The Gardener's Arms

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“Hi, I'm Katherine Nikolai, and if you're looking for something gentle to listen to, that”

isn't news or true crime or self-improvement, I made this for you. What's from the village of nothing much is like easy listening, but for fiction, cozy, warm, calm stories about ordinary moments that feel a little magical. They're grounding, soothing, and quietly uplifting, without being cheesy. Relaxing, without putting you to sleep, and just dreamy enough to remind you that they're

still sweetness in everyday life. Make for your commute while you're tidying up, or when you want a little escape, that feels simple and good. Search for stories from the village of nothing much, wherever you listen. When I started building this show and my shop, it really felt like I had to figure everything

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Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com/nothingmudge, go to Shopify.com/nothingmudge. And welcome to bedtime stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on nothing much happens.

“Audio engineering is by Bob Widdersheim.”

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First by listening to the sound of my voice, and following along with a soft shape of

the story, we will train your brain to reliably settle and sleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the night, just press play again. Our story tonight is called the Gardeners Arms, and it's a story about a developing friendship at the end by the lake.

It's also about sunrise and suspenders, peonies, and paddling in the shallows, and the safe harbor of someone you can count on. I've been thinking a lot lately about aging, and how I see it differently than I used to. Getting older is a gift, not one given to everyone.

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For a limited time, get 15% off with code nothingmuch at 1scin.co/nothingmuch. So settle in and slide down into your sheets, getting as comfortable as you can. Maybe this is a moment you've been looking forward to all day, recognize that it is here. Make a deep breath in through your nose, let it out your mouth, nice, one more, breathe in, out, good. The gardener's arms. The sun rose so early these days. It was an easy

to be the first one up at the end, and though we hadn't acknowledged it allowed, chef

“and I were in a bit of an early riser competition.”

On the days I snapped my suspenders into place and stepped out into the back gardens before the lights were on in the kitchens. I enjoyed a small, harumpf rumbling through my mustache and when they beat me to the first moments of dawn, I'm sure they likewise tied on their apron with a sniff of satisfaction.

Today, if it weren't for a second more, I would have beat chef by several minutes, but just

as I was pulling on my rubber boots at the scullery door. I heard a far off tinkle that steadily grew louder. I smiled and shook my head. I was the only person at the end, except I suppose the innkeeper herself, to have been deemed an appropriate out-of-door's shaperone for our resident cat, Sikomor. He was still young, just a few years old, and couldn't be trusted, not to wander off, and get into mischief.

His midnight black fur made it easy for him to hide, and since he was known to climb trees,

he couldn't always get himself out of. He lived his life mostly indoors.

No, not even chef could take him out into the herb gardens, not that earning Sikomor privileges was another competition between us, but I'm just saying that if it were, I would have won. Chef got distracted, watering, weeding, picking when they were in the yard, and Sikomor was well aware of it. So only I could take the cat out with me, and I knew that waiting for him to make his way down the great staircase, down the long haul, and through the Butler's

pantry to the scullery, would mean Chef would beat me to the sunrise. Still, I side, and patiently waited. Cat's paws are meant to be quiet, and stealthy, aren't they? Well, no one

yet settled into his growing body. When he came around the corner, his front end made it

“through the doorway, but his rear half kept skidding along the polished planks till he bonked”

off the molding. I shook my head again and propped my fists on my hips. You don't need

to rush Sikomor. I'll wait, I called out quietly. He made it on his second try, and I held

out my arms in the practice way we established. All aboard me, I said, and Sikomor pulled his little body back like a sling shot, and sprung up into my arms. I shifted him onto my shoulder, and he looped his tail around the back of my neck.

