Tamsin Waits for the Rattle — Every night, Tamsin counted the vine curls above the pumpkin patch and waited for the dry little rattle that came after the thirteenth gust. Read the full story →
Every night, Tamsin counted the vine curls above the pumpkin patch and waited for the dry little rattle that came after the thirteenth gust. The air smelled like cold dirt and cinnamon leaves, and her candle flickered while the smaller lanterns dared one another to blink first. She wanted to know what made that sound, but the vines only looped, swayed, and kept their secret.
One windy night, the thirteenth gust did not rattle—it clacked. Because of that, Tamsin asked the others to hold still while leaves skittered around their stems. Because of THAT, she noticed the highest curled tendril bouncing out of time, tap-tap-tapping like a tiny drum. “Wait for it,” she whispered.
At last the curl sprang open, and a little pod popped free, full of hard silver seeds no one had thought to look for. They scattered into the leaves with a bright shiver, planting next year’s singing vines. If you follow the twistiest tendril above the smiling pumpkins, can you find where Tamsin waited for the dry little rattle?
