A Name on Drawer Fourteen

The village hall had a wall of small wooden drawers. There were sixty of them. Each drawer held paper envelopes full of seeds.

A sign hung above the drawers. It said, "Take seeds. Grow them. Bring seeds back." That was the whole rule. Nobody paid, and nobody signed a paper.

Hugo worked there on Saturday mornings. He was fifteen. He sorted envelopes, wrote labels and swept the floor. In return, the librarian let him eat the biscuits on the table.

His best friend Xavier came every Saturday too. Xavier did not like seeds. He liked the hall. It was quiet and smelled of old wood.

In June, Xavier's family decided to move to a city far away. They were going to leave in two weeks. Xavier told Hugo on the steps of the hall. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

On the last Saturday, Xavier came with a small paper bag. He held it out in both hands. "Open it," he said.

Inside was a tiny cactus. It sat in a pot the size of an egg cup. It was round and green, with white dots. It was no bigger than a thumb.

"This is Pip," said Xavier. "I had him for four years. He never grew."

"Why are you giving him to me?"

"Because he cannot come in the car. My mother says the pot will break." Xavier looked at the floor. "Take care of him, okay?"

"Okay."

"And one more thing." Xavier pointed at the wall. "Drawer fourteen is empty. It has no seeds. I always looked at it and felt bad."

"What about it?"

"Put something in it by the end of summer. Something from Pip. Put my name on the label." Xavier tried to smile. "Then, when I come back, something has my name."

Hugo took the little pot. It was very light.

"Cactus seeds?" he said. "Pip is too young. He does not even have a flower."

"I know. That is why it is a hard one." Xavier stood up. "Promise?"

"I promise," said Hugo.

Xavier left on Monday. Hugo did not go to say goodbye. He stayed in his room and did not look out.

That night, he put Pip on the windowsill in his room. He looked at him for a long time. "Don't worry," he said. "I know what to do."

He did not know at all. So the next morning, he asked the librarian.

"Cactus seeds?" She raised her eyebrows. "Pip is very young. He needs sun, and he needs a lot of patience."

"How much water?"

"Very little. Once a month, maybe."

Hugo nodded. But he did not trust the words "very little". He loved Pip, and he wanted him to grow. So he gave him water every morning.

For two weeks, nothing happened. Pip sat on the windowsill and did not change. Hugo watered him and talked to him. He turned the pot to the sun.

Then, in the third week, Hugo touched the base of the cactus. It felt soft. It was not hard like a stone, as it was before. It felt like a wet sponge.

He felt cold. He ran to the hall with the pot in his hands. He put it on the librarian's table.

"What did you do?" she asked.

"I gave him water."

"How often?"

"Every day."

The librarian closed her eyes for a second. "Oh, Hugo."

"Is he dead?"

"Nearly." She took a small knife from her desk. "The bottom is rotten. But the top may be fine. Let me see."

She cut away the soft parts, one thin slice at a time. Under the green skin, the cactus was brown and wet. She cut and cut. At last, there was only a green piece left. It was the size of a bean.

"That is all that is good," she said. "Put it on a dry plate for a week. Do not touch it. Do not water it. Then plant it in dry sand."

Hugo looked at the small green bean. It was not Pip any more. It was a tiny piece of Pip.

"I broke my promise," he said.

"Not yet." The librarian gave him a plate. "The summer is not over."

For the rest of August, Hugo did exactly what she said. He did not water anything. He put the green bean on a plate. Later, he put it in a pot of dry sand. He checked it every morning. Each morning, he felt a little worse.

There were no seeds. There were no flowers. There was only the bean in the sand. It did not move.

On the last Saturday of the summer, Hugo walked to the hall. He carried the pot under his arm. His feet felt heavy. He opened drawer fourteen. It was empty, with one bent paper label inside.

He took out the label. He found a pencil. Then he stopped. What could he write? "Seeds from Pip" was not true. He had no seeds.

He looked at the pot. Something was different. At the bottom of the bean, a pale line came out. It was a root, thin as a thread.

Hugo stared at it for a long moment. The cactus was not dead. It grew, very slowly, in a new place.

"That is not a seed," he said quietly.

"No," said the librarian from behind him. She smiled. "But the sign does not say only seeds. Look at it again."

Hugo looked at the sign and read every word twice.

"It says seeds," he said.

"It does. But the rule is older than the sign. It is just this: take something, grow it and bring something back."

Hugo thought about that. Then he laughed, a short surprised laugh. He wrote on the label in careful letters: "From Xavier's cactus, Pip. Grow me. Bring a piece back. For Xavier."

He put the label in drawer fourteen and pushed the drawer shut. He put the little pot on the shelf beside it. It sat in the sun.

Then he wrote one word on the drawer card: "Xavier."