The silence following Finnian's departure felt… fragile. Like a thin sheet of ice over a deep, dark lake of potential future stupidity. He might, might, be starting to grasp the difference between metaphor and misplaced masonry, but I wasn't holding my breath. Aerthosian aptitude for common sense seemed pathologically low.
My immediate priority wasn't Finnian, however. It was the impending dawn and Operation Dragon's Leaf Procurement (Mark II). The three silver pieces and assorted copper 'found' earlier weren't quite enough. I needed the full five silver to appease the extortionate general goods merchant.
This required… active intervention in local probability fields. Not my preferred activity. Subtle energy manipulation was one thing – nudging smells, dampening echoes, suggesting rodents relocate. But generating specific currency denominations involved tweaking causality chains, encouraging unlikely events like someone dropping precisely two silver pieces near my doorstep, or causing a buried coin hoard (likely consisting of three copper and a button) to conveniently surface during minor earth tremors (which I'd also have to subtly encourage).
It felt… grubby. Beneath the dignity of a former multiversal administrator. Reduced to manipulating quantum foam for pocket change just to afford mediocre tea. The universe definitely had a twisted sense of humour.
But needs must. Sanity, or the rapidly eroding facsimile thereof, demanded caffeine.
I sat on the wobbly stool in the pre-dawn gloom, closed my borrowed eyes, and focused. Not on grand cosmic energies, but on the intricate, chaotic tapestry of local probability. Tiny threads of cause and effect. The flutter of a butterfly's wings (metaphorically speaking, actual Aerthosian butterflies were probably disappointingly mundane) leading to infinitesimal shifts in outcome.
I gently… nudged. Nudged the probability of 'finding misplaced silver currency within a ten-foot radius of the shop's entrance' from 'vanishingly small' to 'merely highly improbable'. It required delicate calibration. Too much energy, and I might accidentally manifest a solid gold brick, attracting far too much attention. Too little, and I'd just get another rusty nail or a particularly smooth pebble.
It took a few minutes of intense concentration, filtering out the background noise of Oakhaven's collective subconscious (mostly anxieties about turnips and gossip, with a disturbing new undercurrent related to 'resonant horrors' and 'structural enchantments'). Finally, I felt a subtle click in the probability matrix. An unlikely event path solidifying.
Satisfied (or rather, resigned to the necessity), I opened my eyes. Now, the waiting game. The coins wouldn't just appear out of thin air. Causality needed time to weave its convoluted path. Someone needed to actually lose them nearby, or a particularly industrious squirrel needed to unearth them. Might take hours. Might happen instantly. Probability was fickle.
Just as I was contemplating the statistical likelihood of squirrel-based currency delivery versus simple human clumsiness, a familiar sound reached my ears. Not scraping. Not knocking. Grumbling. Accompanied by heavy footsteps crunching on the path outside.
Farmer Hemlock.
Of course. Because the universe couldn't allow me even five minutes of quiet post-probability-manipulation contemplation. It had to send the village's premier purveyor of agricultural angst and misplaced blame.
I considered remaining perfectly still. Maybe if I didn't move, his internal Hemlock-positioning system wouldn't register my presence. Unlikely. He seemed to possess an uncanny ability to detect potential listeners for his litany of grievances.
The footsteps stopped right outside my door. A heavy sigh, carrying the weight of blighted turnips and philosophical confusion. Then, a hesitant knock. More of a thump, really, like he was hitting it with a sack of potatoes.
Resignation settled upon me like a shroud made of damp hay. Probability manipulation could wait. Dealing with Hemlock was now the immediate, unavoidable annoyance.
I opened the door. He stood there, backlit by the pale pre-dawn light, clutching his shapeless woolen cap in his hands. His face, usually etched with simple agricultural worry, looked… complicated. Conflicted. A mixture of residual anger, grudging respect (likely based on Gregor's ludicrous tales), and profound bewilderment.
"Bob," he grunted. The tone was less accusatory than usual. Progress? Maybe? Or just a different flavour of complaint incoming?
"Hemlock," I acknowledged, my voice flat. Minimal encouragement offered.
He shuffled his feet. Twisted his cap. Seemed unsure how to begin. This was new. Usually, the grievances flowed freely, a torrent of indignation about compost, chickens, or errant goblins.
"That… advice," he began haltingly. "About the apples. For Petunia."
Ah. The pig. Petunia the Picky. Whose existential crisis was solved, temporarily, by bruised fruit. "It worked?" I asked, already suspecting the answer wasn't straightforward. Nothing ever was, here.
Hemlock nodded glumly. "Oh, aye. It worked. Too well." He sighed heavily. "She ate 'em alright. Devoured 'em like they were truffles blessed by the Swine Goddess herself."
"Good?" I offered tentatively. Positive outcome achieved? Animal fed? Farmer happy? Logic suggests yes. Aerthosian reality suggests… probably not.
"Good?" Hemlock echoed, a flicker of his old irritation returning. "She won't eat anything else now, Bob! Turns her snout up at prime slop! Rejects perfectly good turnips! Squeals like a stuck banshee unless I present her with specifically bruised, slightly past-their-prime apples!"
Ah. Of course. Predictable consequence of catering to specific, unusual demands. Positive reinforcement gone wrong. Basic behavioural conditioning. Did nobody on this planet understand fundamental principles?
"My life," Hemlock lamented, "is now governed by the procurement of imperfect fruit for a tyrannical sow! I spend half my day haggling with Old Miller Gusset for his windfalls! The shame, Bob! The shame!"
I offered no sympathy. He asked for advice. I gave minimal effort advice based on a vague principle. He implemented it. Unforeseen (by him, entirely foreseeable by anyone with common sense) consequences ensued. Not my problem. Except now he was here, complaining about it. Making it my problem, indirectly. As usual.
