poor delicate tiny scholarbaby

Autor tenderly cradles the burlap-wrapped roots of his two-year-old tree close to his chest. He brings it to the plot of land a little ways away from Urquhart's asparagus garden that the boy carefully prepared.

A week ago, he measured out a length of four feet and drove stakes into the ground, using a post hole digger to gouge deep holes in the earth. He filled the holes with a bit of gravel and concrete, aligning his four-by-four posts before covering the remainder with dirt. After waiting for the concrete to dry and kicking the posts to make sure it was stable, he attached a wooden pallet to them with galvanized nails. A quick coat of white paint, and his section of fence was complete.

Next, the boy made the land healthy. He dug worm castings, clover, and bone meal into the rich, loamy soil, ensuring it would drain well. Now, Autor drops to his knees and digs a hole six inches away from his fence, lowering the tree down. He gently presses soil around the roots, and mulches with straw--making sure none of it touches the bark. The boy paints the bottom of the tree with a fast-drying, non-caustic paint to protect it from the heat and cold. He waters it well.

Then he sows sweet woodruff seeds in clumps around the base of the tree. He lightly covers the area with peat moss, and waters that, too. He artfully places some rocks of varying sizes for the flowering herb to grow around.

Autor can't stop smiling at his little plants, or at the pleasant thoughts of sitting beneath his tree when it's grown. He's inching towards making his home here--he has to, since he'll be moving into Milliways soon--and a tree is a pretty solid way to declare that he's staying. He sits in the dirt, watching the setting sun stream down through the fragile, emerald leaves, vowing to protect them from frost.

His gaze drifts to the purple mountains and the glittering lake, thoughts meandering around his friends, and what makes Milliways so good to him. He rests his arms on his knees, tugging them to his chest, and tries to convince himself that he'll not miss his mother and sister too much, and that moving to the bar is worth it. That he doesn't have a choice if he wants to avoid war.

Still. He has time. He can say goodbye to them properly, and learn as much as he can from his mother in the meantime.

The boy crouches in front of his tree long past sunset, until he can't see it anymore.

At first there was nothing. The cobblestone streets were deserted as Autor walked on them.

Then, suddenly: bulls. Hundreds of them.

The great, brown beasts were everywhere, shouldering each other and stampeding down the streets. Autor was clearly surprised by them, but he was even more surprised by his ability to scamper up a lamppost. The air beneath him stirred--and stank--as the horned, lumbering cows rushed past.

Autor watched as the animals eventually settled, mooing and pawing at the ground. He saw Fakir and Duck, too, speaking to each other amongst them, but Autor was too far away to overhear their conversation. He was a little more concerned about getting down from his post than them, anyway, and he was fairly certain he was allergic to the animals below him.

Femio, Autor thought viciously, his lip curled in a snarl for the boy who often allowed himself to be stampeded by bulls to, "punish this sinner!"

That idiot!

Autor was trapped for two hours.