Word Count » 511 The first mushrooms Citlali is cultivating are the red aspen bolete. They are edible. He has not started the scent garden yet. Sorry for the crap post, to whoever decides to join. I needed to get the basics planned. Accepting however many want to come see the garden.
The adventure to discover the Borgata Mayate Island was a success to the boy. His achievement had been in the discovering of mushrooms, their rust red color starker than any of the other marsh-toned flora that infested the island. For many days the mushrooms had sat in the cloth on his window sill, lacking in providing any use to the coyote. He hadn’t any idea what to do with them or how to use them. Eventually, Citlali decided he would try to grow them on this side of territory. Perhaps if he succeeded, he would finally be a value to the pack.
The hike to his secret garden was more than a mile from the village and had not yet been turned into an easy trail. He had discovered the marshy clearing by accident but had taken advantage of it immediately, cutting back stray branches and forming the area into a neatly designed circle. The garden would not be convenient to reach for most Salsola members. Any other way to it besides the path would be an impossible route to the final destination. Once the spark of interest had been lit, Citlali yearned to discover more plants that could grow and flourish in his garden. He found a few herbs that grew sparsely in the territory and added them to his stock.
His garden was surrounded in a thickly crossed rope fence that stretched around the clearing. The fence provided no obvious entrance. He had even gone to the trouble of decorating the fence with feathers and beads. Overall, the garden had a very welcoming feel despite being obscured by shadowing trees and a solid wall of switchgrass. The mushrooms were separated from the other herbs and various plants by a thin stream of water winding like a mote around and creating a small island of mushrooms. Walking through and to the garden area was like stepping into snow. The soil was marshy, damp, and dense. Citlali had found a source of water close by and dug the small river into the garden, hoping it would aid him in the cultivation of the mushrooms and other plants.
A soft morning light had filtered in between the shrouded canopy of leaves and sparkled off the murky waters inside the rope fence. Ginger white fingers were pressing into the soil around crimson red forms, pulling sprouts of green that made imperfections in the rich ground. The mushrooms had grown, rooting themselves in the area Citlali had carefully cropped for them to flourish in. He hoped to find more mushrooms, even return to the island for different species. His new fascination had guided him to the garden to tend to the plants at least once a day; however, he had not given up his weaving passion. Seemingly fit to the coyote boy, he shifted across the small river onto the other side. Shoots of green growth could be seen planted in orderly rows expanding through the length of the clearing. Each was being obediently tamed by the boy.
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