My companion and teacher was a small woman who spoke in squeaky stutters. She showed me which plants were weeds to pull, how to water the different crops and how to collect lady bugs to help keep pests away.

I struggled with impatience, watching the woman force each word out, her face red with the effort. Several times I asked her to just give me the information mind to mind, and each time she refused.

Finally her own patience wore down. You have to learn this, it is the first step to true control, she said, memories of her own first days in the garden flickering between us. Her voice was strong and clear, so at odds with her outer self.

Memories of a maelstrom and a single voice rose and I stared at her, You! a babble of half thought questions behind my exclamation.

She sighed and looked down for a long moment. I will tell you my story in time, when you have earned it, she said, the space behind her words silent.

“B-b-but now y-you l-l-l-l-,” she took a deep breath, “learn t-to g-g-gar-garden.”