“When I pulled the back door open and stepped out into the gardens, I turned to look into”

the kitchens, and saw chefs frame, backlit by the warming ovens, a coffee cup raised in

salute. I couldn't see their face, but I could just bet there was a slightly smug grin spreading across it. That's all right, my boy. I could to Sikomor. They might have beat us today, but it just means the coffee cake is that much closer to being on the table. Sikomor wasn't listening. There were robins, and finches to watch, as they jumped through

“the brush. Squirrels and chipmunks were out to fetch their morning papers. We had our”

own chores to attend to. Among them, deadheading the zinnias, leveling that wanky stepping stone in the path up to the hammocks, cutting daisies and sweet Williams for the guestrooms, and reattaching a cleat on the dock whose rusty screws had become stripped. There were also the everyday

sort of tasks a gardener must always be on top of, weeding and watering. The general

watching over to see what was getting too much sun, or had outgrown its plot, and needed dividing. And the innkeeper hadn't mentioned it, but when I'd come through the hall the day before, I'd noticed an awful squeaking coming from the dumbwader, as it moved between floors. Though my title was officially, or on officially, we probably had never made it official, that of gardener. I was clever with a wrench and an oil can.

I made small repairs throughout the inn. In fact, if I was being honest, I got a bit peaved when the innkeeper called in someone from the village, to mend something I could do myself. It was silly, I suppose, just that I felt a bit protective of this place. And that if the pocket door in the dining room was coming off its track, well, I should be the one to fix it.

Sikymor and I wandered down to the lake. The sky was growing brighter by the minute, and the sun was just starting to show through the tree trunks on the far shore. Just like Sikymor had missed the note, about cats, being sure-footed.

As I stroll down to the end of the dock, he slipped down into my arms and peered into the lake

“below. The deck railing was wide enough for him to sit comfortably on.”

And I helped him settle there before I tightened the toe line on one of the robots. Close to the water. I could see the reflection of my own face.

And remembered squatting in the same spot. The first time Sikymor had tried his paw at swimming.

He'd seen fish moving under the surface and left nearly giving me a heart attack. Those startled by the sudden liquidity of his environment. He'd been a strong swimmer from the start. I thrown myself down on the deck, ready to dive in and scoop him up if necessary.

“But he'd calmly paddled over and reached a paw up to me.”

I'd seen my own half-shocked, half-proud face mirrored in the lake,

then hoisted him out and held him to my chest, letting his fur soak through the flannel.

I'd hustled him into the boathouse, where I knew the innkeeper kept a stack of beach towels for guests. And wrapped him up in one. We'd sat on an old folding chair in the warm air in there. Till he was nearly dry and my own heart rate had dropped to something normal. Since then, he occasionally waited in from the shore.

“Kitty paddling among the menos, and always with my careful eye on him.”

But more frequently, took his swims in the big wash tub in the stable. I'd fill it with the hose on hot mornings. I'd need cool off for a bit before drying in the sun. All of this was still running through my memory. When I finished retying the line, and smelled the unmistakable scent of coffee, wafting down from the dining porch.

I called to Sikumur, and he climbed back up to my shoulder. Coffee's ready lad, I said, and pulled my short shears from my pocket. If I was going up to ask a cup from the innkeeper, well, my mother had raised me better than to come empty handed. The pianys at the foot of the old treehouse were still blooming.

And I happened to know they were her favorite. The guests would be up and about soon. And we, the small staff of the inn, would all have our hands full. My smile as I thought of it. The gardeners' arms.

The sun rose so early these days.

It was an easy to be the first one up at the inn.

And though we hadn't acknowledged it allowed, chef and I were in a bit of an early riser competition. On the days, I snapped my suspenders into place and stepped out into the back gardens. Before the lights were on in the kitchens,

And when they beat me to the first moments of dawn,

“I'm sure they likewise tied on their apron”

with a sniff of satisfaction. Today, if it weren't for sick and more, I would have had chef beat by several minutes. But just as I was pulling on my rubber boots at the scholarly door, I heard a far off tinkle that steadily grew louder.

My smile and shook my head.

“I was the only person at the inn, except for I suppose the innkeeper herself,”

to have been deemed an appropriate out-of-door shaperone for our resident cat, sick and more. He was still young just a few years old. And couldn't be trusted not to wander off and get into mischief. His midnight black fur made it easy for him to hide.

And since he was known to climb trees,

he couldn't always get himself out of.

He lived his life mostly indoors. No, not even chef could take him out into the herb gardens. Not that earning sick and more privileges was another competition between us. But I'm just saying that if it were, I would have won. Chef got distracted, watering, picking, and weeding when they were in the yard.

