ripe

I did settle down, eventually. I always thought there wasn't a road long enough to take me away from my old world, but I found one in the end. A quiet little village, hidden away in the lee of the mountains. They let me work to earn my keep even though all I knew was war--honest work, not the sort of work people usually find for people like me. The first few months I was there, I kept mostly to myself, and they respected that. They knew, I think, that I carried some scars. So I spent my days working the orchard, and when I had the time I'd walk the forest, learning the landscape. I was content, but it all felt temporary.

The orchard belonged to a woman who had recently inherited it--I didn't pry into the details, but there was too much to tend to on her own and there weren't enough people in the village to help. I stayed in a room in a house that was much too big for her, and though we spent most of the day working together, we seldom spoke of anything personal. Still, she seemed to enjoy my presence, and I liked working with her.

As a beautiful autumn started to give way into winter, the village prepared for its annual festival, celebrating the harvest and the turn of the seasons, honoring the spirits of the land. "It's a time of transition and transformation," my host explained. "Those are worth celebrating." And, she added, it was a festival for the dead--not to mourn, but to celebrate. "And to show them we're doing well. I imagine they worry."

She insisted that I attend, despite my initial reluctance. "You're part of this town. You helped make the cider we'll be drinking. This is your celebration, too."

I relented.

The whole village was alive that evening with revelers gathered around bonfires, drinking cider from barrels that I'd helped fill, feasting on foods grown and harvested here or gathered in the forest--apples, yes, but also pumpkins and corn and cheese, wild berries and meats. Children in costume ran around, shrieking happily as they ran and played in this somehow otherworldly landscape.

Now and again someone would recognize us and compliment the cider. "Your finest since, well, since your folks were still with us," was a common sentiment. And she would smile and say that I deserved some of the credit, and they'd clap me on the shoulder or shake my hand and thank me, not out of politeness, but because they genuinely appreciated my efforts.

As the night wore on and the crowds thinned, my host and I walked through the orchard, spreading cider for the spirits--"They work hard, too," she said when I asked, a levity to her tone I wasn't quite used to. Then we sat on the steps of her house watching the distant fires, waiting for the first light of dawn.

"I don't know who you lost," she said, after a long silence, "or whether they can see you tonight. I'm sure that they'd be very happy if they could, though, just to see you smiling. To see you living well."

"Am I living well?" I asked.

 

"I think so. I think you've allowed yourself to be happy, despite the darkness. And I think that together we can do our best to keep the dark at bay in this little part of the world." She took my hand in hers. "And just maybe, remind each other to smile now and again?"

"Maybe," I said.

We sat there like that, my head on her shoulder, her arm around my waist, until the first light of dawn glimmered on the horizon. In the morning there would be more work to be done, but perhaps allowing ourselves the time to have fun was not so bad a thing after all.