Kile of Zumada

3. Awakened

Kile slept like a sack of bricks that night. When the first light of the sun peaked in through his window, he pulled the blanket over his head and decided to sleep in. He wasn't sure what time he had finally gotten to bed that night, but he knew for a fact he had worked his ass off and that the storm had passed, so it wasn't like there was much work to do anyway.

Eventually, he could hear the call of the midday birds and he decided to get up, He took in a deep breath and rose to his feet, stretching his hands for the sky. A broad smile on his face, he realized he hadn't even changed out of his day clothes after the events of the day. With a chortle to himself, he looked out his window. Their apple tree was there, growing its first leaves. He was shocked at how dry the ground was now, after all that. Maybe it was just his ability to see it.

He could see the footprints in the mud where his boot had gotten stuck. Now that it was all over, it felt so easy. He decided to deconstruct what they had done. His mom was also still sleeping - or was at least quiet enough in her room that he didn't want to disturb her. He'd ask for breakfast - lunch at this point, really - later.

He stepped outside, and took the tattered remnants of the tarp off the plants. With a smile, he removed the lids they had put over them, and to his horror found the sproutling underneath black and withered.

Chills ran through him. He gently touched the sprout in his hand, and it collapsed into black-gray dust.

"No," he whispered in horror.

He knew this. This was Black Paint. A fungus that grew explosively quickly, and in response to rain would spread its spores. Those spores suck the life out of any plant it touched within hours, turning it into a black powder only good for painting - hence the name - but it especially liked wheats. He lifted the next pot. It too bore the tell tale signs of infection.

"No, nonono," he continued.

Another pot, another victim. One by one, he turned over the pots and found each of the sprouts had turned thick, inky black. Frantically, he darted to the furthest sprout from the one he had first overturned.

It too had been infected. This meant that every one of the plants was now dead. Normally, Black Paint was manageable. Once the first mycelium got a foothold, it would kill one or two plants and there'd be time before the next rain to dig out the network and any plants it touched. In this case, there had just been so much rain so suddenly that the mold had feasted like a gorged Warbeast and had put out the length of the field.

He had heard stories of the other reason it was called Black Paint - on unlucky days, you could wake up to find a patch of your field wilted and black, as if someone had just streaked paint over the field. But he had never heard of an entire field going barren to the fungus.

He fell to his knees. His mind went utterly blank. What was he supposed to do?

The first thing he had done was go to tell his mom. She reacted with, at first, the same horror he had. But once she calmed down she called him in for breakfast.

"There's no point in panicking," she said. "This is a huge problem, but it's not one we're on a time limit to fix. Let's eat, get our strength, and then find a solution."

His mother was always good like that. She had a way of keeping things in proportion. They solemnly ate their breakfast.

"I'll stay here and see if there's any of our crop we can salvage," his mother began after swallowing the last bits of bacon and eggs. "You...go around and ask everyone in town if they'd be willing to transplant any of their own to us. With any luck, we'll get enough to at least tide us over until we can find a more permanent solution."