold.”
Antonio scatters feed. Hens peck wild.
The crew scatters — Lukas to the trays, Antonio to the coop, Iris planting kale seeds with a grin. Mud yields under their hands.
But the day’s work isn’t done.
A faint shout echoes from the orchard. Maria, one of the newcomers, waves, her young son tugging at her skirt. “Corey! The well’s dry again!”
Corey sets his journal down. “Right. Let’s see it.”
They walk brisk through sucking mud, air thick with apple blossoms. Maria points to the stone well, bucket dangling useless. “No water since dawn. Trees need it.”
Corey peers into the dark shaft, then kneels and presses his ear to the cool stone. He feels the faint tremor of underground streams. After a moment he stands and points to a low spot near the young apple trees. “Dig there. Water’s close — just shy of the surface.”
Antonio grabs a shovel. Iris grins. “Work’s the play, remember?”
They dig. Mud flies. Laughter rises. A trickle appears, then a steady flow. Maria claps. Her son splashes in the new spring. “You knew!”
“Land knew. I just listened.”
Back at the yard the sun dips lower, painting the Carpathians gold. The crew gathers around the rough-hewn table near the brewery, sharing bread, eggs, and a pitcher of dark ale. Maria joins them, her son asleep in her lap. The old-timer shuffles over, cane tapping the mud. “Heard you found water.”
“Land’s gift — ours to tend.”
The old-timer squints at the crew. “Tending’s the old way. Balance of give and take.”
Corey leans back, sipping his ale. “Balance, aye. One tips, all tip.”
Iris, hands still muddy, adds, “Like the chickens — give them grain, they give us eggs. Play with them, they thrive. It’s a dance.”
The old-timer chuckles. “Dance with the land, not on it.”
As night falls the crew lingers. Lukas sketches a map of the new spring. Antonio counts the day’s eggs. Iris hums, planting one last kale seed by lantern light.
Corey watches, journal open, 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. Mud gleams. The sour-sweet scent of compost lingers. Corey lifts his cup one last time. “To the tending. To the balance. To the seed.”
The crew echoes, voices mingling with the cluck of hens, the hiss of the brewery, the whisper of the land waking.
Mitakuye Oyasin.
Now our minds are one.
In Harmony, Kevin