"Perhaps," I suggested mildly, "introduce other bruised fruits? Pears? Slightly mushy berries? Expand her palate gradually?" More unsolicited agricultural consulting. When would I learn?
Hemlock considered this, stroking his chin stubble. "Bruised pears… huh. Maybe. Worth a try, I suppose. Can't be worse than sourcing these damned apples." He seemed marginally less distressed. Excellent. Now, could he please leave?
Apparently not. He cleared his throat. Twisted his cap again. "There's… something else."
Here it comes. The real reason for the pre-dawn visit.
"Them goblins," he muttered, looking vaguely uncomfortable now. "The ones… worshipping my compost?"
"The Compost Pilgrims," I supplied helpfully. Or unhelpfully. Depending on perspective.
"Aye. Them." Hemlock shuffled his feet. "Well… they finally left. Few days back. Packed up their… muddy shrine… and just… wandered off. Chanting something about 'Seeking the Great Source of Sausage Stench'."
Good. Problem solved. Compost heap de-sanctified. Normalcy restored. Except…
"But…" Hemlock scowled, the familiar lines of grievance deepening on his face. "They took my shovel, Bob! My good shovel! Brand new handle, only put it on last spring!"
The holy relic. Right. Stolen by religiously motivated kleptomaniacs.
"They carried it off," Hemlock continued, his voice rising in indignation, "like it was… sacred! Two of 'em, holding it aloft! Procession, like! Headed off towards the Whispering Woods, they were!"
Tragic. Inconvenient. Annoying for Hemlock. Still not seeing how this involved me, beyond the initial, accidental olfactory redirection that started the whole pilgrimage.
"And," Hemlock leaned closer, lowering his voice, "Widow Meadowsweet saw 'em go. Said the shovel… it glowed, Bob! A faint, greenish glow!"
Okay. That was… new. Shovels generally don't glow. Even holy relic shovels stolen by compost-worshipping goblins. Unless…
My mind flashed back to the root cellar. The green energy. The arcing tendrils. The ozone smell. The gnome-thing. The deliberate manipulation of local energy fields.
Could the effects linger? Could residual energy have somehow 'charged' conductive materials nearby? Like, say, a metal shovel recently embedded in a supernaturally active compost heap? Highly improbable based on standard physics. But this was Aerthos. Standard physics checked its coat at the dimensional door.
Or… was it deliberate? Did the gnome-thing imbue the shovel with some minor energy signature as another test? Another calling card? Another way to stir the pot of local weirdness?
This added a disturbing wrinkle. A potentially magically charged shovel, considered a holy relic, now in the possession of nomadic Compost Pilgrims heading towards the Whispering Woods (a place that, judging by the name, was likely home to its own share of low-grade supernatural annoyances). This had the potential to escalate beyond mere petty theft and agricultural inconvenience.
"Glowing shovel," I repeated slowly, testing the absurdity.
"Aye! Greenish!" Hemlock insisted, relieved I wasn't dismissing it outright. "And folks are saying… well, Gregor the storyteller says… that it's your magic, Bob! Lingering from the compost incident! Protecting the shovel! Making it powerful! Maybe it'll lead the goblins to a goblin kingdom paved with gold!"
Gregor. Of course. Connecting unrelated dots with threads of pure fabrication. Now I was responsible for enchanting stolen gardening implements. My mythical portfolio was diversifying at an alarming rate.
"A shovel," I stated flatly, "is a tool for digging. Not a magically significant artifact. Likely rust reacting strangely with swamp gas from the woods. Or residual phosphorescence from the compost." Offering mundane explanations felt futile, but necessary for maintaining my own sanity.
Hemlock looked unconvinced. Gregor's version was far more exciting. "But… the glow, Bob? And them taking it? It ain't right!" He seemed less angry about the theft now, more… disturbed by the implication. The blurring of mundane tools and potential magic.
"Maybe," I said, deciding a cryptic deflection was safer than arguing about glowing shovels, "some things are best left unfound. Especially shovels carried off by enthusiastic goblins." Let him chew on that non-answer.
Hemlock pondered this, twisting his cap into knots. "Leave it be, you reckon?" He sounded uncertain. Torn between wanting his shovel back and fearing whatever supposed magic it now possessed.
"Less trouble," I advised curtly. Minimal interaction achieved.
He sighed again, the sound encompassing the weight of picky pigs, stolen tools, and inexplicable glowing phenomena. "Right. Suppose so." He looked around vaguely, as if noticing the pre-dawn light for the first time. "Well. Best get milking." He paused. "Thanks for the… uh… perspective, Bob."
He trudged off, leaving me once again in the silence. Perspective on glowing shovels and fussy pigs. My retirement contribution to the village brain trust. Stellar.
But the glowing shovel… that was a data point. A worrying one. Combined with the root cellar incident, it suggested active, ongoing manipulation. The gnome-thing, or whatever it was, wasn't just observing; it was interfering. And apparently using my accidental interventions as cover, or perhaps inspiration.
This retirement was turning into unpaid, unrequested guard duty against low-level reality tampering.
My gaze drifted towards the ground near the doorstep. And there they were. Two dull, silver coins, nestled amongst the dirt and pebbles. Almost overlooked. Almost mundane.
The probability manipulation had worked. Five silver. Enough for tea.
The universe provided. Albeit grudgingly, inefficiently, and only after subjecting me to pre-dawn agricultural angst and tales of magically significant gardening tools.
Maybe, just maybe, with adequate caffeine, I could face whatever fresh idiocy or actual paranormal pestilence this day decided to throw at me. Maybe. But first, tea. Proper, overpriced, potentially stale, but actual tea. The small things. The essential things.