Umber and the Smallest Spring

The whole story

The crate sneezed red dust when Umber opened it. Inside lay one seed. No shovel. No helpful label. Not even a picture of which end went up. Umber checked his supplies: one cup of water, two creaky hands, and plenty of time. “Would you like to become a garden?” he asked. The seed said nothing. “A small garden, then.” He tucked it into the Martian dust and gave it a sip.

Every morning, Umber leaned close. “Anything to report?” Nothing. The dust blew away, leaving the seed on top like a forgotten crumb. Umber tried a hollow stone. Another sip. Another wait. The stone stayed a stone. “Excellent work being a stone,” he told it. Then he found an old boot beneath the crate. It had a roomy toe and a most encouraging smell of earth.

Umber filled the boot with crumbly soil caught in its lining. He planted the seed and poured a little water. Still nothing grew. His cup held only three drops now. He sat beside the boot until sunset, listening to his knees tick. Then the fading light flashed across his curved, clear chest plate. Umber looked at the boot. He looked at his chest. “Oh,” he said. “A window could be a roof.”

Click. Umber unclipped the glass plate. He fitted it over the boot, sealed the edges with soft packing clay, and tucked the boot against a sun-warmed stone. Inside this little dome, tiny water beads gathered. They slid down and soaked the soil again. “Good,” whispered Umber. “You remembered the way back.” For seven mornings, he watched. On the eighth, something pale green lifted a speck of soil like a hat.

Soon there were two leaves. Somehow, the sprout was called Hope. Nobody in particular had named it. “Good morning, Hope,” said Umber, as though they had always known each other. Beside the boot, he scratched a plan in the dust: more soil, more water, a bigger dome. Seeds would come later, if Hope had some to spare. Then he drew one final thing. A second boot. “For expansion,” he explained.