And sick and more was well aware of it. So only I could take the cat out with me. And I knew that waiting for him to make his way down the great staircase, down the long hall, and through the Butler's pantry to the scholarly, would mean chef would beat me to the sunrise, still I side and patiently waited.

“Cats, paws, are meant to be quiet and stealthy. Aren't they?”

Well, no one had told sick or more that. He thumped clumsily along the floorboards, like a teenager who hadn't yet settled into a growing body. When he came around the corner, his front end made it through the doorway, but his rear half kept skidding along the polished planks until he bonked off the molding. I shook my head again and propped my fists on my hips.

You don't need to rush, sicky, how wait I called out quietly.

He made it on his second try and I held out my arms in the practice way we'd established.

and sprung up into my arms. I shifted him onto my shoulder

“and he looped his tail around the back of my neck.”

When I pulled the back door open and stepped out into the gardens, I turned to look into the kitchen and saw chef's frame, backlit by the warming ovens, a coffee cup raised in salute. I couldn't see their face, but I could just bet there was a slightly smug grin spreading across it. That's all right, my boy. I could sick a more.

“They might have beat us today, but it just means the coffee cake is that much closer to being on”

the table. Sick a more wasn't listening. There were robins and fintures to watch as they jumped through the brush. Squirrels and chipmunks were out fetching their morning papers. We had our own chores to attend to. Among them, deadheading the zinnias, leveling that wonky stepping stone in the path up to the hammocks,

“cutting daisies and sweet Williams for the guest rooms,”

and reattaching a cleat on the dock whose rusty screws had become stripped,

and there were the everyday sorts of tasks. A gardener must always be on top of

the weeding, the watering, the general watching over to see what was getting too much sun. Or had outgrown its plot and needed dividing. And the endkeeper hadn't mentioned it, but when I'd come through the hall the day before, I'd noticed an awful squeaking coming from the dumbwader as it moved between floors.

Though my title was officially or unofficially, we probably had never made it official

that of gardener. I was clever with a wrench, an oil can. I made small repairs throughout the end. In fact, if I was being honest, I got a bit peeved when the endkeeper called in someone from the village to mend something I could do myself. It was silly, I suppose. Just that I felt a bit protective of this place, and that if the pocket door in the dining room was coming off its track, well, I should be the one to fix it.

Sikamoor and I wandered down to the lake. The sky was growing brighter by the minute, and the sun was just starting to show through the tree trunks on the far shore.

He also hadn't been informed that he was supposed to dislike the water.

“As I stroll down to the end of the dock, he slipped down into my arms and peered into the lake below.”

The deck railing was wide enough for him to sit on comfortably, and I helped him settle there. Before I tightened the toe line on one of the robots close to the water, I could see the reflection of my own face, and remembered squatting in the same spot.

The first time Sikki had tried his paw at a swim. He'd seen fish moving under the surface,

and leapt, nearly giving me a heart attack.

“Though startled by the sudden liquidity of his environment, he'd been a strong swimmer from the”

start. I'd thrown myself down on the deck, ready to dive in and scoop him up if necessary. But he'd calmly paddled over and reached a paw up to me. I'd seen my own half-shocked, half-browed face, mirrored in the lake, then hoisted him out, and held him to my chest, letting his fur soak through the flannel.

“I'd hustled him into the boathouse, where I knew the Inkeeper kept a stack of beach towels for guests,”

and wrapped him up in one. We'd sat on an old folding chair in the warm air till he was nearly dry, and my own heart rate had dropped to something like normal. Since then, he occasionally waited in from the shore.

Kitty paddling, among the Minos, and always with my careful eye on him.

But more frequently, he took his swims in the big wash tub in the stable. I'd fill it with the hose on hot mornings, and he'd cool off for a bit, before drying in the sun. All of this was still running through my memory when I finished retrying the line, and smelled the unmistakable scent of coffee,

wafting down from the dining porch. I called to sicker more, and he climbed back up to my shoulder. Coffee's ready lad, I said, and pulled my short shears from my pocket. If I was going up to ask a cup from the Inkeeper, well, my mother had raised me better than to come empty handed. The Pienes at the foot of the old treehouse were still blooming.

The guests would be up and about soon.

“And we, the small staff of the In would have our hands full.”

My smile as I thought of it.

Sweet dreams!